Friday, April 11

Kiss the book

Kiss the book
But read its writ
All that is and shall be said
About love
Is nothing
Is no thing among things

But reify the deified trait
By clarifying your rarefied state
For God is love
And God is a verb

So bite the bitter book
Swallow that script-scrawled scroll
And when it strikes you sick
Know that that means love
Action it

And all shall be well

Friday, April 4

In Hall

The words from the wilderness taught us to live,
But when we grew weary of their wildness
We went to the man in royal robes.

Gold had gathered in icicles that hung from his beard.
They chimed each other as he talked,
Sketching out the way he had for us.

The music was alluring, lulling us into his words,
Though they were only I-cycles that echoed nothing.
But we would learn the hard way.

He was many.  The hall was filled with him.
And no one thought of the single voice that had cried,
Calling us in, making the first mark on our souls.

We were hungry to listen, to follow a word,
And his felt so free in its shackles.
We gave his words our actions.

Actions echoed out of the wilderness, knocking words on their knees.
The wind had come to reap its wild children.
But we were seated at royal table

And felt nothing.

Friday, March 28

“Let there be light.”

And the Word said,
“Let there be light,”
And so few of us
Followed the command,
Full of our own designs.

But we, the blind,
Were sighted by light,
Who brought our own
Darkness to the well
And drank of His brightness.

And let it be.
Let it slither and crawl,
Stride and leap,
Swoop and soar
Across the nighted world.

In our spaces, let it be.
In our places, let it be.
Let the music of our
Spheres of influence
Be light.

To not seek to create it
But simply to let it be
That we may say,
“By this I see,”
Even uncomprehended.

Friday, February 21

The Mouse and the Vole: A Fable

Once upon a time, there was a tiny ill mouse who lived in a tiny mouse house with a beautiful garden. When he was feeling particularly well, he would sit in his garden and drink water from a teacup.  
One day, while sitting in this way, he felt ill again and went inside.  From the window, he could see that he had left his teacup of water in the garden, but he did not feel well enough to go retrieve it.  Later in the day, the mouse saw a housefly alight on his teacup and drink the water.
“Even flies must get thirsty,” he thought, and he was happy that the water had been there for the fly to drink.
The next day, the fly returned to where the teacup sat, only to find it empty.  Feeling bad for the fly, the little mouse stumbled out to the garden to get the cup, refilled it with water, and set it outside again.  That evening, the fly came and drank.  Once again, the mouse felt happy for what he had done for the fly.
From that day forward, the mouse would fill his teacup with water every day and place it in the garden, where the fly would stop and drink.  Some days he felt very ill indeed, but even then he managed to put out the water for the fly, for he knew that the fly was used to getting his water in this way.
Several years followed, and the mouse died, as all mice do.  On the great bus to the afterlife, he sat next to a vole.  
“Where are you headed?” asked the vole.  
But the mouse didn’t know the answer.  “I have been ill for a long time,” he said, “with only one distraction.”  He then proceeded to tell the vole about the fly and the water.  “I supplied water for that fly for three years,” the mouse concluded.
“But houseflies only live for a day,” the vole replied, “so you must have helped over a thousand flies find water.”
“Yes,” the mouse said, “but it is such a small thing.”
“Not to the flies,” said the vole.
“But do flies even matter?” asked the mouse.  
“Do mice?” asked the vole.
“But, I could have pushed myself harder, taken better care of myself, gotten out of my little mouse house and done something truly great,” said the sad mouse.  “How do I know if it was enough?”
Just then, the bus stopped, and the driver yelled back, “Mr. Mouse, this is your stop!”
The mouse took a deep breath and stood up.

Friday, February 7

If I am growing

What am I growing, if I am growing
Fruit from the vine or the ground?
And if I could figure it out, would the knowing
Make me feel lost or more found?

For if I am growing, what am I growing,
If I am growing at all?
In its time, what kind of fruit will be showing,
On the ground creeping or tree reaching tall?

For I am familiar with creeping,
And I am familiar with tall,
But what kind of water through soil has been seeping,
And am I in truth really growing at all?

Oh, what kind of sadness to not even know
What kind of plant you’ve become.
There’s evidence for each variety, so
I am simply struck vegetable: deaf, blind, and dumb.

What am I growing, if I am growing?
Who is wise and can make the hard call?
What kind of fruit will my branches be showing,
If I am growing at all?

Thursday, January 30

The seed that fell…

Was I planted, was I sown
With a delicate needle into the soil?
Or did I fall along the way,
The spill of someone’s toil?

And what about these slender stalks
That touch my eager eye?
Are they simply roughage
Reaching for the sky?

Are their stems for weaving
Into tender fairy crowns?
Or are they good for nooses
And their songs just siren sounds?

Depending on where it grows and what kind of plant you need,
A wildflower’s just another weed.

Sunday, December 1

Searching the Season

I am down on my knees, searching the season
Trying to find something golden inside
I am spreading out gifts I have taken for granted
Wondering where your sweet mercies abide
In the crush of commercial and flush of familiar
The blush of your beauty is covered in gauze
And the low-sinking diver my soul has begotten
Gropes in the darkness to grasp on a cause

Oh how I need to truly hear tidings of comfort and joy
Oh how I need to see afresh the crossmaker’s little boy

I am out on the streets, searching the season
Marveling at all of the terror I find
And only a half can come from what I’m seeing
The other half springs from my meddling mind
In the crunch of financial and bunch of familial
My hunch of your unknowing peace is unfound
Here on the sidewalks of unseeing Babel
I am falling unfilled to the unhallowed ground

Oh how I need to hear angel flights whisper, “do not be afraid”
Oh how I need directions to where that all-saving child is laid

Oh, Bethlehem

Out of you, Bethlehem,
Judged among Judea,
Pitiful pit of the Jewish world,
Out of this damned spot
Shall come the crying Messiah.
You who were the bearer of kings
Shall be barren no more
But are baring your arms for delivery now,
Where a star that stared a stable to its knees –
A strange star that started the light –
Shall be outshone by the bilge below:
Mud, rud, and bloodied babe –
To keep at bay the encroaching night
Even in his broaching flight
Out of you, Bethlehem.