My Heresy

I like my God much better than the one
who made his home up in the stratosphere
and favored us with visits now and then,
harrumphing down below about the way
that we behave, and tantalizing us
with sticks and carrots grown especially
for those who said the secret word or not,
by having properly proclaimed one man
a king: all this, of course. was indirect.
The voice of supernature wasn't heard;
the being had a handicap as beings will,
and yet the silence was as heaven-sent.
For I, the fallen one, would live because
the son would die. That was the sense of it.

But making sense is for the sensible,
and arms and legs and progeny fall short
of that pure consciousness which stubbornly
insists on such intangibles as wind
and breath and spirit time to mark
its age, its truth, and its enlightenment.

It is in such an ocean that I swim;
It is in such transcendant holiness
that I perceive a new enlightenment
to scale the mountaintops, to part the mist,
and finally to show the face of God.
~

Home

It was more than sentiment, more than familiar,
more than that persistent love
impossibly respiring in the corners
when the other occupants left me alone
one weekend.
It was the empty chair, left out of place,
uncaring whether its last user might return,
identity secure in its distinctive history--
sensed more than known.

Now I marvel at the ease
of turning back the years,
and in the picture of a memory
to see not words or faces,
merely furniture, a still in time,
a mental photograph,
poised to take again its function
hours or centuries ahead, no matter;
I, caught standing there
inside the silent room,
gave welcome to the flooded chest
that comes from that outrageous mix
of absolute contentment
and the pain of loneliness.

The mind is fond of this obsessive gazing,
tracing the indelible perspective
of a moment that would never count
as even an event,
never take its place in stories
one would share--
and yet make wonderment a part
of those few dust-encrusted seconds
long ago
when only pathos was perfection...

It was then I knew
for once I did not dare
to take a single step away.
I've not been home again.
~

The Courage to Be

This little two-stanza ditty may not be the best poem I have ever written, but I consider it the most important. Until a few days ago, I never realized how much of ourselves we bring to all experience, and how essential to growth is the inward journey.

The Courage to Be

"Will I be free?" he asked,
and Wisdom answered,
"No, for when you look within
you are both prisoner and prison.
See? Your sentence is eternal.

"There, inside of you
is all of humankind
and all of God
and all that you will ever know.
Without is never that domain
which you may rule or enter.
You do well to rest in awe, for
in your incompleteness
you are whole."
~

nice tribute to FDR here

http://www.truthout.org/docs_2005/printer
_041805X.shtml

(paste both lines together)

Thoughts from reading

I have been intrigued of late, probably stimulated by a recent book, about this business of how we see things...that each of us is prisoner of the unique lens within us, and how much that explains different religions, different social views, and even different preoccupations. We send out probes to examine questions that we think are important, and these probes do influence us, but they never create us. No one will ever see things in the exact same light. Evolutionarily speaking, we may be headed to that goal, but I think even in the spirit world, there remains a diversity of lenses. Each of us, no matter how much we may have in common with another, has his or her own "worldview." It is why we have an opportunity to learn from anyone--why no one is beneath us, or deserving of our contempt. It is also why we truly are unable to judge another person, particularly for that person's opinions....She or he simply is at that point in life, and if one ultimately changes because of something you or I have said, we may be sure that other factors were involved. Prisoners we are, and also locked gatekeepers to those outside. We may choose to let in their probes, but they will not gain entrance, and cannot. Therein lies the paradox. We are all one--we are made of the same stuff. Our quarks flash on and off with those of everyone else. Yet we are armored islands.

I want to place a sign on my beach: "Everyone welcome." Alas, they cannot come.

There is, however, hope...hope that some nice amphibious boats will keep trying, while I stand on shore encouraging them. There is hope that the prison walls may be breached someday, if they are attacked from both inside and out. How is that possible? One way alone may sweep them down. One way alone may someday establish a beachhead.
And, that is love.

What do you think?

All in a mortal's work

God factories abound upon the mountains
and the plans are written in the holy books
but lack consistency from page to page...
reason enough to keep the cubicles apart,
unwired; the laborers are always free
to improvise.

So there are gods for sale.
Choose yours.
Some are free of charge
but then the prototypes are never up to date.
Others willingly accept a sacrifice or two
but do expire if not renewed.

There, I just made mine again,
my lump of clay as yet unfired.
Do you like Her?... Yes?
It is a pity that I cannot say the same
for yours.
~

Full circle

The day came bumbling along
when he found time
just to look across at Dad
and wonder if he noticed--
if he'd be there down the line,
when it was time
that he become a dad to wonder
at such sure magnificence,
that there would be another soul
t o pause...and look at him.

Twice in one generation,
thunder rumbling to be heard...
one kind of love
to be extinguished by the sun.
Unspoken.
Wondrous.
~

Meanderings and ruminations

I began to think of a state of mind, and wonder if it is a small chunk of universal mind, or is it all my own. Does it choose my dreams, or leave that to the unconscious? I'm thinking this is what time travel is all about, and before one returns to his home reality, has he indeed left his body? Has he crossed dimensions? What is the stimulus for separating realities? Is there a parallel between this, and what he can do when he leaves his physical lifetime, and becomes spirit alone? Here are my thoughts breeding questions...breeding a lesson in patience. The answers will come, and along with them, more questions. It makes one contemplate his death with the stirrings of appetite.

Another tongue

I want to share with you, the fact that the following poem is in response to a contest...to write on the subject of poetry! Here was my entry:

Another tongue

If passion speaks beyond self-centered will,
if stones may cry aloud because a man
keeps silence, or if whispers wash the mind
as storms in springtime will refresh the earth,
then it is poetry that feeds our hearts.

At birth it is a soft caress that would
protect and nourish thought in gentleness,
to draw from deep within, a song that prose
could not express, a sigh devoid of art
that art alone may sing, the singer but
an instrument, and that of conscious awe.

All this, and still demanding to be heard,
for if it were not so, we would not know
or speak of poets; wars might then be just
regretted or dismissed as lost for lack
of strategy; arms would be taken up
for power alone and men would then survive
in shallow grief, insouciant within,
a tired state of lethargy, where no one
ever cares.

The powers of heavenly places may be thanked,
for muses dwell upon Olympus, not
within the hell of circumstance or haste
or juvenile romance--for there
is power indeed when insight travels where
the lofty giants led and left upon
their pages majesty, and bled, and wept,
and gave us beauty that device alone
could try to emulate, but merely fade
and vanish from the mind.