Strange Oracle

Strange Oracle

A boy who spoke as an aged man
sat on a stump in the woods
to ponder North and its deliciousness.
"If I were youth alone" he said,
"you would not listen, or
if I were age, you would defer
a moment just to be polite, and then
swing wide your soul ship's helm,
your captaincy nirvana bound."

Few undertook the forest voyage;
fewer still saw mountain tops
behind the trees, nor wisdom
in the moment of eternity.
They merely rested there upon the stump,
for any consciousness of unity
will cast out time
and bounds,
and destinations in exchange
for glimpses of the truth.

Then it is to seize exuberance
of youth. the open patience
of the aged visitor.
Then one may detect beyond the mists
a new reality unborn, undying,
always there within,
without a prayer,
bedecked in joy--unseen, untouched,
unqualifiable, the light of light
eternally begotten, God from God
and most would think it
very, very odd.

I hear you, on your isolated stump,
your mountaintop disguised...
you are right, of course.
There is no age entitlement
for wisdom, and
there is no journey,
no arrival, nor decay.
In truth, there is no "no"
at all, to set apart
the paradise of now.

But there's a quantum jumping orbits
quite without permission,
quite without, indeed, a cause.
And yet sometimes
if we should look the other way,
he does not leap at all. It's time
to celebrate the little fellow,
for he opens up our minds,
our Bachs, our Michalangeli,
before we ever even wonder why.
~

The Vanishing God

The Vanishing God

Go home, old man, turn to your bed
and draw the covers to your eyes;
there is no papa in the skies
to hear your prayers,
were you to dare to frame them.

No spirit hovering?...to flood your mind
with golden streets? No harps
employed by pretty messengers
with sunbeam hair?...no enemies
to tread beneath your feet?

Go home.
Our censers do not swing for you;
our choristers sing out of tune,
our crowns, bereft of stars,
are tawdry bibelot
to weigh you down. Ironically,
your heaven just passed you by
and left your saving Lord to die
alone.

All you have left is the unknown,
a bit of awe, perhaps,
a sense of mystery
and cries to an eternity of silence
unaware that you are even there.

Your peace, your rest
is not in sacrifice or penitence
but listening, never mindful
of reply.

Old fellow, what have you to say?
"My children, how I wish
that you might understand
that I am merely blessed--
my only loss, impossibility
to speak of the ineffable
around my head...confounded
only by its pious adversary,
love."
~

Uncommon prayer

Uncommon prayer

it is for me to watch...
to stand in where the shadows were,
absorb the light
and fill my heart
with those vignettes of knowing,
skittering before my inner eyes
like diamond dust.

Here is my chance to age
with wisdom not my own
but wander here between the stones,
their relative array, perhaps,
a sage's gift in chiaroscuro
stone, to stone, to stone.

The night is for the cherishing,
the silent requiem,
the first and last 'Shalom'
to fade without regret.

This is where the shadows were...
Shalom to feast upon and to forget
but for the watchers,
emulators of the Holy Ones,
the breathless worshipers at Stonehenge
echoing the chant of God
across ten thousand years

and you may hear the whisper of it
now, within...death is a dream
you saw at Easter Island, and
upon a mountain in Peru.
Watch
along the deathless hours
before the sun appears.
~

Shadow Grace

Shadow Grace

How is it
that I know
that not to know at all
is gift of the divine?

How is that
no thing at all
is all the riches of infinity?

How is it that
no God, no friend
to walk beside me
leaves me
still in awe,
devoid of insight of my own
but for the absolute in ecstasy to know
that nothingness may not depart
and I am not alone?
~

Mind to Mind

Mind to mind

The door is closed. Behind it are
the congregation of the saints
and as the silence churns, each listens.
From each tower flows dharmata's peace,
the sum of emptiness, the breath of the divine.

From fantasy as this, the lore of hope—
a flood, bare of design, emerging,
feeding its perfection, bursting
as a flower to share a precious frailty
in its uniting. Now the welkin has its sway;
come rein the horses with me,
for the mystic skies are full of thunder
and the day is ours.

Come quickly. Who will pass?
You know.
You are the keeper of the door.
~

My Own, my Native Land

My Own, my Native Land

The golden grain stretched out like sheets
upon the Kansas plain, like birthright, innocent
behind the festered sun and unaware
of upstarts in the rolling Minnesota countryside,
defiant to the blistering avalanche of corn.

There were the sidewise glances,
prudent in their reticence, worn pencils
tucked behind their bibs, the markets'
vagaries aswim, Chicago far the east of home.

In Iowa as well,
the warriors of the plough,
the timeless men of bread,
the conquerors of earth and sinew,
beast and baronet,
to thread the cloth of motherland
before our birth.

Thereto in Illinois, my cradle sanctuary
nested from the mountains
and the alien sea; I am the listener
within this deep midwestern ground.

It is not still where I have been;
the voices and the footfalls
make their print in time
and may not be erased.

And though my ashes fly in space
my breath, my bliss, my bower
rests forever in the heartland of the earth.
~

Never in Pursuit

Never in pursuit

The stumbler thought of happiness
and how it crept upon him
as a spectre, extracting from the mist
without a dare, to resurrect
the Buddha's absolute delight.

There was a precedent, of course—
a self accepted ecstasy, then set aside,
forgotten as a surge of joy
may never know reprise,
will lose itself as motherhood
may bare her breast, each sacrifice
an act of love.

It is today I stumble, giddily, with him.
It is my moment to rejoice,
to celebrate no cause
but all this universe may tender,
sculpting men from mists,
molding its beatitudes
upon the desert sands,
departing with its kiss.

Ourselves are not for burial,
nobility not for the seeking,
terror not an overture to run away.
There is a fertile ground
for tears to dwell in, to enrich
the harvest tree of mirth.
It stands.
It stands, you daughters of the earth.
Cantabimus et psallemus, Alleluya
~

Strangers on the Bus

Strangers on the Bus

Your world is just about
to branch away from mine
just as the two of them converged
moments ago, and settled in;
out of thousands that I see each day
what makes me look at you
and trace your gaze into infinity?

A commonality is far away.
Did you once share a baby's wooden blocks
and build a tower for his delight,
to shatter down? ...and build again
for yours?
Did you forget?

I look across the chasm
of the consciousness that we might share,
and see it widening.
I see the numbers ranked like soldiers
in your mind, your schedule crowding in,
the memory of scent you know so well
upon the girl you'll meet in the hotel
at five.

Our lives are not commodities
we would exchange, yet still they sear
the moment with their nonchalance,
their downward glance, their inner lights
of mutuality that filter down like dust,
the likes of common friend, of taste,
of faith—all silent hasting to their rest.

There is no greeting, no goodbye,
and no acknowledgement
that either of us make.
But there is thunder
rushing in to our vacuity,
resounding still, the cry of the pursuit
in vain that you and I,
the thoughtless hosts of mystery,
will never entertain.
~

A Pre-Primary Resolve

A Pre-Primary Resolve

Allow this day
to fill with ivory-tower dreams
and carry to the booth
the paradise of hope...
one candidate
whose passionate desire
would place strong arms
upon the pilot wheel,
enabled by the miracle
of peace.

~

In Cenotaph

In Cenotaph

One may not name them, for they died
as faceless as they lived, their monument
unseen, its peak above the clouds,
remembering, as they could not forget,
projecting on their beds at midnight,
acts of faceless love.

Theirs was the courage just to be,
for that is what love is, that hate is not—
can never be, for it does not exist.
Love's incompleteness is our gift,
our stuff of dreaming, and
the mortar of our soaring cenotaph.

Love is the song of faceless ones
and ours, for it is all of us,
the countless sands of Abram's sea
who hear the call to be.
~

At Gravesite

At Gravesite

How is it I draw near to you
as I approach this common ground,
yours above and mine beneath
connecting our mortality yet still
symbolic of the separation that took place
as I laid you there apart from everyday.

I know you hover there with me,
our mutuality in tribute to the Adam dust
that formed us, carrys us along
to ride the winds
across the fields and towns forever
while these minutes here
when I look down, resist,
and in our tryst pause to allow
'I love you's' here and now
to bridge the days beyond
when I must turn away.

The visits carry vanity as well.
I choose them to assuage
my feelings of neglect; it never works.
The stone, defiant, strong
in its assault upon my eyes
betrays the irony its vigil promises.
Its song of death alone
is all I hear behind my upraised heel.

But it is not the ash, the dust, the winds,
the stone of taciturn reproach I keep
upon my heart as I drive off.
It is your voice I hear again,
"Dad, I'll always be here, loving you."
You knew I needed that.
~

Port Discovery

Port Discovery

The mind on course is nothing but obtuse,
recalcitrant and leaderless.
Silent particles stream by unnoticed
and a soul doesn't care;
the stopping ports are easier...
until the ones and zeros re-arrange
and an electron jumps
the other way... not much incentive
for another listless hour on shore.

No matter then, the prayers are said,
the songs are sung,
and suddenly there is new joy
upon the threshold of the day.
That which is known
is much too prone to cloy.
The time has come
to celebrate the open door,
and why?...not for the prayers
or songs intoned too readily.
No, there is more.

I am a captain with a visionary crew
who long for the unknown,
along with me are ready for
a midnight rendezvous
when we shall toast the sunrise,
set the sail upon uncharted sea
and drink the wine of love.
~

Reliquary

Reliquary

See? Beyond the hill crest,
there laid down the words,
the tokens of a life as unintended gifts
like gems remaining, precious,
to be gleaned as one more little universe
to save—an ember of a personhood
surviving death.

Then seek them out, for they
are worth the price of the uncovering.
As monks illumining the word of God,
retire to your cell and dip your pen;
the commonality of all the saints—
of you and I is on that page,
encapsulate in time.

Scholars pore upon
words dropping down...
upon a timeless stage,
upon a now that celebrates
each time the mind says yes.

But it is mind that needs no more
for monuments will wear away.
While for an age or two,
mortal clues are everywhere...
these gatherings, however spare,
will prove to be enough

to die for.
~

Santa Fe

Santa Fe

It is the hovering time,
moments made to bear defining.
Someone should declare when it is night;
the dear white ghosts slip down the corridors,
wordless, in and out of rooms
as if the walls did not exist— and commerce
is a strange and other-world imagining
fading quite away, just after eight o'clock.

Sound is sacrilege, gesture frames the hour.
And from the morgue below, the cart is bound
for 722; there is no one to weep.
There was a prayer a little while ago:
"You know, of course, dear lord,
I have the promise of my son...
that he won't let me die alone up here...
and in the dark."
~

A Remote Christmas

A Remote Christmas

It was perfect today. My wife and I were alone, dinner had been
eaten, and the beloved family were hundreds of miles away.
We love them dearly, but today we did not miss them. We
loved the quiet, the finemusic on the DMX, the warmth inside,
the good reading from my recliner chair (I'll tell you the book
if you ask) and the time to reflect that there is love wherever one
is, if one takes time to absorb it. The peace was tangible, the
sense of gratitude, suddenlyprofound. I do not credit my own
spirituality for that, but I do thankfully credit an spirit of
acceptance that says that is what communion with God is all
about...a taking of the moment, breathing it, and finding that
loving all that is, can be a simple thing if it is simply permitted
to be. The God part was not out of meditation, or worship, or
even gratitude, but merely experiential for its own sake. It
required no creed, no sense of duty, no falling upon the knees,
and certainly not any relics of childhood or even faith, to grasp it.

No football games were on at my house. There were no little
ones to discipline (though that too, is lovely), no Christmas
wrap mess to clear away, and not many dishesto wash. But,
yes, for this former Christian who pried God off his throne,
demoted Jesus from his scapegoat sonship, and derided the
nobility of intentional sacrifice, I duly noted that love had
seeped into the room, the path that Jesus illumined still
showed the way, and the God that the centuries were seeking,
still filled my heart. For an iconoclast like me, that was enough
of a miracle, though not unexpected, to overflow the remainder
of my days on planet Earth.
~

The Metamorphic Heart

The Metamorphic Heart

It's Christmas after all.
Of sweetness it may not be wrong,
this chamber of the damned,
with destiny to take the spears of politesse,
break, and give again,
live as if the age were new...
as if there were a healing God within,
not out beyond the stars. It knows
the perfidy of humankind.
It knows itself.

For there is bleeding, here, and cold.
There is crusting on the heart;
a wellness quite apart from charity,
a schism of the soul that never heals at all
but festers and divides
and in its agony succombs to war.

It's Christmas.
There is death upon the field of sweetness;
There is valor dressed in blindness
for the zeal to coverup.
There are carols out there,
loud enough to mask the sighs,
the wrenching, last goodbyes we say.
There is a baby there, to pray to.

Somewhere, lost out there
among the penitents upon their knees
...caught up in all this splendor,
there is peace.
~

Blithe Spirit Company

Blithe Spirit Company

My daily walk for exercise has changed;
for there are souls along the path
I have not seen before. Oh yes,
the regulars are there,
and smile at me, too often share
my miseries from ice and snow
and muscles slow to dance in synch
with my advancing age, but these!...
the shy ones...they who subtly appear
before I am aware, and then are gone.
What can I make of them?

They're at the borderline of sight;
they catch that old third eye
designed for sensing—clusters
of old friends at points along my route,
then family I supped with
while the energy of breath prevailed—
the ones I didn't get to say goodbye.
And there they wait
to see me make my rounds,
and Zounds! I don't know why.

Perhaps it is because
I soon will join them
on their vaprous other side
and want to get me ready, or
more probably it is another way
to let me know that they are there,
to catch me in a time when I
am not preoccupied with pleasures,
pain, or measuring my own
crude mortal quest to reach them
from my sterile room.

For on this mobius circle of my walk
I have the luxury of silence plus
the absence of demand, and they are free
to stand beside my route
and unassailed, stretch forth
the lavish purity of love.
~
["Poor Dean", you say; "he's cracking; we'll be gentle
with him, let him keep his imaginary friends. They
are harmless, as is he, so long as we don't get too close."
Ah, fare thee well, my friends, I promise not to drool
on you. And I don't really see them...just 'almost'...and
that was enough to bring on this crazy poem. Yeah,
I think they're there, all right, but I don't stop my
circuitous rounds long enough to talk to them. It's just
that I never knew ghosts could be quite so much fun. :-) ]

In Full Humanity

In Full Humanity

They were naked and were not ashamed,
pristine, unknowing of the world—
unknowing of themselves, the undertow
to draw them down,
beneath their surface paradise.

For that is what it was,
a crust to hide the deep, the mystery,
the richness of a feast
set forth in royal David's city,
hidden still beneath the tree,
the man and woman unaware,
the linden in the garden
apart from innocence.

A woman and a man,
a crust of ignorance, a tree...
there was a sensitivity to good and evil
waiting for a fall.
There was a hunger for the festive board,
an overlooking of the cost, a restless urging
...and a stable rest.

There was a Galilee—
an infant god, they say,
who would not have them call him good.
Was there a tree, for his undoing?
The wood of faithless fruit?
The wood that touched his blood...
would it be death that sired a homo sapiens?

No, it was life that taught them.
It was the tree from which was plucked
the consciousness of good,
the love which is reality,
the gracious gift of knowing
we may be
all that awareness will allow
in full humanity.
~

The Question Man

The Question Man

There goes the question man.
See how he walks?
Deliberate, and not like others
...not at all.
His lust, unlike our own,
is for the shadows right and sinister;
they play a different melody
for him. They seem
to sing of soft excursion,
tasting of an eastern shore
already redolent of Asian mystery.

He is the question man...he seeks,
not struts, for wealth is not ahead of him,
but dancing by his side.
How singular his pride of heritage
laid down by books, not blood,
an overwhelming flood of curiosity
that sends him off to islands
where the tradewinds call,
and he may answer with a spirit song.

His prize is in the quest,
his being filled not with desire,
but with the fullness of Matisse,
black hair down to the waist,
bare footprints on the beach,
the crinkled pages placed most carefully
beside the mythic bed, and left there
for a maiden fond of dreaming,
longing for a different strand
another midnight might disclose.

So much for the question man
who walks his magical domain
within the crystal globe upon his desk.
So much for nostrums
in the wake of shipping lanes
that cloud its clarity.
It is the questionning that drives romance,
and not its appetite.
It is the dance unending that will breathe
the tropic splendor of the night
~

From the Third Eye

From the third eye

These are the words that write themselves,
phrases struck in steel
and driven into me,
borne of tablature and burning,
speaking only of their silence
as Atlantis, lost in dark constancy,
might re-appear out of the sea
knowing, still unknown,
yet known to be unseen.

There is a cloud upon my brow,
a doubt embracing certainty,
a synthesis of thought and draught
quite rich enough to taste. It augurs death;
it augurs why; it smiles and spins away.

I smile as well.
This unknown knowing
leaves a trace to follow...the ellipisis
saying this is not the end. It augurs breath
a little while, the mind upon
an open path, the pristine gift
suspended somewhere
just beyond our eyes.
~