Looking through the wall with my x-ray vision I said, "I can see the neighbors." She said, "Maybe they don't want to be your presentation." I turned and looked through her. "I can see your heart and it beats." "Oh," she whispered. "What else can those eyes of yours see?" Dazzled, I said, "Your soul is as old as the universe." She smiled. "Now tell me something I don't know."
Monthly Archives: February 2021
It
Is it true? Is it useful? Does it work in the garden? Can it sing? Walk the dog? Knit? Crochet? Is it willing to clean? And go to Radio Shack? Will it play with the kids? Not moan and groan? Does it pray to Lady Luck? And do presentations? Call friends? And be nice to enemies? Answer emails? Can it buy ice cream? And do cartwheels in the lawn? Is it considerate of others? Does it consider time? How much does it cost?
Love Poem
Washing dishes I hear the piano - or - is it the sound of vibrating strings, - or - the meeting of felt and wound steel? From the tenderness of notes - it must be - the slight pressing of your fingertips on ivory. - Those same fingertips - - curled - - resting - - on my chest - an hour ago before you awoke.
Say prayers in context so as not to confuse g*d. Knitted prayers work best.
ginger beer
homebase can be mortal with all the starts & returns of puzzled faces who once again did not understand the point of Sunday's sermon & come only in the hope of loan forgiveness for last night's dinner tab itemizing roasted leg & puree of soul which never tasted so good trust the story & remember how richly good grandma's cranberry sauce tasted each season of giving thanks for things known & for things unknown & how she would smile when asked the secret of her recipe & say, If I told you it wouldn't be a secret & how she whispered with a voice sounding of the end in that last week, ginger beer.
Like Sisyphus
I learned to work like this from Sisyphus who, tired as a dung beetle after rolling the last dung ball of the day up its small food hill, let his ball go rolling into the sea where ocean waves like eyelids rose and fell, leaking salty tears upon the feet of the child who trembled like the slow, roll of bones turning over in graves of saints long-dead and gone, never to tread again upon the sacred ways, red as worn, sanctuary carpet in the morning light.
The Price of Admission
Fulfilled, I asked, "Maybe we should make a video?" She turned towards me, "Now you are really mixing metaphors." Wondering if there was more to give, I said, "Seriously. Imagine the teaser trailer." She smiled and reached out, "That would be worth the price of admission."
“A Place For Your Name”
How is it that salvation history depends upon scripts unwritten and words incomplete? Weekly festivals do not make the passage of time any less difficult or slightly trying. Dancing elders celebrate with high-leg kicks the message their generation received long ago from the bottles others tossed into the seas. A conversation about the next memorial wall slows, weighted with the wax of last night's dinner candles which burned too fast. Writing checks to the cleaning company and first-time talks with new-found friends will not create the forgiveness you seek nor secure a place for your name on the wall.
“Chattering”
Cute nuances bring me low again this morning. The very breath of God moves, not over watery chaos but through me, pushing me out the door to receive a morning world still not awake. Books I read last night have arranged themselves on the dining room table, feasting on leftover peas and carrots and crumbs from the food fight I had with my familiar after dinner. The question is not about who wins or loses as there is plenty of ground to soak up all the blood spilled in this world. Listen to the heartbeat of the bird that sings alone on the wire below the crowded chattering gathered above.
Vitality Preferred
Remember the play of civilization; how people treat each other waiting in a long, summer line for ice cream? Be careful in the way you lean; someone behind you may be making smiley faces at the little one you hold in your arms. Does this gathering come about from reading the message in the soda bottle or from seeing a fortune unfold from a cookie? The Help Wanted sign on a desert island reads, "New Liberator position available. No experience necessary. Vitality preferred." The questions, What should I want? and, What do I want? refuse to bend away from the one question they have become.
A Thread You Follow 