August 2022 – A Thread You Follow

The Cracked Door

I stand in front of a slightly cracked door
illuminated, casting an image of myself 
as a dark figure forward into the present.
Though I am in a different place now
the same door opens wider than before.
The traditions of the moment recede.
Pieces of scholarship and commentary,
once part of the light, fade to coincidence.
The eternal begins to fit itself into places
where I have never been before.
I need to go, not into any realm of the divine,
but back into the space where I was once blessed.
There I do not need fateful hope
to attend to me like angels granting my every wish.
Instead I find my blessings from within
and from without the slightly cracked door.

Window Shopping

Cheap sounds of absurdity 
enter life at an early age
when our resistance to fear is low
and the world offers little defense
against the something else
lingering as a foretaste not of heaven
but of all the cheap and tawdry things
hanging in windows bordered by lace 
convincing us to go it alone.

That Difficult Place

Yesterday there was a whole bunch of stuff to ponder:
How notebooks of various sizes hold writing on the walls.
And how stores no longer carry what I most treasure.

I have often asked, When do you expect more in?
Knowing that the form of the next several days
Of my life depends upon the answer I receive.

Holding little confidence in the word "should"
Is something I learned in childhood though
Now I often dare to peek around corners at dawn.

And there, standing alone with arms spread wide,
Is the one who started the divine and holy madness
Where I am asked to step into that difficult place.

The Burning Bush Burns

I come across strange drawings of unknown critters 
while vacuuming under the sofa and paste them
in my journal.

Twenty years later I come across them again 
surrounded by words that I have written:
abandonment, emptiness and loss.

Somewhere between the drawings and the words
I can find the meaning of the paradox resting
among all the expressions of the divine.

And then, in fullness, completeness, accompanied
by depth and variety, I can slowly remove my shoes
and turn to see how the burning bush burns.

Divine Self-Expression

I said, "Imagine removing fear
from all decisions we decide today."

She said, "You would burn your finger
or walk straight into the nearest wall."

I asked, "Would there be anything left 
holding me back from making the change 
that most needs to happen?"

She answered, "There are poems that can
be found in the movement of the leaves
blown by the unseen wind."

I said, "Any love can survive until one
comes across an unexplained drawing
in cryptoglyphic writing on the walls."

She said, "We become the chosen language
of the divine seeking to express itself."

The One Question

I remember summer days 
when birds crowded the feeder 
and more walked below 
pecking at fallen seeds.
Somewhere a preacher asks 
of those listening with ears to hear
to draw the meaning of scripture 
out of the mythical realm 
and into daily experience.
Do the birds hear the same words?
The secret given to us at dawn,
does it still remain quiet and secure
after we have given it away so many times?
Though the words of the questions
remain the same, they can be rearranged
in infinite ways to provide the answer
to the one question always being asked:
Will the birds feed today?

The Second Moment

My friend reminded me 
     To take the second breath.

Wait one more moment.
     And then react.

For the second moment gives room
     for myth to bubble up.

Four More Questions

How often does myth need to be invoked,
pulled from the ordinary and mundane?

What removed the wonder of the simple mystery
heard in the morning's first birdsong?

Where did I learn to slow down for this moment,
less hurried to get somewhere?

Why does one need to capture time
that is already held in the infinite?

Said and Done

I have written about joys lived
and unhappiness suffered 
for many days and years.
The pages break time down.
Line after line ties my body
to ink on bound paper.
The spirit travels by moving
forward and backward
between today and the past.
I hope to not have to choose
with my last act of free will
between becoming a drop 
in the ocean or remaining myself
or vanishing into nothingness.
Some sort of combination
depending upon my mood
sounds nice.  To not have
sunsets and the laughter 
of a beloved surrounding
me on a calm evening
seems like a loss.  Will I care?
I hope so.  And, after all has been said
and done, I hope that my cares
blend with the cares of others
in some peaceful and decent way.

Off

Last night a book
leapt off the shelf
and fell open to a page
that I have not read in years.

Sometimes I take my eyes
off the mist
pocketed in the ridges
and valleys below me.

The morning song
of the birds gave
the crickets and frogs
the day off.

A breeze blows
off and on
stirring the fine hair
of my daughter.

The words I write
are meant to be
peeled off the pages
of these seasons.