Author Archives: threadfollower

The Far Edges

I asked, "If every moment 
is different from the rest 
then how come I feel the same?"

She answered, "Noticing differences 
between the usual and the unusual
is part of the livening process."

I said, "As a species we are programmed
to see patterns and arrangements
to promote our own safety."

She said, "Whatever distinctions we make
on those days when the reality of truth
remains immeasurable fashion life."

I said, "I like how you never capitalize
the 't' in truth when you talk about
those things which matter most to you."

She said, "There is no evolving possible
if the absolutes linger at the far edges 
of where we wish to go and to be."

Sometimes

Sometimes I come back from the place
where apologies and forgiveness
do not attend to each other
laying the bought bundles of dreams
down next to the stones thrown
into the lives of children separated
from all sense of fairness in humanity
where tragedies ripple forever
across time and space tripping
all notions of common sense
remaining for any gathering of grace.

And there I find outside all the realms
of logic created by reasoned patterns
for the comfort of those who believe
the improbable place where
sometimes things just happen.

Labor of Love

I am sure I have labored here before
and danced when the day's job was done.

All my introductions and welcomes rush
into the past where smiles and laughter

hide in plain sight and affirm that I feel right
about the decisions which I have made.

Some places and some times have been better
for me than others where I felt less than myself.

Returning home I find all the love that I love
dressed up and ready to go to worship.

The Useful and The Condemned

Crazy beginnings to hot summer days
begin slow walks to the neighborhood fountain.

     Walking slow begins the neighborhood fountain
     where neighbors scream sitting on porches.

Screams shouted from the front porch by neighbors
are ignored by the dogs fighting in the dirt.

     Ignored by the dogs fighting in the dirt
     I walk by carrying a load precious to me.

Precious are the loads I carry walking
through the flower beds of yellow day lilies.

     Through the flower beds of yellow day lilies
     steps part the ways between useful and condemned.

The useful and the condemned part ways between steps
on crazy beginnings to hot summer days.

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.

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.