A belief is a collection of synaptical firings arranged
in a particular way over time between a group of cells
in the brain of the believer.
Change time.
Change the grouping.
Change the brain.
Change the believer.
Does a miracle occur when a belief changes?
At one time it was believed that trees did not talk
to one another. Now, we believe something happens.
Not in any way that humans mouth words at each other;
more like chemicals floating on the prevailing breezes
or electrical impulses rooted deep in the ground.
Imagine if our communication could become
so subtle and gentle, carried by winds of change.
Nothing strong and fierce like a rushing of wind
in a room of gathered disciples; more like a sigh
of one's last breath on the cross.
Category Archives: Poetry
My poetry. Mostly Collects
Einstein’s God
"I believe in Spinoza's God." - Albert Einstein
Bring on the theologians!
Someone has just drawn a line in the sand.
Do we dare go forward stepping over the line?
Or do we leap over the line,
turn around and step back to where we started?
(Some might take us for merely playing on the beach.)
Surely the sun rising and setting
and the whorls of the galaxies
provide some clue as to the nature of things.
Crucifixion. Then resurrection.
Stuff breaks and fractures,
re-assembles itself into something new;
perhaps even into something useful.
Jesus stepped out of the tomb
in order to make it empty.
The first word he said was Hello!
We have moved into a period of bewilderment,
not knowing which new fantastical creation
will wait for us at the end of our time.
But, perhaps that is the game:
To declare that God is present,
even in the mix of things
and in all the stuff of creation.
And Then, Love
And then, today is the day for love notes to be passed
from hand to hand across the aisles of school desks,
when love is just a game of teasing.
And then, one day love becomes real,
standing under an oak tree where the misting drips
drop upon a radiant, upturned face
you see for the very first time
as one who exists in their own right
and somehow becomes the empty piece
you were missing since birth.
And then, love settles into routines of care
and attention with an argument or two
about which of you should take the car
to the car wash to be cleaned.
And then, love loses the beloved,
not once, but again and again,
asking, Where did our time go?
And then, buried deep in the ground
of the heart at rest, a hand is found
to hold on to as love together draws to a close.
Off-Key
I said, "Today I plan
on continuing to be who I am
as I go about my day."
She said, "That's good.
The world missed you
during the last epoch of celebration."
I asked, "And were there enough
cookies to go around
after the dancing began?"
She answered, "Only when
crumbs began to fall to the ground
did everyone eat their fill."
I said, "And thousands and thousands
went on their way
singing hymns to the creator."
She said, "Most were off-key
while the conductors furiously
waved their arms in the air."
Maze Instructions
"I touched the thread and wept." - Mary Oliver
If you find yourself in the maze of Life
be sure to reach deep into your pocket
for the spool of red thread one always carries.
Always turn Right (or always turn Left).
Neither way is preferred
but consistency will save your life.
Look how the flight of Starlings
rotates together in the air
wingtip to beating wingtip.
Upon landing in a grove of trees
the chatter of success
dominates their avian Conversation.
When You arrive in the center
and have no one to talk with
shed a tear and let go of the thread.
Going to the Well
I don't know how to be an elephant
in a room full of elephants.
Sometimes life utterly befuddles me.
I heard a cry the other day,
We cannot save ourselves,
as if death is a problem
from which there is a back-door escape.
God often goes to the well in thirst
and cannot drink.
So we go too
bringing a cup for the divine.
Hope Variations
Wherever you go
something important
is being done
by someone
with the hope
of not having
to live in fear
again.
Those with knowledge
talk about the phantoms
of fear and hope
arising from
thoughts of the true self.
Is it the question of hope
that is the treasure
or the place
from which the question
comes from?
The Fall
"...for they have forsaken the fountain of living water." - Jeremiah 17:13
The selfish designs of the rich benefit all.
Look, a rising tide lifts all boats;
for those lucky enough to have a boat.
Most drown, too tired and worn
to swim against the current again.
It is as though there is a potter in the sky
shaping evil against all orphans,
reminding widows of their constant loss,
holding up fingers for the blind to count,
caging the oppressed in their freedom,
shredding any good news for the poor.
Now one must stand in line to bow obeisances
to heavy pockets at the pinnacle of might.
The fall from there will be praiseworthy.
The cries a brute makes on crashing
to the ground of all being
will be a welcome sound
to those with ears to hear.
No Longer Home
Words hurled into the world
from frothing lips under crazed eyes
still make the little ones cry.
They must go home
where better days were never known
escaping once and never again.
Rain came last night
falling through the frozen air
coating trees and walks with an icy shield.
Everyone will be slipping on the way
as the day where dreams were assured
slips further behind their tentative steps.
The last cries of the prophets:
Prepare your provisions!
Cross the river!
The Promised Land waits no more!
Were always just a dream.
And the child holding your hand
asks with tears on their cheeks,
Is home no longer home?
Cup of Tears
Someone created the cup,
replacing hands pressed together,
holding water rushing by,
raising them to thirsting lips.
Or, perhaps, to collect the first tears
cried for the loss of a lover
so they would not hit the ground
and be lost in the soil forever.
A Thread You Follow 