Alive

"Death, I knew was cold." - Nicholas Wolterstorff

How convenient,
to be writing of death so soon
after my birthday.
Surely, birth and death
are the two inevitables of Life?
One necessarily following the other.
And one, meaning myself,
hopes, as others hope,
for as many days as possible
between the two expressions
of being mortal.  Alive.

From My Table

A beautiful person walks by my table.
Their indulgent smile is not for me.

     I often indulge my weakness for beauty
     waiting for adventure in life's art museum.

The museum pictures hang separately
just as they did in my childhood room.

     All rooms make the room of my youth seem small.
     How often have I asked for an upgrade in my life?

Different grades are handed out for less work
in the school rooms off long, darkened corridors.

     Too many doors open into darkness while
     only one table stands in the wine cellar.

The table is crowned by empty wine bottles.
A beautiful person walks by my table.

Sadly

I asked, "How long before
the threads we keep sewing
become unraveled by time?"

She said, "I heard a woman 
speak last night on the nature
of the created cosmos."

I said, "And she, no doubt,
declared that there is nothing
ever lost as the clocks are wound?"

She said, "Yes.  We live in 
a home that remembers itself
from time to time."

I asked, "And is it not sad
that those who forget
miss out on time passing?"

She answered, "Sadly, the sadness
lasts forever as the stars go about
their millennium dance together."

Another Brushstroke

There is a delicious ambiguity
found in the repeated brushstrokes
Cezanne uses to build Mont Sainte-Victoire
on canvas after canvas.  Blocks of color
laid down right next to each other
like crowds of people from all cultures
waiting to be released to stand
for millennia in their traditional costumes
one right next to the other.  Having
traveled so far, I wonder, will the desire
to pray for the gathered thousands
make for a moving prayer of humility?
Will each listener be welcomed by the earth?
Or will the powers-that-be, those who
step in time together through the gardens
of delight, plow everything underground?
Wait, for the painter is pondering
another brushstroke.

Birthday Crumbs

Six decades of following crumb trails
left by birthday cakes across the years.
Candles stand in the corner waiting 
to be lit and then to be blown out.
The flames of the years gather
into one light found deep in my heart.
There are memories too painful
leaving me unable to stand on my own.
There are joys so colorful leading me
to fall down upon my knees in wonder.
I have spent time praying for God's will
to be done on earth as it is in heaven
only to find myself lost not knowing
what to do when one choice matters most.
And my prayers have been answered
by some cryptic deity in the sky deigning
to have some control over the passing of time.
I have eaten more than crumbs in my life.

Small Miracle

Rags, threads, a coat of many colors,
a web, netting, a spider's meal.
Fish caught at sea to feed the multitudes.

What small miracle began the day?

A woman talking to gathered thousands.
A dog waiting at the door to go outside.
The hint of the sun on the horizon.
Preparations for the morning meal.
Arising to put a foot on the floor.
The steps of neighbors overhead.
The chilled air evaporating breath.
The gathered thousands applauding.

One hopes to find a moment of significance,
to be remembered for the ages to come,
but receives only the snow covering the ground.

Undissolved

Have mercy on those not at home;
who cannot find their way into life,
caught between the demands
of those offering only comfort in times of war
and the voices wanting only to name the disaster.
Pronouncements are not easily recieved
by the ones fixated upon the one, true path.
Imagine all suffering slowly dissolving itself
into the mystical heart of comprehension,
the home of radical hospitality,
where a passing interest opens the way
for anger to fade into the place of dissipation.
Have mercy on the undissolved.

Reflection

The singing voices can be heard at the end of the dark hall
where light outlines the shape of a door on the carpet.
Waves of sound compete with waves of sight to leave
an impression on my newly awakened memory;
dancing with other images and impressions:
laughter at a meal,
heads bowed in prayer,
the reflection of a chandelier
in the curvature of a spoon,
the glance from one end
of the table to the other
holding all the meaning in the world.
And then the good-byes offered at the front door
upon leaving.

Drip, Drip, Drip

I said, "Sometimes I feel
like a drip that has no where
else to fall but down."

She said, "There are those
who believe in the ability of drips
to cut through stone."

I replied, "If only I should be
so lucky so as to live to the end
of the forsaken millennia."

She asked, "When did you
begin siding with those
who condemn the times?"

I answered, "Yesterday, early,
when I awoke to the sound
of the dripping faucet."

She said, "Each plip is
a blessing.  Each plop,
a sign of divine love."