Acting sometimes brings a person closer to God;
like moving from sitting in the pews to the pulpit.
Once there, ritual can be spread over doctrine
to cover all sorts of craziness and sinful natures.
Look how the one presiding waves their arms
as their voice weaves magic around the altar.
Such eloquence speaks rarely, seeking
to live fully as the bread breaks in our hands.
Always practice what the divine looks like
so as to be prepared for when the show begins.
The long grass bends
with a push from the wind
the cares we tend to carry
when our days are heavy.
Tomorrow there may be
no breeze to mark
the passing of the sky
over the receiving earth
We cannot see
the play of the gods
in the fields before us
even though they have
been dancing forever.
I begin these poems from journal entries
made in small, black books before I noticed
time flowing by me faster than a rapid river.
Now I return to learn the wisdom for the day
by dipping fingers in the moving water
of what went under the bridge so long ago.
I dance with suffering servants
who have come down from their cross.
I laugh with laughing, fat monks carrying
bags of gifts over their shoulders.
I bring other divines together to see
how close they lay upon one another.
I do all of this to discover once again
that there is nothing on the other side
of wishing for what I should have done.
Little figures of Buddha and Christ
dot the lawns and the landscapes
of those seeking to find comfort
in what they cannot explain.
Born from the Side or from the Virgin
we each stumble into being
with no ideas of how our ancestors
traversed the sorrows they encountered.
Picking a spot in time and hoping to evolve
into different behaviors not currently in fashion
we dance jerking and moving fitfully
while the figures of the divine remain still.
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.
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.
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."
I survived my last spontaneous love affair
in what used to be called the insane asylum
by demanding at all times for God to be removed
from the heavens and given into the hands of the people.
New students of the divine were more than pleased
to see the moment of promised serenity and deep peace
when grace lifted itself off of the pages of studied texts
and crept into the pockets of all who walked by the window.
There will come a time when driven nails will actually
remove themselves from all bleeding hands
and lean bodies will fall gently down from the trees
upon which they were to have spent eternity.
I asked, "How many more fingers
must be pointed at the divine?"
She replied, "We humans enjoy
the convolutions of large numbers."
I said, "Perhaps furiously fidgeting
with the letter of the law should be
made a crime."
She said, "Then people would not
have anything to do on bright,
sunny mornings as the summer
comes to a close."
I added, "Except to fill daily journals
writing words that appear to be
tolerant and accepting."
She said, "It is easier to embrace ourselves
when we remain examples in our own lives."
Even in unison
it all sounds so different.
Each of us is here because each of us
has waived the right to remain silent.
Kind words of blessing are the bread of email.
Words of love, the wine.
What else do you do with God's body
but eat it? Just rip the wafer in half.
Divisions are now divided such that
the system built for diversity cannot function.
Consider the perspective of
the discardable, the forgettable and the undervalued.
Why ask, when you can call the painting
anything you want?
When there is no balance
create a space for inquiry.
It is hard to imagine another way
while running down a one-way street.
As quarantine restrictions increase
so do suggestions on how to smile.
Interesting tidbits of the divine
reside and hide in the glitches.