surrounding us with yourself
for all to see and touch,
so many are pure in heart,
even more, pure in soul,
and yet the brutes come upon us,
blurring our vision with their designs;
with each beat of our hearts
take their ways
and cast them into the outer fire
where the dross of disregard and danger
melts into something useful
to be used for blessing all
who desire to see you in your fullness.
God of the Pedestaled and of the lowly base,
in the midst of the upright and tumbled
we strive to climb,
we yearn to settle down,
seeking a bit of fortune and some fame,
deliver us from those who
only clamber noisefully upward
to the heavens of their own making
while stepping, worse eliminating,
the ones who are happy with step-by-step.
God who hides,
God in plain view,
God who dwells
with those who are hungry,
with those who are thirsty,
with the stranger, the naked and the sick,
and with those in prison,
we cannot ask you to give us anything
when we have given nothing.
So when we are brought to judgment
with goats and sheep all around us
wrap us gently in your wrath.
“I am used to
making ink from my own blood.” - Abdulla Pashew
I sighed with relief when evil passed by
unaware of its existence while mechanisms
for bringing goodness began to turn with the
first bird call of the morning to raise the sun.
Remaining anonymous carries ferocity yet
dancing unknown steps for something
calls the poets to liberate pens and letters
onto pages stained with the marks of history.
Giver of Life and Land,
Who demands our obedience
Against the evil ways of destruction
Of the prior inhabitants, we wonder
If the land and what we own
Is really ours, or perhaps our very
Thinking that it is becomes the
Path to our own destruction
And folly which you warned us
Against. Make us mindful and
Aware so as to give.
God of kings and queens,
of pontiffs and presidents,
of duly-elected and dictated,
who changes those at the top
to fill the pages of history books,
turn the flow of authority
so the multitude no longer need
to resist to survive.
The Golden Rule presents itself first followed
by all those things, yes, things, that create human division
between sects and castes and classes and circles.
Discourses on inequality and the tricks played by those
who attempt to make us believe in the banality of wealth
divert those already ignorant of Divine ways.
Everyone searches for their hidden motives of sacrifice
preparing for a moving day to Easy Street which never
arrives on individual demand.
Legends fall into trouble once again barely able to keep
us awake through the drip of words leaking from books
read in one sitting of possibility madness.
Peaceful creation waits for the hubbub to waste away
into convention and tradition before appearing and
glowing like the sliver of the month's new moon.
Between hope and sorrow
found in spirituals played
in minor keys dwells a note
releasing the captives into
a sweet place of freedom.
The doe keeps her head down
eating the sweet and desired
delicacies from neighborhood
flower beds while the owners
sleep the sleep of the dead.
A return to correct ways of living
postponed by a prodigal display
of fragile members demanding
an accounting of the lost ages
lives only in the dreams of beggars.
As you began
the conversation long ago,
Divine, speak us
into being once again,
for the self-made gods
have declared and said
who can and who cannot
speak in this world
at this time
and in this place.