Starting Point

The place where I started can be found
among chewed pencil stubs marking the moment

     between moments marked by pencil scribbles
     noting the time when boring entered my lexicon.

I first said boring the time when I was born,
apologetically to my mother as she screamed.

     I have since apologized to my mother
     for all the times when I made her cry.

Secular folks are not the only ones to cry,
begging for a sign that reads, Smile, Sinner.

     There are signs smiling all across this Land
     around which we circle seeking our home.

Sometimes going around in circles
I never find the place where I started.

Today’s reading includes life’s most difficult verses.

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.

To Thrive

I said, "I spent the day upstairs
practicing the art of pure escapism
from life's leftovers."

She said, "A noble thing to do when
many spend so much time making
their selves the center of the universe."

I asked, "Do you think it is because
stories of wonder never received 
encouragement in each family of origin?"

She answered, "Or, maybe there was no
tree of life living in the middle of abandoned
gardens behind their houses."

I said, "As they say, Life requires mercy 
not sacrifice, in order for the self
and others to thrive."

She added, "Nothing like encouraging
a bit of anthropological thinking to 
de-center us from ourselves."

The Lost Ages

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.

Living Continues…

most chanting stops
when bombs fall
on the roof
incarnatio continua

each fall the prairie medley 
of goldenrod and purple aster 
dazzles me
incarnatio continua

it is impossible not
to notice the almost imperceptible
debasement of falling mortals
incarnatio continua

gusts of wind
carry falling leaves
higher than treetops
incarnatio continua

how many times
has the youngest daughter fallen
to rise with bleeding knees
incarnatio continua