A Rainbow With Hands

A morning tear on my cheek begins my day.
Am I tired out from yesterday's chase after answers
or saddened the answers remain in the dark?
It has been said by those who know,
We must choose to live with the questions.
I am glad the ache in my heart and the ache in my head
remain the same from one year to the next.
I still demand the same though time moves on.
And a precious daughter writes me notes of love
and a drawing of a rainbow with hands.


Seek beautiful dialogue
on the nature of answers.

The greatest possible number of answers
should not create the smallest number of questions.

Adequate answers should never satisfy
those who seek to live at the edge of time.

Beware of answers creating
a numbing of the mind.

Divine movement does not hide in answers
but in questions asked in awkward moments.

“Much Madness is Divinest Sense” – Emily Dickinson

How much capital 'M' Madness must be displayed
before the sane ones bring out the chains?

Which graveyard where all the Gathered Ones 
gibber to each other does it make Sense to visit?

Where is the echo of the Voices of the prophets
sharing the Much forgotten wisdom of the Ages?

When will the Divinest light of the moon
shine upon the imperfect feet walking the ground?


There is great irony when the proclaimers 
of one way encounter many paths to the
mountaintop.  The shadowed slice of the moon
creates itself in our eyes.  Who can tell how phases
exist solely in relation to movement around the sun?
Atonement found on the cross can also be found
whenever you set off to forage in the wilderness
for something you lost on the day of your birth.
Awareness and light both have infinite gradations
so do not worry about being a perfect caretaker
to those in need of attention at all times.  Simply
promise to yourself upon stepping outdoors
to explore your own freedom, opening your arms
to the realm where answers seem less important.


What is wrong with finding a reason
or a pattern where none actually exists?

How often must I become aware of my awareness
before enlightenment rushes upon me and decides to stay?

Is the next moment Time brings to me
the result of a repetition or of a sequence?

When will the next usual day happen 
where nothing unusual happens?


How many heartbeats pass before
something resonates deep within?

Why does reading about God leave me
with long lists of forgettable quotes?

Does the origin of the urge for perfection
come from some prior perfect place?

What difference does change or reform make
to the moss quietly growing beside the rock?