Meanwhile, the World Awakens

Meanwhile, the World Wakes Up

In the beginning, there was the voice of the Father

Speaking not with words, but music, rising,

Falling as does thunderous beauty,

Parting a small opening in the soul

Where only tears could flow.


Then last night’s gentle rain

Seemed to heal as it brought relief,

Greening to this wondrous world….

Slowly, beyond ability of conscious mind to grasp,

Sleeping as it tends to do through night.


This morning when I woke, there was

Mist upon the lake, floating without limits,

Beyond boundaries imposed by any human,

Touching blinking eyes, the naked skin of body—

Cooling as every thirsty pore was satisfied.


But the marvel had not finished

As Old Buttery Fingers of the Sun reached out,

Parted floating fog— brought clarity

As first the mountain emerged,

Then peaceful lake reflected patient beauty.


This beauty did not thunder, but was gentle—

Quiet morning light told stories long forgotten

Of small island in the lake.

Perhaps the promise of the dream

Had not come true, but there is still time.


Meanwhile, the world awakens—

Chorus of birds disturb the nesting swans—

They spread white wings and swim together,

Paddling furiously so hidden turtles

Will not divide and kill their young.


All I now know is that I am not alone.

There is no need to worry about

What seems yet unprepared by wordless prayer.

I am in love. I could not ask for more

Than time enough to share this love with you.


Threading a Needle


Perhaps you’ve sat for twenty minutes,

Or if far more holy than I am, for an hour or more,

And tried to pray with pure intensity,

Thinking of nothing but your wish

To be ONE with God.

It’s like sitting on a chair in bright sunlight,

Trying and trying to steady shaky hands

As you attempt to thread the eye of needle.

You lick the thread again and again.

You clean your reading glasses twice.

You turn off all music in the house.

Without concentration, you cannot focus,

Never reach the goal without steady purpose.

Again and again you try to thread the needle

Without saying “damn” or even worse.

Then suddenly as if a fog has lifted,

You see the eye of needle in your shaking hand

Has always had a thread—

Perhaps a thread so fine

It would heal a bleeding heart.

Go Fishing for Joy, Using Your Soul for Bait

Fishing for Joy

When was the last time
You met someone who changed your life—
After even an hour you could not sense your breath,
Replaced instead by humming in your chest?
If you’re sitting and waiting for a savior,
You may suffer from too ordered behavior.

Even the gods aged, fell asleep and died.
They suffered from desiring safe passage,
A preoccupation of those whose years
Accumulate as weight within the soul.
Be instead as a firefly that glows,
Looking for joy on summer evenings.

Eventually, everyone takes the same breath,
Breathing the same atoms of oxygen
Recycled from lungs that exhaled
Perhaps a continent away,
Caught by unseen winds that circulate.
Why not sing from the songbook that is the world?

Go fall in love. Seek justice without going to war.
Write poetry. Cover the canvas with your own blood.
On the first days of spring,
Don’t wait for birds to come.
Take the Eucharist from my words,
Go fishing for Joy, using your soul for bait.

Myself Not Included?


How do I know when the day will come
When I’ve worn out my welcome—
Have exhausted all second chances,
Last vestiges of youth depleted?
Has anyone told you?

Damn thing is, I can’t imagine it,
This world without me a part of it.
But if it comes, as I sometimes fear it may,
Then do I truly understand
Death is completely safe?

Should I long for resurrection—
Escape the darkness that atheists embrace,
Or hope to transform, cast off this body,
Move on to other pastures, other worlds,
Begin the game all over again?

Some believe in a heaven,
Streets of gold and huge mansions.
They’ve picked out furniture for
Every room they’ll occupy,
Know who will share adjoining bed.

Others think stardust turns to living flesh,
Back to stardust— universes where
Everything is used and then recycled.
Does that give you deep purpose? Hope?
Can you trust in free will? If not, can I save you?

No one knows the reality of Reality.
The puzzle too big to see full picture.
How many pieces are there?
Are any missing, torn or turned to dust?
Where is belief without doubt and imagination?

Something Sleeps Within

Ocean at nightLast night I dreamed I was swimming,
Woke up sweating—sheets were wet
As though the dream was real—
Memories flooding as waves from sleep
Rolled onto shore of conscious thought.

Thoughts are like lily pads
Floating on top of turbulent unseen seas,
Bobbing and weaving with each swell.
Finally, I returned to source of the Nile—
Calm spine of life giving water
Filled with black scarab beetles of Egypt.

Oh shit. There they go, lost, buried again,
Waiting as all life waits in core of the Earth
Or as souls anticipate embodiment/ birth.
Have you ever caught glimpse
Of something deep within, waiting,
Stirring but not yet awake?

But you sense it’s there resting,
Floating in deep primordial sea….
Though you haven’t a clue what it is,
You sense it there—alive within,
Swimming idly in muddied, mysterious waters
Seeking the shore of conscious life.

Who can say if it harbors intention?
Would it speak? Will it pray?
Might it climb into canoe of a dream,
Paddle toward some morning harbor,
Or bring the plague from distant port?
Such a pity I never learned to read runes.

Some say all water is holy water,
Sustains life, brings barren desert
Back to flower. If so, then dreams
Are true as miracles, hatched unseen in sleep,
Always swimming toward eventual waking,
Carrying us daily downstream.

What Does It Take to Fashion a Pearl?

Pearl in Oyster
Think of the water it takes,
Pulled by the moon and the tides,
To wash through the bowels of an oyster
In order to make a white pearl.

How many drops of water relinquish,
Called back to the clouds by the sun,
Then falls yet again in swells of the ocean,
Transformed by surrender and time?

How many times is it changed into vapor?
How many drops fall down to the sea?
How does it soothe flesh of the oyster—
One grain of sand at the center of pain?

How many times are we broken by nature,
One tear on the cheek as we fade into death?
How many times do we pass into Spirit
Until finally the pearl we become?

What is hidden in pools of your body?
What of the luminous mist in your lungs?
How many tears on the face of the world
Before healing transforms in an ocean of love?

Become the Darkness

Become Darkness
The sun has set for the day.
Here within my core, I sit in darkness
Wondering if the dark is dark enough
For eyes to adjust to world of shadow.
Deep within, under weight of body,
Poetry comes, emerges from what is lost.

Where is the moon tonight?
Where are the stars that seem to hide
Behind a sky of clouds that blocks all light?
Or are the clouds a form of angels’ wings
Protecting me from blinding glare
Where world is too close, too bright?

Is darkness painful for you?
Or do you seek shadows to heal?
Do you miss the silence that sits alone
Inside dark remnants of broken bones?
All fear is merely the prehistoric
Finally emerging from hiding.

Fear works its way up through wet leaves—
Forgive the metaphor where real danger resides,
Have I lost you, drifting from one image to another?
Subtract the retracting and move
Toward a place to sit in spacious darkness.
Become the darkness that waits, pulsing.

We know the Universe is driven toward expansion
By darkness more than galaxies of stars.
Waves of light are shattered
Against unknown complexities of dark.
Perhaps it is enough to trust the night,
All that pretends to obscure what is dull but real.