Friday, November 27, 2015

Elephant shapes

Elephant shapes                                                                                      

This spinning earth from time to time,
may turn my head
but, I dare not long neglect my duties –

too many who depend on me,
eyes uncertain asking –

How are things on your side? 
Any news from up river? 

Father shuffling toward another death,
mother befuddled with fear;

loved ones sent out daily to gather
fresh greens in abandoned minefields.

Whistle while you work, my Beloved advises,
but, keep digging.
The stench of death is on the breeze;

crocodiles at the watering hole,
only their eyes visible above the surface.

I keep an ear to the rail; gleaning
what I can from the shimmering air –

for my own files, of course,
but also, for loved ones

who keep asking for the truth
of rescue and escape.

I’ve little time left for pottering about, pursuing pleasure, 
arguing in the dark over elephant shapes.

O child of God, everything is in His hands and yet,
there’s much work to do before winter sets in. 

Friday, November 20, 2015



You taught Peter to walk on the water –
until fear turned his feet to lead.

Now, You’re urging me to float
this concrete body

upon a plane so insubstantial,
not grabbing or flailing;

not reaching back upon the empty
mechanics of swimming,

but lying gently
in the shape of a cross,

drifting towards infinity,
feeling at my neck’s nape,

and the small of my back,
Your fingertips …

until they, too,
dissolve into Ocean.

O child of God, trust the Sea.
Roll with the waves.

Friday, November 13, 2015

The land of Nod

The land of Nod    
When the cord is cut, our original attachment,
not just to mother but also Father, any other,

the wound is so deep and great,
rarely does it heal over a lifetime,

wandering the land of Nod in the hope
of a poultice, a concoction of ultimate remedy.

Over the aeons, we have gotten plastered
by every voodoo cure, herb and root,

mustard seed and devil’s club;
chased the old wives’ tales

around every bend and corner
and come up empty and hurting,

none the wiser and further
impaired deep in the core

where it all begins and never leaves,
where the world’s cataplasm cannot reach.

So the dog chases its tail, the tale of human history,
unable, it seems, to turn and face the truth

of our permanently attached oneness
and our hidden-in-plain-view non-existence.

O child of God, you and I are not we but One
means the notion of you must be abandoned.

Friday, November 6, 2015

The root of courage

The root of courage                                                                           
Cor , the root of courage,
Latin for heart,

from which it springs.
Yes, a heart grown faint

but only when we coronate
its pretender, its appropriator,

the Vizier we employ
in heartbreaking irony

to meet life’s threats,
real and imagined –

the very maker of fear,
the saboteur of love,

ever in opposition to the heart
by dominance, usurpation

of the cor, the coeur, the core
from which all courage springs.

O child of God, yield your head
to the heart’s dominion.