On the nature of creativity

It becomes the task of those who breathe
the mirror God within
to walk among us as God does:
to see as God sees
to know as God knows
to embrace as God embraces;
to celebrate as God celebrates
the divine creativity
that lurks in every moment;
to bear witness to the fact
that a puddle,
or a bug,
may have its own heroic content,
to watch the lily
pause in her disrobing
to kiss her own divine reflection
and become One
even as her petals sink,
grayed and fragile
to lie on my kitchen floor.


* * *

Better than a stop sign

It was morning,
and I was rushing for a ferry,
thankful there are no cops on this island
to stop me for doing 40 in a 35...

But the view here
works better than a stop sign
to slow me down:
I slid to a stop, even backed up a bit,
let a couple of other cars pass,
so I could gaze upon the stillness,
thankful for the cool shine of the water
and the delicate wisp of fog
that slowed my ferry down
just long enough for me to reach it.


* * *

I met the Buddha

I saw the Buddha
just the other day,
sitting on the river bank,
tossing breadcrumbs to the fish,
an iridescent robe
draped casually over a shoulder --
as if to say,
of course I have a golden cloak;
what difference does it make? --
not unlike the purple-faced lady
in the magenta shirt
who parked her purple PT Cruiser
with its lavender detailing
in the pharmacy parking lot.
As her license plate cover said,
"Yes, it's purple.
That's all you need to know."

I met the Buddha by the water,
but I didn't really see him until later;
Until now.


* * *

After Teddy

It's empty now,
this once cluttered room;
its tenant gone,
its walls a safe and saleable white;
its decor done in muted tones
so as not to offend a potential buyer.

Do the walls grieve their loss?
Do they miss the posters,
the scuff of a tossed shoe,
the pennants and the photos,
the nails, the tape, the push-pins?

Or are their scars, so unlike ours,
healed with a touch of spackle,
a simple coat of paint?


* * *

Unholy Trinity

A trinity of silos,
mountains of corn baking in the western sun
harvested, untouched by human hands,
from endless acres owned by giant corporations,
destined for feed lots,
or factories...

What could you possibly have to say to me today
about hunger or fullness;
about emptiness, or thirst;
about all the ways we assuage our longings
while failing to provide
the most essential nutrient of all?

What could you possibly have to do
with the blind fury of a child hyped up on sugar
with the vengeance of a soldier
who watched his only sister starve
while we,
rushing to the mall to catch the latest bargains,
slide through the drive-thru lane of fast food joints?


* * *

One for the Road

When traveling through the desert,
over land so bleak and dry,
when your throat is parched
with an unhealable thirst
and the road never touches the sky,
do you count the poles
or the birds on the wires
or the potholes that lurk on the way,
looking forward to your journey's end,
to what waits at the close of the day?

Or do you revel in the heat
and the rush of the wind;
feel the open space resounding in your heart;
bonding with strangers and drinking in landscapes,
trusting each moment to feed you as needed?

Relish your freedom --
the dust and the dirt,
the thunder and lightning
and the rain when it falls --
Rejoice in the mountains and exult in the plains,
content to be traveling wherever you are.

Just revel in the heat
and the rush of the wind;
feel the space resounding in your heart;
bonding with strangers and drinking in landscapes,
trusting each moment,
trusting each moment,
trusting each moment
to nourish your heart.

* * *

What we never really had

I'm back in that dark hole again,
waiting for you to appear,
nursing a half-empty bottle of wine
that you should have been here to share.

I'm looking back over
all the years we've been apart
and thinking they were so much easier
than when we were together
and you were tearing out my heart.

What ever made me come back to thinking
that we could resurrect
some old love
that we never really had?


* * *