The reign of light

They promised a light rain today;
no one explained
they meant it'd be raining light,
a lightning's flash of illumination,
drizzled across the clear blue floor of soul
in some obscure and ancient shade of gold;
a liquid dose of wisdom
spilling forth,
unbidden,
unexpected,
from the mouths of children once unborn.
I stare,
mesmerized by the patterns of thought,
and drift off into never-never land
to learn my lines again
for a play I never expected to perform;
a life I'd never expected to live;
for children whose challenges
I'd never expected to face.
It's always new, isn't it --
this tilted walk through time?


* * *

Faced with opulence

I'm so intrigued
by this opulence;
these wealthy ones
who -- back some 90 years ago --
built mansions with huge gardens
and filled them both with statuary,
with pools, and complicated grottoes...
What is it about us humans,
that we can so rarely comprehend
the difference between
enough and too much?
And how, as an artist,
can I find it in my heart to object
when a person wants to fill a house with art?
Is the fact that each work of art
gave someone a job and food
enough justification?
Or is it just enough to know
that one day they died,
and now a whole community
revels in their riches?


* * *

And the Reality is...

We have this image of vacations,
where every day is warm and sunny,
every color bright and cheery,
and every photograph we take
a masterpiece of composition.
But as my old boss used to say,
his hands extended outward
as if holding a box,
"The Reality is..."
The reality is,
we don't always get to BE on vacation --
and certainly not from ourselves --
and even when we are, the sky may cloud up,
the reservations may get canceled,
and we may find ourselves standing unprotected,
in the rain, in some strange place
where we are not at home with ourselves;
may find, to our sadness,
that we forgot to pack those bright umbrellas
of self-delusion,
and what we're seeing's NOT a pretty picture.


* * *

Outsiders' Hymn

It's a haunting tune,
this lonely song we sing
when love has passed us by
or left us
standing in the cold,
staring at the moon that seems to shine
for all the other lovers
but not for those of us
who linger by love's door
awaiting invitation;
or,
exiled for burning out,
smoke quietly beside the potted plants
and scatter long gray ashes
on the steps that lead
to someone else's dreams.

However painful love may be
for some the isolation
will always be
a harder cross to bear.


* * *

In the delicacy of a moment

Some days I look at life,
and all I can see
is its fragility;
how vulnerable we are,
how ephemeral these lives
we design and cultivate with so much care.
It is, perhaps, a side-effect --
a necessary one --
of opening to possibility,
of exposing our shadows,
of the acceptance
that change, like suffering,
is inevitable.
Some other days I see
how precious, and how beautiful
all that fragility can be;
the infinite delicacy
of a single moment
even though our noticing
might cause the earth to move
and all this brittle artifice to shatter.


* * *

Where and what is God?

So when --
and what --
do we believe?
Is it only under stress,
when all we love's been set adrift
and we're no longer feeling safe, secure
that we postulate a God who will protect,
and bring us home?
Or is it just when things are going well
that we feel we can trust and believe
in a loving God?
And what is that God like for you?
Is it some old guy in the sky
who waves his hands
and makes the waters go away?
Or do you see God in the face of the neighbor
who shows up at your door in hip waders
with a casserole, and a smile?
Or is it God in us, AND sky, AND friend
that helps us each survive
and calls us safely home into Pure Grace?


* * *

Beneath the bright

Pay no attention
to that face behind the curtain:
ignore the lashless eyes,
the sneer,
the intent watchfulness of ego,
the waiting fist,
the one-two punch of recognition.

Spin, gypsy, spin
in your relentless tarantella,
throw a Tutu over your shoulder
and imagine yourself a despotic ballerina,
en pointe in a minefield of misconceptions;
don the many-colored coat
your father gave his favored child
and run from the jealous brothers
before they sell you into slavery
to the self you thought you were
or strip, peeling away the layers one by one
to reveal the courageous heart of love
that pulses still beneath -- and above -- it all.


* * *