---

 

∴

 

there is a place
where Love is realized.

where lovers exchange their broken hearts
and fill them with poured libations,

where the skins of man
and the goods of trade
are valueless and clean
and the cost of living
is Love.

 

this place
of course
eludes us here,

and hides behind
hardened stone,

and clings to the space
between leaves,
that every autumn
rustle
and release out
onto the wind,
their sweet scent of memory
and tomorrow.

 

on the day
we go to this place,
it will be

just another day,

that came
like the others:

one

at

a

time.

 

not all of us
shall go together

but in the end,
all will call it home.

 

it is such a home.

 

 

and i will meet you there.

 

∴

 

 

 

---

 

---

 

∴

 

here,
watch and pray
as i raise the white flag
in the wilderness
that is
the soul.

 

You,
rest, keeper, and peace,
lay Your precious hands
upon my cheeks
and hold my gaze,
undeterred.

 

i consent
to tread
in molten metals –
in the crucible of Love –
and let my heart break
every now and again,

for the maker
of that heated mire
is in it all,
cup and call,
found in
transforming fire,

and fuse-forging it –
that broken heart –
larger,
filling it fuller,
to gladly spill
in exuberant surrender.

 

∴

 

 

---

 

---

 

∴

there are days
that you come to the end of your knowing,

as if the mind is made of cul-de-sacs
that begin as prayers
and end as shopping lists
or strategies
for removing tree stumps
and splinters.

 

and of course,
the tendency
is to believe
that the prayer had stopped along the way,

hijacked by to-do lists
and problem-solving monkey-minds,
that run away
with God,

tossing it
above your soul
who stands,
pickle-in-the-middle
and mad.

 

eventually,
you come back to the holy
or it comes back to you,
and in those little minutes
of renewed meeting,

mystery mixes with the mundane
and we may go again,
trying again,

into the day.

 

i light a candle while i work.

 

it reminds me of bigger fires.

 

look how single flames
dance wild on the wick,
kept in glass containers
though they may be –

the fragrance
of one so born and living

fills the space of me.

∴

 

 

 

---

 

---

 

∴

 

it is a wild soul
that ventures to love.

 

there are few roads
more equivocal or long;

 

but it is in the blood,
they say.

 

we who walk,

will walk without want,

but for That

which warrants

our gait.

 

∴

 

 

---

 

---

 

∴

 

when the weight is gone
of old clothes
and from the bricks
of broken foundations,

i shall stand on the shore
of this great sea
and say a prayer.

 

it will be one of thanksgiving

for a frame
stout enough to wear the robe,

and a mind
sharp enough not to fasten it too tight,

for a heart
soft enough to be molded and shaped

but frequently tilled,
and un-petrify-able.

 

it will be one of expectation,

for that sea
is more wondrous still
than the rock.

 

it will be one of love,

for that’s all this was ever about,
anyway.

 

then article
by fitted article,
dropped

and thought
by beguiling thought,
loosed,

i will cast into that deep water

and swim.

 

∴

 

---

---

 

∴

building houses on holy ground
is to set a city on the surf.

 

for how can this God

of creation
and evolution,
cosmos
and stone,

stand still?

 

Great Alteration

who ever fits the time

is always changing
us,
all that is,
and all that ever was.

 

∴

 

 

---

---

 

∴

 

i am reluctant to speak
when the remaining words
are “goodbye,”

or none at all.

 

will you sit with me then,
in silence
for a while?

let us just be near,
and let the space between us
hold the heart and all her thoughts

that,

like ages,

cannot be summed
in tidy sentences
or pithy, punctuated remark.

 

it is why metaphor
is so important;

it holds the mystery of meaning,
that can be understood
without speaking,
and known
without fact.

 

this is the gift
of the gaze
of the eye,
if done in love:

anything you look upon
and whose mystery you seek
will show you the Love
it is made of.

 

the space between cells
is a galaxy of self
and so much more real
than its shell.

 

∴

 

 

---

 

---

 

∴

 

the letters go achingly slow

until you cannot slow them more,

 

then,

rapid

pages turning

fly like flags

out nature’s door.

 

∴

 

 

---

 

---

 

∴

when love has been lived in,

it does strange things to our boundaries.

 

it is the wild land
that lies
unmapped
between our villages
and homes.

 

but just as one who has traveled
too far
and was lost,

disoriented by the distilled air
and concordant chorus
of strange birds
that fall
and burn
and rise again,

the experience of such places
expands the terrain of our souls,

and like a jack,
lifts our heavy
things from the ground.

 

there,
we find ourselves,
hoisted and burst,
rearranged and changed
as we funnel back into our skins
and find our respective ways
back home.

 

strong wine sacks are we
that strain at the seam
from such rich
and new
intoxications.

 

pour out,
pour out
in aperitif glasses,
small sips
of recollected love.

for this drink is my mirth
as i sit at the hearth,
and organize
my closet of thoughts.

 

the ghost of that strange land

does linger.

 

endless comfort,
always in me,
ever aching,
warm.

 

it sets a scan
on the horizon
for distant sails
on the sea
that say,

yes, yes,

it was not a dream.

∴

 

 

---

 

---

 

∴

the days are upon us

when the last surge of summer insects
come forth to gather their nectar
and straw,
to build homes
and swarm
in declaration of life
no matter the cooling night that comes;

it comes.

 

the days are upon us

when the morning glory vines
fly frost-wilted flags
that hold onto green
like curled, old photographs
that fade, yellow,

and fall.

 

the days are upon us

when low lay the clouds
on grey platters with sunlit lids,
cut out against effulgent blue skies,
and sailing
like battleship fleets

to the East.

 

the days are upon us
when all that was in yesterday’s hold
will seep like an extinguished candle,
an incensed trail
of what we once were,

up

to the heavens,

and away.

∴

 

 

---