Poetry Archives Index




                              HEALING IN EIGHTS:


                     Early 1992


                     New beginnings as figured in a dream.





                     ANOTHER MESSAGE TO POETS:

                          LET THE POETRY FLOW OUT OF GOD

                     A POET WISHES FOR HIS VOICE


                     A SIMPLE SONG

                     A TABERNACLE PERSON

                     A THEOLOGY OF BLESSING



                     BECAUSE GOD'S JOY WEEPS TO SAVE US


                     BUT HE WHO SEEKS THE GLORY

                               OF HIM WHO SENT HIM IS TRUE

                     BEYOND PLURALISMS

                         (A comment also upon Hebrews 11:3)



                     CHRIST'S BRIDE AT A SLANT



                     FIRST, DEATH OF THE SIN NATURE

                     FROM LUKE 14




                     GOOD MORNING MR. SUN

                     GREGORIAN CHANTS




                     HAS ANY SEEN OLD HEPBURN DIE?

                     HEALING IN EIGHTS

                     HEAVEN'S JOY IN AN EARTHLY PLACE

                     HOT AND COLD




                     I MUST FIND THE SINGING VOICE

                     INNOCENCE RESTORED  

                     IN RESPONSE TO KIERKEGAARD

                     I REALLY DON'T REQUIRE MUCH




                     LET MY MIND BECOME SWEET FLAME

                     LOSING FEAR



                     MEDITATION FROM AN OLD SONG



                     NEW CREATION DOOR



                     ON BEING

                     ON THE LAW OF LIFE




                     PRAYER AND READINGS




                     SOMEBODY WAS CONFUSED


                                  HAVE SAID IN THE 3RD CENTURY B.C.

                     SUN CHILDREN, MOON CHILDREN



                     THE NEARNESS OF GOD




                     THE WORD SPOKE LIGHT

                     TIME CAN DREAM OF A BIRD


                     TO GOD'S HEALERS

                     TO GOD'S SCRIBES

                     TO WM. BLAKE, HOPKINS AND YEATS




                     UNDER THE WINGS


                     UPON A FRANKENSENCE MIND




                     UPON THE SENSES OF THE HEART

                     UPON THE SINGING SILENCE



                     WE LIVE AND MOVE AND HAVE OUR BEING...

                     WE SHOULD DWELL WITH OUR DREAMS


                     WORDS THROUGH THE POROUS WALL


                     Last Poem in file: ON THE LAW OF LIFE


                     THE POEMS



                     HEALING IN EIGHTS

                     (From a dream)


                     I'm healing in eights!

                     The cards are dealt

                     by a mysterious hand.

                     20 eights

                     and a small steel eight,

                     with a little metal clover club

                     on a thin stand.



                     GOOD MORNING MR. SUN


                     Good morning Mr. Sun:

                     you who shine joyfully each morning

                     to awaken the birds and rabbits in the fields;

                     you who make the deer start their browsing.

                     God has made you Mr. Sun:

                     He who is so great

                     as to sustain you with the power of His choosing—

                     choosing you to be like Him,

                     beaming light and warming creation.


                     Good morning brother and sister birds,

                     who greet Mr. Sun and all the world with song;

                     who cleave the air of mountain places with your wings

                     and bustle together busily in the tops of trees.

                     It is God who made you

                     to delight the heart of man with the day's songs

                     and show God's children

                     the way of pure thought and imagination.


                     Good morning my companions the trees,,

                     great growing green fingers which point towards

                     the sky and its light:

                     unspeaking speakers of truth, purifiers of air,

                     home to flyers and leapers and spinners.

                     God has made you, my silent, slow friends,

                     choosing to make you like Himself—

                     our quiet purifier, our patient God:

                     He who is home to the flyers of prayer,

                     the leapers of faith,

                     the spinners of poems, stories and songs.







                    TO WM. BLAKE, HOPKINS AND YEATS


                    There is a singing life!

                    The curious wonder of the trees

                    silently sings out mysteries.

                    Through weaving branches and twisted bark

                    they sing their light amidst the dark.

                    If modern man should cut them down

                    their music pulsates on the ground.

                    If man should mill them by the foot

                    within is hidden yet, the flute.

                    For though sweet singers cease to sing,

                    poetry still floods everything.







               Seven sailing spirits stand

               around the innocence of God's lamb,

               and each one issues from his head

               like horns of light, or words He's said.

               Like trumpets of flame they brandish and blare

               beautiful music about in the air.

               Such beautiful music comprises their cloaks,

               that they're sheathed in glory from foot to throat

               and hover above near the roof of the world...

               To tuck under their cloaks, a soul is hurled

               up from its roots—once bound in the ground—

               with a pull and the tear of a terrible sound.


               And then those souls cry, "We're woven of sky,

               so love's beautiful music can brilliantly fly

               out and along the whirlwind of time

               in paintings, or song, or spiritual rhyme:

               for this is Christ's Kingdom, creative and good,

               filled with the fires of God's fixed mood!

               So let us fly—it is best!—to that hand

               where the seven sailing spirits stand,

               that we might stream from God's own head

               like horns of light or words He's said.





                     UNDER THE WINGS


                     I tuck up under the wings of God

                     like a little bird of thought and prayer,

                     too weak to keep myself warm.

                     Under the feathered breast of white holiness

                     lies the little bird of my soul:

                     under the heat,

                     hearing the slow heartbeat;

                     feeling the wild power;

                     brooding for a silent hour.





                     WE SHOULD DWELL WITH OUR DREAMS


                     We should dwell with our dreams

                     which were clear visions as children,

                     when the world was new

                     and secret gates and burrows

                     were always found...

                     and starlight was the path

                     to paradise,

                     and a common stick

                     could become Excalibur;

                     when wax-encased sugar-water

                     exploded color in your mouth

                     and snowfall was white magic

                     and ecstasy;

                     when every tree was a ladder

                     from earth to a sky that was all

                     essences of gold and blue;

                     when clouds were soft messages

                     and big people were gods;

                     when every child was awe

                     and adventure, and royalty.


                     If we are to be blessed

                     we must find our first dreams

                     (past the weariness),

                     in the mystical movements

                     of emerging rest.






                         SUN CHILDREN, MOON CHILDREN


                         There are children of the day

                         and children of the night:

                         sun children and moon children.

                         And there are children

                         of the cycles of day and night:

                         sun and moon—endless blue

                         and stars in the deep dark.

                         In these children, the glories

                         of sunrise and sunset

                         paint their most beautiful colors.







                     Moses and a Druid priest

                     had carved my stains in stone;

                     sacrifice of beast or fowl

                     could not my sin atone,

                     till to that rock the Savior came,

                     inscribing it with holy name.

                     He brushed it with His spotless cloak:

                     the stone first quavered, fell and broke.

                     Jesus shouted, "I atone!"

                     Then I saw where once that stone

                     had stood there sprung a gnarly root,

                     and then Life’s Tree with fragrant fruit.





                     FIRST, DEATH OF THE SIN NATURE


                     First, death of the sin nature

                     into Heavenly qualities;

                     then, death of the body

                     into Heavenly glory.




                     LOSING FEAR

                     (After Yeats)


                     Walking through a forest wood

                     (shadowed as sin where lit no sun),

                     a child of fear, drew darkness near

                     knowing not what God had done:

                     till light pierced eyes, and deaf ears heard,

                     "These trees are angels, their songs are birds."






                    Praise to God

                    springs up from God's springs!

                    From the holy mountain

                    standing beneath the clear glass of God's sea

                    flows the crystal water,

                    through the glassy sea,

                    flooding out across a great dark.

                    We sit nodding in our house

                    of shifting shadows and wait

                    until the stir of a gossamer breeze

                    (harbinger of the river of God),

                    nudges us to wake.

                    Our windows open in thankfulness

                    for breezes of pure light—

                    and we long to celebrate God.

                    And so the full river comes at last,

                    (in a time not our own),

                    bursting into our house!

                    And God's river is fire!

                    —licking flame to cleanse.

                    Our whole house burns

                    as the flaming river caresses everything.

                    We become liquid in God's liquidity

                    and then—flame in God's flame!

                    Freedom springs up forever,

                    bubbling within God's high, hidden springs,

                    gushing in God's molten river:

                    pouring down from the holy mountain

                    through His sea of glass

                    into the hidden house

                    of our fathomless, human hearts.







                    Poetry is about the core-life of man

                    and the trees and stones.

                    It is about the core-life of earth, water and stars.

                    But mostly... about man.

                    It is about sleeping in the light

                    and waking up in the dark—

                    waking up beyond the senses

                    and through the senses

                    to the profound reason.

                    Waking up through the life of symbols

                    birthed for us by the He, She, They

                    who call us to wakefulness

                    and walking uprightly.

                    Waking up and walking through

                    tree doors, stone doors, earth doors

                    burning bush doors, bronze snake doors,

                    rock breaking wind doors,

                    earthquake doors, and then—

                    the translucent, open door

                    of a mother's gentle breathing.

                    Through God's doors burns the sun,

                    and through the door of the sun

                    lies the laughter!

                    Forever laughter in young, beautiful beings

                    dancing in soft glass.

                    And so this, my poetry, must dance!

                    And a hie and a hoe and a fiddle dee doe,

                    the music of love is the way we go

                    and all that it cost

                    is what we have lost:

                    our hearts, and our hopes, and our lives.





                    I REALLY DON'T REQUIRE MUCH



                    I would like, some day,

                    a little white house—a cottage will do.

                    It needn't be fancy, for simplicity is great!

                    Just a place to focus my spirit.

                    I don't need much.

                    A place with a view of the open sky.

                    A place with a few tall trees

                    full of breezes and birds.

                    A small plot of ground

                    to get my hands and feet into,

                    and seeds, and a little well of clear water.

                    I really don't require much:

                    some bread, a piece of fruit,

                    the stars overhead

                    cast like diamonds out of God's hands;

                    the sight of the sun rising

                    to the sound of a rooster's crow;

                    the smell of green growing from earth.

                    I don't need much. Just a place to live

                    and focus my spirit.



                     another version



                     HAVE SAID IN THE 3RD CENTURY B.C.


                     I would like, some day,

                     a little white house—a cottage will do.

                     It needn't be fancy, for simplicity is great!

                     Just a place to focus my spirit anew.

                     I don't need much.

                     A place with a view of the open sky.

                     A place with a few tall trees

                     full of breezes and birds.

                     A small plot of ground, green to the eye,

                     to get my feet and hands into;

                     and seeds, and a little well of clear water.

                     A good woman who sings,

                     a fine son, a sprightly daughter

                     asking me to play, and create

                     for them some small delight.

                     I really don't require much: some bread,

                     a piece of fruit, the stars overhead

                     at night: cast like diamonds out of God's hands;

                     and to see the sun rising across misty lands

                     to the sound of a rooster's crow;

                     the smell of the green, growing earth

                     below my feet. I don't require much,

                     just a place of religious birth

                     full of angel's music for ears which can hear it—

                     just a place to live and focus my spirit.




                         A POET WISHES FOR HIS VOICE


                         God, grant me a voice

                         which makes rejoice

                         the earth's deepest dreams

                         found in simple things:

                         her clean water's nurturing;

                         fire's clear purity of flame;

                         the wind's free exaltations

                         imaging Your free Name.

                         Lord, grant me a voice of fire

                         to speak each lover's desire;

                         to open up and bless

                         the beloved ones with grace

                         by a touch of sacred love

                         through the face.




                         UPON THE MOUNT OF TRANSFIGURATION


                         In the Taboric light

                         -the light of flashing tambourines—

                         the cruel dream passes

                         and reality is a beauty

                         to full of awe to tell.






                         If one is afraid of the opening of the heart

                         then what is left?

                         If one shies away from honest fragrances

                         of earth in the wind,

                         what is left?:

                         hard eyes, cold flesh, broken dreams,

                         raven's picking at rotting meat,

                         the smell of grease and gasoline.




                         A TABERNACLE PERSON


                         Outside: Badger skin,

                         rough wool, horse hair.

                         Inside: shining gold,

                         burning lamps,

                         fragrant bread,

                         sweet incense.




                         INNOCENCE RESTORED  


                         There is a light that rests

                         in the outstretched belly,

                         that shines from a better day—

                         innocence restored!

                         A man can look deeply into a child's eyes

                         without social fear;

                         a man can admire a young woman's body and spirit

                         without jealousies or desire.





                         HAS ANY SEEN OLD HEPBURN DIE?


                         Has any seen old Hepburn die?

                         Haroo, hareey the Heavens cry!

                         Her swan-like neck, her flashing pearl

                         —the scalawaggli, rascal girl.

                         Full of spit and full of fire,

                         every man-soul's deep desire.

                         In her garden, beneath her trees,

                         holding children on her knees...

                         Now, her face is flashing light,

                         she dances, teases, is polite

                         to brightest beings on the green

                         —where she plays a gorgeous scene!

                         Gone her sadness, gone her pain...

                         all earth mourns at Heaven's gain!




                         UPON THE SINGING SILENCE


                         The singing is here

                         but not here:

                         all around us—yet nowhere!

                         Mystics have understood this,

                         and some poets.




                    BUT HE WHO SEEKS THE GLORY

                    OF HIM WHO SENT HIM IS TRUE


                    We fallen gods,

                    sons of the great God our maker,

                    love emptiness,

                    relish falsehood

                    and turn the glory

                    of our Great Creator

                    into tinkling golden coins,

                    or into sparkling bangles

                    to adorn our own

                    empty, fickle souls.

                    So, in forsaking

                    His true glory

                    have we lost our own.




                    HEAVEN'S JOY IN AN EARTHLY PLACE


                    Paul and Peter and Mary too,

                    dance together, O God, in you,

                    around that great, bright cherry tree

                    on greening banks of eternity.

                    Their joy is known, so that perchance,

                    we too might joy and with them dance,

                    for what they know, God lets us taste:

                    Heaven's joy in an earthly place.




                         WORDS THROUGH THE POROUS WALL


                         From out of the white wall

                         a river flows;

                         where it comes from

                         no one knows:

                         but it flows forth peace

                         in the midst of terror

                         —flashing truth

                         through human error.





                         CHRIST'S BRIDE AT A SLANT


                         The fresh surging beauty

                         of young womanhood

                         that I can savor and celebrate,

                         but not touch!

                         —that's asking an old withered soul much—

                         but out of this tension, it seems,

                         springs forth fiery, poetic dreams.




                         LET MY MIND BECOME SWEET FLAME


                         Let my mind become sweet flame

                         within your name,

                         O God of holy fire,

                         till all my longing of desire

                         shall be for you.

                         Renew my wounded soul

                         until the whole heights and depths

                         of me is free

                         to sing your power

                         in the hour and place

                         where holy grace breaks through to be

                         within earth's time

                         heaven's eternity.





                              ON BEING


                              Inwardly united,


                              flowing out,

                              flowing in,

                              in God

                              and others,







                              I MUST FIND THE SINGING VOICE


                              I must find the singing voice

                              of God again.

                              There is a wind

                              that is silent and warm.

                              There is a need in man

                              to weave song of the wind.

                              There is a longing in the wind

                              for its music unto man to lend.





                         FROM LUKE 14


                         We are servants of the Host:

                         It is His feast.

                         We are stewards of the true Owner:

                         All the goods are His!

                         What country, what man can name a star

                         and say: "That is my star.

                         Hands off, I'll do with it as I please!"

                         And who can encapsulate infinite space

                         and say, "All emptiness is mine!

                         No solid bodies allowed. Move on. Move on."

                         And the planets...

                         Countries may claim Mars.

                         —"The first one there is King!"

                         But Mars will be no more theirs

                         than a star...

                         or earth.





                         HALF FOOTED AND DANCING LIKE GOD'S FOOL


                         Ah, me! half-footed to the dance,

                         with garlands strewn and blind

                         by the moon's light,

                         to smell but see not

                         the spot where flowers lie.

                         I die amidst the midst of life!

                         striving long with song

                         —word drunk with cheer—

                         casting glances clear

                         to the clear sky

                         to where begins the winds

                         and airs of joy.

                         Worms annoy hedgehogs:

                         fat beasts who burrow

                         beyond the root-bound grasses

                         to where fire glasses rock.

                         Ah, me! talker of love,

                         shriver of the dark,

                         striver with God above

                         the light. The bounds of my being

                         crackle with Christ!

                         Yet, sin-ill, I

                         now, still allow goat-foot night

                         to rend light

                         and pitch dark tents

                         upon a white scene:

                         God's percolating city

                         of light's dream.

                         Still, I wait

                         with the hidden pretty in graces

                         for Heaven's lightning faces

                         to gleam out Love's will...

                         so that I might cease to sully

                         light! and garland strewn

                         beneath the moon

                         might, perchance,

                         fully two-footed,

                         join the dance!





                         BECAUSE GOD'S JOY WEEPS TO SAVE US


                         All around us,

                         God's joy is hurled!

                         Let us

                         Holy Spiritess

                         our suffering World.




                         UPON A FRANKENSENCE MIND


                         Our mind must burn

                         sweet things

                         if prayer is to arise

                         as clouds of worship

                         from our hearts.




                         SOMEBODY WAS CONFUSED


                         "I am heaven's bread"

                         he said,

                         "Eat my body, drink my blood."

                         Then we nailed him to the wood.






                         THE NEARNESS OF GOD


                         God is near,

                         just beyond our thoughts against Him

                         —living in the light—

                         just outside the shadow

                         thrown by our wounds

                         over our hearts.





                         TO GOD'S SCRIBES


                         Come, hungry, holy scribe:

                         be God's poem!

                         and bring out of your treasuries

                         things both new and old:

                         birds wings and gold;

                         clear logic, and wild elation,

                         rational ecstasies—

                         —a pure libation.

                         Be as God longs for you to be:

                         Think, and thrill—exorbitantly.




                         TIME CAN DREAM OF A BIRD


                         Time can dream of a bird

                         until it broods in her eyes

                         and births another bird

                         for time's skies...

                         then it dies.


                         God can dream of a bird

                         until it broods in His eyes

                         and births another bird

                         in timeless skies...

                         which never dies.





                         TO GOD'S HEALERS


                         Open palms heal!

                         Light in the heart unifies

                         and makes divergences cry out,

                         "We love each other!"

                         We lovers are sisters and brothers

                         who refuse to eat

                         of forbidden fruit

                         and so, heal each other

                         to the root.





                         PRAYER AND READINGS


                         Prayer and readings

                         before the battle begins

                         makes blood enemies

                         into intimate friends.

                         The words of mercy

                         and the breath of grace

                         brings those alienated

                         face to face.

                         A heart-felt apology

                         can deeply bequeath

                         the joyful relief

                         of a lasting peace.

                         When millions of people

                         unto God thus come,

                         earth shall transform

                         to heaven's Kingdom.




                         GREGORIAN CHANTS


                         I am carried back to the sea of azure;

                         winds, stars, and singing angels;

                         fire, and desolate chapels;

                         wet straw in the wilderness,

                         and slow, opening skies...

                         lush with fluid color.

                         It all floods in.

                         And the years of pain,

                         the desolation,

                         the bareness of spirit,

                         the growling in darkness,

                         the near madness

                         —it too makes a surge of remembrance,

                         and I realized anew

                         why I am a poet.






                    A certain glory exists in all that is;

                    to discover God's beauty  

                    within all things is to live.

                    Yet, let us adore!

                    for by this, glory opens to its source.

                    "All beauty and honor and power

                    be yours O God,"

                    the highest wonders cry!

                    And..."The whole earth is filled

                    with your glory,"

                    shouts out, in sublime subtleties,

                    the echoed words of the Word

                    returning to the Word.




                    THE WORD SPOKE LIGHT


                    The Word spoke light and there it was,

                    shining all golden and white.

                    The Word spoke shadows and there they were,

                    a glistening darkness of night.

                    "The whole world is filled with your glory."

                    The Word spoke a tree into silent growth

                    and girdled it with unknowable strength;

                    the Word spoke space and spread it forth

                    with inconceivable breadth and length.

                    "The whole world is filled with your glory."

                    And rough hewn prophets with fiery eyes

                    groaned this Word with ecstatic cries

                    against all that chokes God's Word and dies.

                    "The whole world is filled with your glory."







                         The worm ever cries,

                         "My need, Oh God, my need!

                         My fear, Oh God, and my desire!"


                         The princely child speaks,

                         "All you are is mine Holy Father.

                         Let my heart be open to you forever

                         and serve the nature of your beautiful Name!"


                         There are seasons when we lie in the belly

                         of the beast and suffer our worm.







                         It is God who gives us

                         our open-ended identity

                         —our terrible freedom.

                         It is He who loves us

                         like sunshine falling on a trembling leaf;

                         like dew settling on softening seed.

                         We journey in the school of love,

                         all children, and together

                         weaving souls, creating hearts,

                         learning to drink in freely

                         our worth in God's eyes.

                         We let our labors to prove ourselves go

                         —the terrible burden we have born!

                         In flows the full love from the Lover.

                         Awakening from our sleep

                         we become who we are!




                         NEW CREATION DOOR


                         As the rooster crows

                         a golden light slashes into the yard.




                         TO A HOLY DREAM OF THE WAY THINGS SHOULD BE


                         Is it possible

                         to see so clearly

                         truth unveiling His face

                         that our soul becomes tears

                         flowing lovingly

                         like His spirit flows.




                         HOT AND COLD


                         Baptized with water,

                         a fire in the water flares

                         and the soul burns

                         with love and beautiful imagery

                         that is not truth,

                         but similar.

                         We wrestle and exult

                         until too full and weary.

                         So the quiet of darkness

                         lallures us into the wilderness,

                         into a stillness that congeals us

                         into polished glass:

                         we reflect all things as they are.

                         But, too pure to bear,

                         we weep ourselves hot again

                         for the ecstasy of such beingness

                         —and the images abound!

                         Hot and cold, hot and cold:

                         like sun and moon.

                         All things existent are pleasurable

                         and beautiful.

                         We pass through everything,

                         embracing everything

                         —except delusion and tepidness.





                         BELOW THE LAND OF THE SHADOWLESS LORD 


                         There is a rosy cottage

                         in a winter's waste.

                         Warmed inside by yellow flame,

                         children dance

                         in and out of shadows:

                         there is laughing and weeping.

                         Outside, wolves howl

                         in the cold bitterness of night...

                         while beyond the dark,

                         on the back side of the night,

                         the blazing sun blasts its heat.

                         There are no shadows in the sun—

                         no weeping!

                         Light itself is laughter.






                         WHILE WE ARE LOST IN CLUTTERED LANDS


                         God is petitioning us

                         to make Him known in the Earth!

                         He hovers over us

                         in sublimities too high

                         for our coarse hearts to hear

                         and weeps upon us with His love.

                         He cries, "I need you, my Love,

                         to love my Love

                         and make my Love known

                         to awaken my lovers in Love

                         to love my Love.

                         God cries, "We need each other",

                         and His voice echoes on

                         through a wilderness

                         of silence and spaces.







                    There must be ecstasies in existence.

                    Life unbounded leaps and sings

                    in unmitigated joy!

                    The farmer wrings pleasure

                    out of a cow's teat;

                    the cow is quiet, and treasures it:

                    for love's music murmurs in the farmer's voice

                    which makes the cow's hot heart rejoice.

                    This is not sexual, but a thing of spirit,

                    when the human core sings so creation can hear it.




                         WE LIVE AND MOVE AND HAVE OUR BEING...


                         Many look upon the crises of the world

                         and say, "This is the chastening of God's hand,"

                         and many look upon all goodness and beauty

                         and say, "These are the blessings of the holy One". 

                         Yet it seems evident to these eyes

                         that countless loving people suffer chaos

                         while many selfish ones bathe

                         their senses in unceasing inundations

                         of beauty.

                         (There are many mysteries that no one understands.)

                         Yet, I believe that a wise person

                         can learn to loose

                         all clear rivers of life from their bellies,

                         from out of their hearts,

                         streaming out of their eyes,

                         pouring through their lips

                         to fill all sordid and beautiful places

                         with God's glory!

                         Thy Kingdom come O Lord...

                         as it is!






                    God's righteousness breaks out as brightness

                    upon the face, through holy eyes.

                    "God is light and there is no darkness in Him."

                    Clear, fiery, beautiful eyes of light!

                    "If your eye be single," Jesus said...

                    "If your perception is woven into wholeness,

                    your entire body shall fill with light, no part dark."

                    Thus says the Greek record

                    scholars failed to translate with proper mystery.

                    "And your salvation shall be like

                    a torch that is burning,"

                    Isaiah cried out into the dark of His time.

                    "And you shall be called by a new name

                    which the mouth of the Lord shall designate."

                    "You will be a crown of beauty in the hand of the Lord,

                    and a royal diadem in the hand of your God."

                    A name called, "Torch". A name called, "Burning."

                    A name called, "Crowning Beauty."

                    Names specified in God's luminous hand.

                    The human version of God's fuming righteousness

                    is a timid, tepid, paltry thing:

                    no spirit infusion, no color-drenched Presence!

                    God is no do-gooder.

                    God is unmitigated, ecstatic goodness,

                    a furnace of liberated life

                    functioning freely in His own nature

                    —and that is a shining thing!







                      Soul! Alive!

                      Beautiful soul in all its forms,

                      in all textures of life.

                      The feel of soul,

                      the smell of it,

                      the good taste of a good soul.

                      "Love soul," my spirit cried

                      and God sang back,

                      "And love spirit, soul."

                      And then, the spirit and soul

                      rose up singing and loving each other at last

                      until both cried out,

                      longing to love the body's worth.




                    A THEOLOGY OF BLESSING


                    Blessing is underneath:

                    a hidden, constant stream.

                    Blessing is

                    hovering, dream-like, above us

                    in the clear mind of God.

                    To awaken

                    unto the glory of all that

                    is fully real

                    is to be blessed.

                    We are constricted

                    by fear!

                    while blessing dilates us

                    unto blessing.

                    There is a certain vulnerability

                    about a blessed soul.

                    It takes courage

                    to fully live!

                    Jacob dared to wrestle with God

                    and was blessed

                    as his human strength was broken

                    by the finger of an angel

                    laid upon his loins.

                    Old soul defenses crumbled

                    with his pride.

                    Life rushed in,

                    smooth and green!

                    In his latter years,

                    limping, he leaned upon his staff

                    and spoke blessings.

                    Through his lips Life poured!


                    There are blessings in the words

                    of a soul that has been broken by blessing.






                    The primeval goal

                    and supreme reason for all things,

                    is to make them

                    a blessing to the blessed of the Lord,

                    and that all creatures

                    might return, fragrant

                    and color-rich with creation,

                    blessings back unto the Holy Source:

                    love for Love in Love.

                    Can you taste the fat robin’s hop,

                    or sense fragile leaves falling,

                    or someone’s sighless breath,

  or your own sight and speech?

                    As the soul wakes up

                    to love all things to the roots that are real,

                    singing happens

                    for we are evoked by God

                    to become His shinning, primal joy

                    through song.







                    The Gospel spread

                    so that people might open their hearts

                    and settle down into dancing

                    to become living words

                    of the prophets dreams:

                    a little child leading them

                    from the core of their hearts;

                    compassionate freedom

                    and open meekness flooding down

                    from that high heaven above

                    that's deep within all things!

                    The Gospel spread

                    so that earth might drink up

                    God's overflow of blessing:

                    wolves rejoicing with lambs;

                    fields ecstatic with the fatness of blessing;

                    trees clapping their leafy hands,

                    shuddering with the joy of being trees.

                    Oh, look how it has all gotten

                    so pathetically side tracked!

                    bureaucracies, institutions, those who monopolize a truth

                    stuffed full of symbols of what we have neither

                    the courage nor the will to transform into.

                    The clouds of incense arise;

                    the revelation is read aloud again and again;

                    people shake hands, and go home...

                    But creation still groans

                    with the heaviness of its birth pangs,

                    longing for children of the Spirit

                    to enter a God-huge, expansive freedom

                    which gathers everything into blessing,

                    which looses Holy presence like a shining river

                    from out of the belly,

                    flooding out its singing

                    into the Life-thirsty earth.





                    A SIMPLE SONG


                    There is a satchel of song in the air,

                    a movement and melody of music

                    in the watery stream below.

                    The wind plays a willow like a lyre

                    and the sun spangles music in the snow.

                    It is God's love that moves the symphony along

                    and opens human hearts to the song.





                    IN RESPONSE TO KIERKEGAARD


                    In the relationship within the relationship

                    of despair and antidespair, (or life),

                    the nothingness at the root of despair

                    is revealed to be the source of its opposite

                    as joy bursts through nothing into being.

                    Thus the root of despair becomes its own solvent.








                      The poet gives images,

                      words, phrases,


                      ideals, flashes,

                      new connections,


                      to the prose writer.

                      The poets gift

                      is vision and color...

                      The poet throws a verbal sunrise

                      over a newly discovered land.

                      It cost the poet everything

                      to maintain his vision,

                      to squeeze some vibrant color

                      through his dilating soul.

                      To ignore and thus silence

                      the fiery, sublime

                      voice of the poet

                      is to impoverish

                      the writer of prose.





                         MEDITATION FROM AN OLD SONG


                         I come to you, oh God I love,

                         in the midst of a dreary, drowsy night;

                         let the stars above my head

                         heal me with their light.

                         Curl the wind about my face

                         plung my heart in clearest streams;

                         lie me down amongst the pines

                         let their fragrance fill my dreams.


                         I come to you, oh God I love,

                         let the living word resound

                         as the voice of God rings clear,

                         echoing with laughing sound.

                         May the colors of the earth

                         dance like music that is seen—

                         create me now with living love

                         fill me with your being.      





                         UPON THE SENSES OF THE HEART


                         Beauty without interblending with God

                         also is an empty thing.

                         To pass through each thing to its Source

                         opens secret doors in your chest.

                         A lamb bleats.

                         Do you feel Christ in your soul?

                         The horizon flows

                         from blue into silken gold.

                         Can you see infinity

                         beyond the sky?






                         BEYOND PLURALISMS

                         (A comment also upon Hebrews 11:3)






                         There is a secret tower

                         a man must climb

                         up into the clean air.

                         Birds still sing there

                         in jeweled tones;

                         the Word is alive there

                         —as is the dying world.





                         ANOTHER MESSAGE TO POETS:

                         LET THE POETRY FLOW OUT OF GOD


                         Let the poetry flow out of God;

                         let all else flow out of the poetry:

                         Call this Life!




                        ON THE LAW OF LIFE


                        "Stone them, purge them, they are trash in the camp!"

                        the Law cries; the law cries down

                        from abstract peaks

                        of austere order.

                        "Those who break the Law

                        are broken by the Law without mercy."

                        Such Law, being unfeeling,

                        can not enter the fabric of the soul

                        and love it down to its core,

                        seeking to grasp the root cause,

                        longing to heal the hidden sickness.

                        Yet there is another Law!

                        The new law! A better way.

                        This compassionate Law of redemptive love

                        —the Law of Christ in God—

                        unites unfathomable mercies to our deepest soul

                        and cries,

                        "I will work healing and glory!

                        Bring to me your weakness!

                        Bring to me your need!

                        I love you because of your brokenness.

                        I long for you because of your failure to be Holy.

                        You are compassion's object.

                        You are redemption's delight and grace's trophy.

                        Come unto me.

                        I cherish you!

                        Open your darkness.

                        Lift into my light your shadows.

                        I shall never forsake you!  

                        You desire release?

                        I have already forgiven you.

                        Bring your whole being to my cross

                        and learn love:

                        My cross shall nullify your worst fears;

                        My cross shall draw out and

                        dissolve all long buried venom.

                        When it is needful, suffer in love

                        for the good of love bursting forth.

                        Feel the glory of my way.

                        Know my healing rivers flowing

                        out of your belly.

                        Believe into me and be made whole!

                        I know how to mold you with my love.


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