poem
-
A Frog SomewhereI am One with the great Silence,and I am the calling-forth:The echo of “Who am I?”In the stillness of “I AM.”Again and again, my assertion;My falling over myself, responding.Can it be? How can I be?And why at this time, now?( )But for every call to righteousness—For every cry for being—There is a foggy,…
-
It Was GoodIt was good(for even just a moment)to stand before a single tree;To let it be this!To let it be thus!And to let it be Other:To let it be the subjectof an oath, or a song,or dirges. I have decided to limit my posts to a few times per week, rather than every day,…
-
Be Imperfect and DieBe imperfect, and die!Envy not the ancient constellations,With their stick-figure constancyfixed in the heavens.No! Forgive this conception and transcend it.Be a real constellation:Burning, ever-moving and gloriousfor your never-waiting, yourindifference to the supplicationof that old, inquiring organwhich churns inside youbut would petrify the churning.Be imperfect, and die!Envy not the ancient spring,which pushes life…
-
On Emphasizing the Out-BreathPlay your hunger.Strum it like a silver chord.Let it dance like a cool flameround the earthen walls ofthe fine ceramic vase of your body.Relish the out-breath.Without it there is no in-breath, no relief;Yet it is not only an assistant but a companion.Let it tickle your lip and whisper to youquiet songs of…
-
A PrayerI offer to you, Lord, my confusion.I offer to you my extremes.Let me be as a sapling in the wind,bending to the vicissitudes of my mind,bending to the response of Your will.Let me see the gloryof a pine, deeply rooted:faith by nothing overturned.Help me to lookwith equanimity for truth;and to discoverthat my sight expands…
-
The Three SingersI was brought downTo the place where all the world’s a poem, an art-garden,and all the people sculptors.Unwillingly admitted, in fact—a three-day sojourn among the cluttered, the broken-in.The fallen leaves, coloring still; not green again or yet(but greenness is self-serving anyhow).I met perchance three singers with one braided song.The song was mine, and…
-
Baby birdBaby birdOn the sidewalk;Gone so young, never feathered;Once encased, never fettered—Through your intercession:Let my death be like yours—in a whisper;To a hymn sung by mi familia;For my tomb the whole world.And let them sing unto new millennia:Those who flew that I may try to fly, whoLanded that I may find ground.Let them sing, then…
-
The Frog and the WrenI’ll make myself a characterif it enhance our storytimes.(Authenticity is not-being; it’s only not-to-do.The being is your game;It’s ultimately up to you.)This sort of divinationis our duty and our right:to seed ourselves by inclinationand build by day as dreamt by night.So I’ll be a frog and you’ll be a wren;and we’ll…
-
To Poetry and MagicMy poems create their maker(I’m taller than I think I am).When I search among fields of choicesto call forth dialogue from noise,I grant peaceful power conduitto create myself by prophecyand reckon myself by words and worldsbeyond my reaching(I’m smaller than I think I am).Let me be for these words as all for…
The Trinitarian Mystery 