Poetry from For the Mystically Inclined
It's not a matter of being done with wounds,
for life keeps wounding,
but rather of allowing them when they come
not only to carry us towards healing
but wondrously to transform us into healers
thanks to the wildly improbable grace
of the original wounding.
What Helped Me Not Panic
What helped me not panic
when preparing to face fire from a dragon
was a line from a poem by Rumi
about my life not being my own.
I am not only lived by God
but propelled by ancestors within
and their thousand sustaining winds.
Ah, if we but remember who carries us,
whom we carry within.
I'm the aphoristic type.
The sustained line of reasoning towards grand
exposition
is not my way.
I want to pierce the night with flashes of beauty,
glimpses of truth,
to hold up jewels to the light
so together we can ponder and delight.
Poems, not essays or novels---
oh the daily thousandfold jewels
if only held to the light.
It's less seeking
than awakening to being sought.
Billions of years of Earth's evolving
yearn for a conscious consummation
blossoming into love.
Good God the possible glory of being human!
After being scared by something in a movie,
April feared she'd dream of a monster
coming to eat her.
So Penny encouraged her to imagine the monster,
to tell it like in Three Billygoats Gruff
to wait for her juicier big sister.
But April didn't want to tell a lie
(not having a big sister),
so they brainstormed further
till she came up herself with just the right plan.
"If the monster comes I'll offer it ice cream
and then it'll be my friend and protect me."
Armed now against the deep,
a Jungian all of 7
was ready for sleep.
Photosynthesis.
Thanks to miraculous leaves the sun is harnessed,
light is captured for the furtherance of life,
leaf turns factory
converting photons from Phoebus into oxygen for lungs.
And then, sweet reciprocity,
lungs release gift of carbon dioxide
back to receiving leaves.
Heads could hardly bow
before holier Communion.
Who Cares When Body Groans
Body may groan but soul sings--
my garden is tilled!
You'd have to have seen the plowed-up clumps
to understand.
You'd have to know the jostling joy from taming Attila
to understand.
You'd have to be mindful of billionfold bacteria
enlivening every inch of the miracle soil
to understand.
You'd have to be preparing a womb-sanctuary
for the reception of sacred seed
to understand.
Who cares when body groans
if soul sings?
Three hornet nests this evening
bit the dust by way of conflagration,
their assembled ferocity no match
for gasoline ignited.
Live and let live is a commendable philosophy,
but insects force some exceptions.
No disparagement intended to hornets,
themselves playing a role in the whole,
but their attack against an accidental intrusion--
with near catastrophic consequences for a friend
allergic--
brought their threat home last night.
In some spiritual circles this is betrayal
of the Great Harmony vision,
of the mandate to universal stewardship,
but if three hornet nests aren't destroyed
my daughter scrambling in play
has an excellent chance of scrambling
the wrong way
and paying for it dearly.
May she not be stung by my spirituality.
Would Humans Were Half So Good
When he wants affection,
Periwinkle gets right to the point.
He positions himself just so
that a dangling kindly arm can't help
but scratch around an ear,
fluff the fur on an inviting chest.
Would humans were half so good
at shedding pretense and announcing need.
He's not your aggressive type--
a quite willing subordinate, in fact, to his
Shepherd sidekick--
but make no mistake Periwinkle takes care
of himself
nowhere more than in letting you know
not only that he wants affection
but exactly where.
Being tested by a 2-year-old
can grind you down.
When screams shift from rage to pleading,
defenses around a father's heart weaken.
Sobbing plaintive calls to Daddy
cut like knives.
What will this do to her trust in the world
if she calls and her Daddy won't come?
Get hold of yourself, Daddy.
If she gets to blow people away with her storms,
who's to protect her against herself?
What this is about is trust--
that Daddy's word means something,
that it can't be bought off by a storm or a pleading.
Some poems serve as peptalks
to stand up to a test.
Our time together is ending.
You never know, our paths might cross again
which would be a kind destiny.
But this might be it.
The time of our lives where our spirits have touched
is ending.
We have come to know each other and to trust each
other
in ways unguessed at the beginning.
A comfort past expressing.
Hand in hand with the sad parting
there is the swelling softness of a bright realization
of how we have grown together.
This bond will not die.
Our living experiences change us.
The self-presence of each now
is richer for the combined presence we have
grown into.
On the open journey now we carry each other.
It Depends on Your Destination
Thanks for the signal, pal.
If you're in for moseying, oblivious one,
how about getting out of the passing lane.
Hey, jerk, don't pull in front of me and then slow down.
Your brights, buster, gimme a break.
Damn it trucker, go around me if you want
but get off my tail.
For God's sake, mister, stay in your lane.
Perfect place, the highway, for those inclined to stuff
anger
to let fire flash out.
Perfect place, the highway, for those inclined to
spiritual practice
to work towards flashing out the purer fire
of detachment and forgiveness.
Letting rip or releasing grip,
it depends on your destination.
Unearthing Potatoes
Maybe it's the archeologist in me
with fingers inclined to digging,
or the depth psychologist
probing beneath the surface,
or the child on Easter morning
hunting for hidden treasure,
or my Irish forbears
cheering triumph over famine.
Maybe it's none of the above
but only the enduring human pleasure
to ply the soil in awe.
Whatever the reason,
unearthing potatoes in my garden today
sent the spirit of me soaring.
