Monday, July 7, 2025

Nonetheless

Nonetheless                                                                              
 
Liberation?  You offer servitude.
Attainment?  Lowliness. 
 
Empowerment?  Helplessness.
Purity and bliss?  Ghamela yoga:  
 
pain, grime, exhaustion –
ground to dust under Your heel.
 
You drive a hard bargain, Sir!  What sort
of fools signs up for that tour of duty?
 
Pilate thought to wash his hands of Jesus.
You make sure we get ours dirty –
 
graves deeply dug; Your garment’s hem
muddied and twisted in our fists.
 
Desperate, prodigal and impaired?  Yes.   
Apprehensive and imprudent?   Yes . . .
 
nonetheless, I love and am slave
of the Slave of the love of His lovers.
 
O child of God, servitude?  You bleat
at each pinch of the fetters, each tug of the chain.





Thursday, July 3, 2025

Reading the label

Reading the label                                                                      
 
The mystery can’t be put into words
but it can be written in blood; 
 
shaped by the arrangement
of certain human bones.
 
Truth walked the earth; took in the view,
Your rambunctious body upsetting the bullock cart –
 
pulses aflutter;
necks craned and blushing,
 
ears pricked up; heart-throats,
long empty, suddenly filled with song.
 
The blood of Jesus is precious
because it runs thick with the mystery of Love.
 
Reaching for the hem of Your garment –
(when You wore Your Jesus robe)
the infirm woman needed not scripture ...
 
but the soul-stirring presence of the Soul of souls
moving majestically through the pressing crowd.
 
O child of God, please understand – reading
the wine bottle’s label will never make you drunk.




Monday, June 30, 2025

Sky blue coat

Sky blue coat                                                                                
 
I followed a map of the world.  It led
down a narrow path to the ocean.
 
From there I could see -- nothing matters
but the folding of myself into You.
 
Let love be my measure ... and my guide.
I’ve known love enough in this lifetime
 
to know it’s not blind,
but wide-eyed and vigilant;
 
not intoxication but an unearthly sobriety
penetrating the chronic delirium of the false view.
 
How wondrous the heart – at the same time
an encrusted anchor and a fluttering bird;
 
bruised rose and captured hare;
a torch, a goblet;
 
an upraised fist and weathered valise.
The pages where my story is written –
 
fold and tuck them away – into the pocket
of my Beloved’s sky blue coat.
 
O child of God, drop your bags and run
headlong into the Master’s arms. 




Friday, June 27, 2025

Spinning tales

Spinning tales                                                                                
 
I hadn’t a clue – so You scattered a few about –
sandal prints under my windows;
 
sacred threads snagged in the hedgerow;
Your blood staining the cross within my chest.
 
People wonder why I go on about this!
It’s ancient history, they say.
 
I’m like the angler whose trophy fish is mounted
          above the mantle –
I can’t stop spinning tales about it!
 
Especially when Your wine gets me drunk
and I feel again the excitement of finding You
          on the end of my line.
 
Gone forever -- the despair of empty nets
pulled again and again from the sea of illusion.
 
My nets are bursting now, my vessel in danger of sinking
under the weight of Your bounty.
 
Jesus must have smiled when I turned down Your street –
He’d sent me that way years ago looking for You.
 
O child of God, the Avatar is the fisher of men.
It’s His hook causing that pain in your chest.


(drawing by Rich Panico)