The stone pillow

The stone pillow                                                                                       

The stone pillow of Saint Francis,

the sting of snow under his feet,

his empty belly, the tender stigmata –  

all he took to be blessings

because they kept him

from going back to sleep.

I have not been a lover of God

but a lover of comfort and conformity.

A stone pillow is so discomfiting!

It will not bend to the contours of my dreams.

Yet there is a certain attractiveness to it,

(within the dark cave of my solitude)

a silent, loyal simplicity and immutability

I must learn to lie down with

until my shape conforms, my dreams cease

and I awaken like Francis to the truth of myself.

O child of God, when you rise from that pillow,

the Mystics say, you will never go back to sleep.

Only the witness

Only the witness                                                                                       

The sole witness to our dreams,

we are most often the main character –

until we awaken and see we never

really were a participant; only the witness. 

As in this waking dream, the Awakener adds.

When roused from sleep, once and forever, says He,

we shall see, we shall see – we never really were

the participant we think we are;

only the witness to an insubstantiality,

suffering its illusory bindings

yet removed from any real peril,

having never left our very own beds.

Only an intimate witness are we to this waking dream

beyond anyone’s choosing, design and control

with only one dreamed-up character a willing participant;

only One, sowing with perfect equanimity

this hardscrabble dreamscape

with seeds of irrepressible truth.

O child of God, auspicious is your dream.

This time you envisioned the Avatar.

A yellow wood

A yellow wood                                                                                       

In a yellow wood, came I to a divergence –

the road I take the next leg of my journey,

the other a phantom companion. 

O Lord, let it be true that the freedom

and certainty of karma and fate rule the road

rather than my fear and ignorance

determining where I shall end up, 

the life I shall encounter along the way.

Praying to God I might set down at last

the staggering baggage of my presumed autonomy

on every more or less traveled road

taken or not taken and accept the long term

remedial grace and benevolence

of a hand-held, divinely-guided tour.

O child of God, you plot your itinerary

knowing not how you have arrived at where you are.

Blithe aplomb

Blithe aplomb                                                                                            

Saint Francis took to the hills of Umbria,

radiating sheer joy (all the poor fellow owned). 

It came as a reminder.  Where had failed

clergy, scripture, pomposity and ritual

and the wilderness cry of the human heart,

prevailed this young man’s mute testimony

to stay the brutal stones, feed empty souls,

draw his future sisters and brothers.

 

Otherwise, who would have followed

through the snow those mad footprints,

were it not for joy and the fire’s roar

of his Jesus-love above any frail warmth

or posturing the world could offer?

One drop of the holy wine Francis

handled with such blithe aplomb

and hearts were kindled, souls reminded,

keenly felt then their own lack of joy –

a memory lost in their dimly remembered past.

O child of God, to love your Lord

as did Saint Francis, is to please Him.