Between the pales

Between the pales                                                                                      

In Adam’s fall, we sinned all

goes the puritan primer

and with Adam’s stumble

fell we in with Lucifer

in our willful snub of God,

unable every moment since

to flex our knees, bend

our spines stiff with pride.

Adam having mistook a grain of barley

for a harvest crop of bread and inebriant

and with the bite of an apple learned

first hand the haunting of insatiable need.

O child of God, to reenter the garden, become 

wraith-like and lithe enough to slip between the pales.

The sole barrier

The sole barrier                                                                                        

Everything is allegorical, metaphorical,

true and not true at the same time

but if you spend too much on the seeming –

its enchantment and beauty,

the aptness of it, its sturm und drang,

its marvelous (self-created) synchronicity,

you’ll find yourself once again mired

in the enthralling labyrinths and blind alleys

of the mind, the maze, the path, the dream. 

And it’s a wondrous dream –

far beyond our ability to fathom it,

with little profit in trying –

save to reach the end of effort.

Just imagine (but not too desperately)

the truth behind it,

the truth of the One

Who conjured up all this seeming . . .

out of nothing.  For us, for Himself. 

O child of God, you remain (say the mystics)

the sole barrier between semblance and truth.

To cull and glean

To cull and glean                                                                                      

Jesus performed miracles. 

Curious that word performed,

its theatrical connotation,

a mesmerized crowd attracted

and then love let loose to cull and glean

those with ears to hear;

to winnow out those drawn to power,

to avoidance of the necessity

of suffering and surrender.

Only one miracle, claimed my Lord –

to alter the human heart into submission,

the switch from power to love.

O child of God, put this realm behind you

by seeking the unparalleled majesty of love.

Collected poems

Collected poems                                                                                           

How pathetic must sound my poems

to those in the fire!  How sad –

my quavering approach to the precipice’s edge.

Words of love with no love there, just a discussion,

a hypothesis, no substance or fire.

Not whispering endearments but interrogations;

cold, analytic chatter.

Those in the fire long in sympathy

for my ultimate defeat –

collected poems, accumulated pages

torn and crushed, fed

into the eagerly awaiting flames.

O child of God, don’t let words withhold you

from becoming silent ash and dust.