His scattered brood

His scattered brood                                                                                    

Good reasons had I in the beginning

to step onto the path – fear chiefly,

a longing for truth and light;

a quest for peace, certitude, meaning.

They’ve all fallen away now –

the unborn has entered the birth canal,

(or such is my faith); I’m being

shunted forward without reason –

yielding to the push and pull of something larger;

submitting as best I might to the process –

leaving the dark familiar for the bright unknown.

There never were any reasons. 

Or maybe just the One if you wish to word it that way –

the Father is gathering up His scattered brood.

O child of God, any concept that enisles 

must be abandoned.

Personal Lord

Personal Lord                                                                                             

Comes a point when the individuality

of your lifelong path overwhelms

all thoughts of comparison,

your eccentricities persuasive indicators

of a personal intimacy with your Creator. 

What you amount to is a blend

of His various infinite attributes,

specifically arranged with a dissimilarity

to every other human creature.

Over time, this revelation of His intricacy

unleashes love from a quaking heart;

crumbles the walls of solitude;

brings the cosmic God down to earth

in an every-moment-advent to be embraced

by mind, body and soul as the one true Friend,

the only trace of sameness within each of us.

O child of God, some Christians

use the phrase personal Lord and Savior.

Forefinger and thumb

Forefinger and thumb

Every time I think I am firmly on the path

You shake the ground out from under me;

devise a way to push me over the edge.

Learn to live empty-handed, You say,

utterly helpless.  There’s not one

square inch of holy ground

in this world upon which to stand.

Hold on to Me.  Only Me.

O Lord, what have I to do

in all of existence but fall

into Your arms and yet I grasp

at every straw that might prevent it.

O child of God, pray for the day your whole world will fit

inside the perfect circle made by His forefinger and thumb.

                                  (from The Garden of Surrender, 2004)

The long way home

The long way home                                                                                    

A cleaving of the mind and tongue;

daily probing, prodding, plumbing 

a deep and nebular unknown, unable

to put into words my understanding; 

unable to understand all I hope to describe. 

When I catch, every now and then,

a glimmer and whisper of the mystery,

it transcends and eludes description

so that I bring back

not a word that isn’t wasted

on the language of our collectively

agreed upon, everyday assumptions,

turning my efforts into a love offering

recited solely to and for Him.

O child of God, you’re a poet

because you’ve taken the long way home.