Subversive Meandering

Listen without ears to the voice

that calls you, Come this way.

The intangible things that breathe 

have no names but are life.

Something in the mist and fog

of our mystical musings awaits us. 

One step more into 

the cosmic wobble, lovers,

always one step more.

Heart, mind, compassion, empathy.

Our souls. Even those that are 

imaginary and fictional, we name. 

Words become us, however reckless.

Nothing that lives can be safe.

Stop listening to the music

and become the music— 

bang the drums, play the trumpets,

sing the prayer, be what you are.

Should we trust anyone’s 

proclamation of faith 

who doesn’t argue with God?

From: Getting There

Unpub. MS p. 15

Prayer Of Saint Francis Of Assisi

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.

Where there is hatred, let me sow love;

where there is injury, pardon;

where there is doubt, faith;

where there is despair, hope;

where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master, grant that I may not

so much seek to be consoled

as to console;

to be understood as to understand;

to be loved as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive;

it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;

and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

Amen

Like Prayer

Tchaikovsky: Symphony No. 5

in E minor, Op. 64

From the moment the orchestra begins 

until the last magnificent chord,

I am playing and being played,

stretching myself from low notes to high notes.

It is wine from the glass into my mouth,

a rambunctious exuberance,

stirred in a realm of detached frenzy.

What is the way to pray

when there is no translation?

When I would have so much to say?

I’m left with only the continuous rhythm 

of my aching, pounding heart.

From: In Transition

Unpub. MS p. 29

The Way Of Angels

to Mary Oliver

I was a bird that traversed land 

and shadows and heaven’s gardens, 

thinking I could become an Angel.

Some said to find which constellation 

rose at my birth, but it seems like 

they all rose.

When I step into the dim morning air 

without coffee, the birds are puzzled, 

sensing something is missing.

I know music; I know prayer.

I don’t know the way of angels,

but I know they can’t be too far off.

From: Shorts: Short Poems on How We Ramble

Unpub. MS p. 69