All is Love, Love is All.
Every morning I listen to these lines,
the ethereal voices, the honeyed harmony,
the music passing through me like filaments of dawn,
and I’m candle-dipped into the day’s promise,
a believer, a faith-keeper.
But then, suppose some governmental missional jackals
came and took away my children,
asked me to sing from the Broadman Hymnal,
what song could I possibly sing?

*

In their sickness, on their cot of languishing,
God said (Psalm 41, you can look it up),
I’ll make your bed,
which means,
according to the rigorous expositor Matthew Henry,
they can expect some recompense of temporal wellness,
provided they’re free of trespass,
provided they’re of the elect,
provided the Exchange is open,
provided it’s bullish.

*

The last thing I want to do is preach, which
is of course the last thing you want to listen to.
Instead, I’d like to give you an amulet,
as vigilant, mighty, and friendly as a Pacific hemlock,
perhaps too, a chorus of crickets,
oh, and an otter, whose happiness
exceeds that of many clams.

*

They’ve gotten used to shouting across the canyon
(with its striking similitude of the 6th-floor ward),
and no one answering.

*

I’m healthy,
I can afford to contemplate God’s predilections (silence,
long holidays, etc.) or the prayers of Russian pilgrims, or
or Brené Brown’s walkable wisdom or Deepak
Chopra’s meditative dance steps (think Blue heron, wading),
or the reverie of Eckart Tolle,
who on last count has written 198 books
including the famed Power of Now, which apparently
has condemned him to write forever,
and condemned us to forever feel
not quite up to code.

*

On the electric bed where they lie prone,
glazed by saline drops,
expecting miracle knives,
they are given a small cup of yogurt,
and discharged — which is an appropriate name for the Acute Unit,
an explosion of assertion —
then a spent shell.

*

I hurt, I worry — like you perhaps — I get panic attacks,
but I can make a giraffe out of two slender balloons
and I know a couple of killer knock-knock jokes.

*

The other day, while reading a favorite poet,
cradled on the cusp of a contemplative moment,
I paused to fire a stone at an annoying magpie.

*

Mostly, I am fluid and tender,
a clear-eyed non-avenger,
a gangster for grace, a mercy ninja, friend,
I’d walk with you
if you left that Holy Book, you cock like a left hook,
at home.

*

(Dear Mr. Henry, how can I explain to you that your roar of Religion
is not the voice of revelation;
a covenant is not a contract,
and Jesus is not God’s Janus-faced emissary.)

*

I’m an index finger, beckoning the Milky Way
to be the street lights by your house.
I’m a bamboo shoot in your bedroom, say the word
and I’ll bleed you a chandelier of flowers.

*

I’ve lost weight.
I shimmy when I walk.
I skinny when I dip.
I keep a list of regrets.
One of which is preferring my own company.
Then again, at least there’s only one person to argue with.

*

Reality is an alternating current,
someday down the wire,
we’ll slip right through an ‘off’ moment.

*

Love is all and the world is still beautiful
and there’s a friend who’ll call,
O my, that sweet dulcet voice rising out of a canyon.

*

I don’t even care that I get my peonies
mixed up with my hydrangeas,
both give me instant gratification. What’s not to love?

*

Once on a ferry going to Salt Spring, standing in the spray
and watching the mist riff the rocks above the waves,
I fell more deeply in love.
I wish I could explain how there’s something like a flame
just above your head.

 

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