Category Archives: spiritual

Ticket to ride

Miles down,
by jutting ankle bone he reaches.
Retrieves the fallen peanut shell.
With smiling morning memories
of bathing in autonomy.
They have left on a shiny shopping spree,
and they smile too, at their well-earned freedom.
Home now, from the wars of the ward,
he has his ticket, his assurance.
The snakeskin of sickness is shed.
Crunch one more, such delicious.
Another shell he lets drop,
in amused clumsiness.
Spies it with new eyes,
and down he dives.

The answer

On an errand from my town to another
(a lazy man’s errand- don’t you dare schedule me anymore)
I pass by the old weathered sign “Trail Entrance”.
It’s a blue arrow, meant to point north, to the left,
but now decrepit and flaccid in its old age.
Doing a face plant into the dirt,
telling us all to go to hell.
It’s been ten years, maybe longer,
since i took pride in making that steep ascent,
fording streams on stepping stones,
marching up muddy slopes,
finally reaching my destination:
a balding summit called Teapot hill.
It commanded a beautiful view of the countryside, and,
immersed in its quietness, on just the right day,
I could watch the cloud shadows roll across green fields,
gobbling the golden sun.
In the late summer, when these dark ships passed over me on the summit,
I felt a slight chill,
as little vortices of whirlwind seemed to spring up from the earth around me,
dispersing bugs and scattering the ashes of old campfires.
Tempests on the Teapot.
After a time, those black windblown spaceships would disperse,
giving way to green radiance once again.
A one act play that I would give anything to call up at will.

Today is such a day, and I know it, even from the pavement well away.
God, can I make it? (I think)
I surely would like that feeling once again.
That feeling of being soothed, of being comforted, of being spoken to
without words.
Of owning my place in this, a green jewel of the universe.
I stop, and reverse back down the gravel shoulder. Lock up and go, you fool.
It’s mid September. The rains have not been kind this summer,
and so the steep sections of the trail are not so muddy.
And, another kindness- someone has built rudimentary bridges across the streams.
Even with these blessings, I have only half the wind, and take twice the time.
I look nervously at my phone. Plenty of battery, but no signal.
On my own, I stop three times, and then reach the flat top.
Someone has carved an old stump into the form of an armchair, and I sit,
catching breath, head bowed.
There’s a sign, crudely carved.
You Are Here
You Are Here
Welcome Home.

Say not goodnight

how has it come to this pass
has it all been for love unrequited
or that yours has never been seen
all that you have reached for
all the rare moments of joy
every dream, hope, yearning
dashed
your vessel is frail, dry, and hollow

say not goodnight yet
close not the door
gentle one
there is no solace in darkness
there is at least one who loves you
do not fear
dear one
lay your head to rest
upon the downy pillow of expectation
and let your spirit be soothed
by the hand upon your brow
and the other, holding yours.

From under the eyebrows

As a young man, out with the raucous crowd of youth,
he’d followed their lead.
Made with the dirty giggles,
the snide remarks, the invented names, the donkey grins
whenever they came upon
the white-haired, the bent, the shambling, the cane-walkers.
Sheep that he was, he had followed and fit in.

Some returned the glances
from under salt & pepper brows.
May be the colour had washed some from their irises,
but they burned all the more brightly.
All the more knowingly.
A disturbing bane for the schooled bully.

The months of his donkey following
gave way to uncertainty,
and then to a budding courage
that was not the courage of the crowd.
Still a young man,
the stabbings of life made their wounds to him
too soon.
Loss, pain, emptiness, the hollowness of yearning.

And now, on this late day, his old leg does not work very well.
He grabs a fallen branch from the yard,
whittles it down a bit,
cuts it to just the right length for a prop,
and shambles uptown for a much needed haircut.

He has this peculiar feeling.
A kind of swelling, more like a welling.
A burgeoning anticipation.
There will, after all, be something more.

In his slow progress up the sidewalk,
he meets with counterparts out of his youth.
Cocks his head a little, gives them a glance,
without balefulness,
and they pass by with tremulous laughter.

The barber asks what’ll it be today?
He says neaten up the curls, trim the beard,
and (with a sly grin)
skip the eyebrows.

Hand in hand

We awake from the blessed sleep
after death’s embrace.
Here, in Heaven’s womb,
we lie, we look.
Our breath upon each other
a perfume.

We hear, in gentleness,
a sighing soothing swell of song.
We smell grass, fresh after a rain.
We stand, with lightness of mind.

We see, on the green hillside,
a throng in white.
Some turn and beckon.
Into each others eyes we smile,
then run, without flagging,
hand in hand
into a welcome of open arms.

There is lilting laughter.
then a hush of anticipation.
from the horizon’s haze we hear
the Overtures,
sung by the sinless Seraphim.

We journey long, without tiring,
for we know what awaits
at the End of Ends.

My Mary

I wake up this morning
my heart is so full
I’ve made your long tresses
from the blackest of wool

your dark eyes a-shining
your cheeks rosy red
your lashes reclining
when I put you to bed

imbued with a smile
that’s just starting to show
and so graceful of motion
each movement I know

so spirit, enfold me
with all of your charms
my dearest, just hold me
in your motherly arms.

my marionette
my mannequin
my Mary

a sort of Trinity

Backpacking, at the age of twenty five.
So young, strong, happy, sober.
Secure in myself, and, indeed, it is only me today.

In new territory, I am making for the sound of falls.
The ominous clouds of the morning are in tatters now,
bright rays are spilling through.

I push, push, through dense undergrowth,
slip on a damp rock, skin my shin and knee.
Hah! Small payment for what I am about to find.

When, all at once, the sun’s sparkle dazzles me.
I look left, and it showers a turquoise brook with its light,
dappling mossy tree trunks.

I am out into the sound and the beauty.

A trinity, I think, of the holy.

The scene physical before me
My sacred spirit that beholds and interprets
And the divine artist of both.