Baba, can you swim with me for twenty-six nine twelve minutes?
I can swim with you for twenty-six nine thousand twelve minutes.
Baba, is that longer than yesterday?
Yes it is.
Baba, is that longer than tomorrow?
I don’t know.
Baba, how old is Mawsy?
Mawsy is almost 100 years old.
Baba, is that very old?
Yes, for a human that is very old.
Baba, is that even older than you?
Yes, that is even older than me.
Baba, is that older than Boppy?
Yes, that is older than Boppy.
Baba, will Mawsy die?
Yes, Mawsy will die.
Baba, will Mawsy die soon?
I don’t know.
Baba, will you die soon?
I don’t think so.
Baba, will Boppy die soon?
I hope not.
Baba, will Mama die soon?
No, your Mama will not die soon.
Baba, where is heaven?
Heaven is inside a mystery.
Baba, what is that?
I don’t know, no one knows.
Baba, but where is heaven?
No one knows for sure.
Baba, when Mawsy dies will she go to heaven?
Yes, Mawsy will go to heaven, we will all go to heaven.
Baba, will we see Mawsy go to heaven?
No, because Mawsy’s body will go back to the earth.
Baba, why, Baba?
To make new life for the earth.
Baba, when I die, will I go back to the earth?
Yes, we will all go back to the earth to make new life.
Baba, will the earth grow a new me?
No, that is not the way it works, but the earth will grow new plants and trees.
Baba, but then what goes to heaven, Baba?
Our love goes to heaven, and our thoughts
Baba, will I be happy in heaven?
Yes, we will all be happy in heaven.
Baba, will there be food in heaven?
No, we will not need food in heaven.
Baba, then I will not be happy; I will be yelling for a hamburger.
I bet you will and you know I will want cheetos.
Oh, look, Milo, we are home.
Let’s go swimming.
August Day
Early morning
Quiet expectations
Lulled by birdsong
Purple morning glories
And soft light
Mid-morning
Rising heat
Morning glories close
Ever valiant impatiens
Meet the rising heat
With patient persistence
Noon
Now impatiens
Begin to droop
Longing for
Life-giving water
A small garter snake
Submerges itself
In our small pond
Air heavy
The day’s breath stills
Still as unwanted death
Mid-afternoon
Distant thunder
Moves closer
Heavy air
No longer still
Rain
Reviving rain
Thunder and lightning
Life renewed
House lights blink
Once
twice
Thunderous lightning
Thrice
(lovely word that – thrice)
Reliable electricity holds
Rain cascades
Recedes
Leaving behind
Triumphant impatiens
Evening approaches
Heat dissipates
Quiet returns
Weary world now
Anticipates sleep
“perchance to dream”
Beyond
This day
Done
This night
Dark
Mining Gold from Dirty Dishes – A Golden Shovel Poem
“Now everything is easy ‘cause of you and our house”
Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young
Now comes the wet warm soapy cleaning Everything that was dirty – dishes, pots, pans, cutlery Is soon clean – not ad sparkling clean but Easy to call clean, easy to feel pleasure ‘Cause what once was unusable dirty is now, as happens so Often, clean and usable, a source and promise of pleasure like You yourself, your presence, your love And your willingness to make your home Our very own together House.
Balancing Acts
Have we, I wonder Made of God A divinity Entirely too cozy? Do we, I worry Wrap ourselves In an Almighty Snug blanket? Balances, balances Are such tricky tightropes A little too far This way or that And we plunge headlong Into some abyss or other Do I write for myself Or others? Do I focus too much on form Or content? Do I live the life examined Or merely self-conscious? And is my God too comfortable To be holy and wholly powerful?
Rain Rite
I wish I could write the rain Sprinkle lines with fat drops As thunder rumbles in my heart And skies darken my eyes I wish I could release the torrent Cascading down the rain chain Tap dancing a Fred and Ginger routine Faster and faster On the corrugated tin porch roof Page of careful lines I wish I could sit inside my rain poem Snug and dry, safe and sound in my rocker On my tin-roofed porch page Grass and leaves bow in worship Trembling Once dull rocks sparkle and shine in their Sunday best My herbs offer up their sweet aroma To appease the rain Soaking through my fragile page I wish I could write the rain Withdrawing Hurrying to its next appointed page As my page drips its sweetness
Daily Communion
I taste garden green-ness
I sip summer showers
Breezes kiss my skin
Soil comforts me
Rocks challenge me
Sunlight blesses me
With the true presence
But also
Reverence finds me
As I hang out laundry
Fix dinner
Wash dishes
Watch TV
Work on a puzzle
Return a shopping cart
Make our bed
Answer an email
Quell my impatience
Sometimes
the mundane is extraordinary
Mostly
it is just mundane
Always it is
! God’s body !
! God’s blood !
! God’s love !
Now
What – who – is it that invests now with eternity?
Alan Watts spoke of reincarnation as the return of particular consciousness from cosmic consciousness.
That doesn’t have much meaning to me, although it sounds grand.
In much the same way the Second Coming sounds grand without much specific content.
What is eternal life to me if I will not be the me I know – whether it be Watts’ version or Paul’s version. If we shall all be changed, whether or not death is real, then the particular I that loves this particular You shall no longer exist. And that is an eternity that is oh so very uninteresting to me.
But this now. This early morning eternal now with you still sleeping and me loving you still sleeping. This is perhaps all the eternity I need. And for that I thank whatever, whoever created nowness for me.
The Spirit Groans
“the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans.” Romans 8:26
Can you hear the Spirit groan
Through my inadequate too empty words
What shall I write
For what shall I pray
For the families of dead children
For the grandmother of their killer
For our nation
For our souls
“We shall not all die
But we shall all be changed”
Once I read those words
As describing mystery
Life after death
A new creation
Now I read them as a prayer
For this life here
For the no longer United
States of America
Now I read those words
And pray
God of compassion
God of mercy and grace
God of love and grief
God of power and might
Please, God, I groan
Change us
Before we kill
again
Tough Guy
Tough young guy In a big shiny SUV Demonstrates his fearlessness His masculinity His God-given superiority Accelerating Engine roaring Wheels screeching Peeling out From A suburban grocery store parking lot Fall down and worship, ye mere mortals (I bet his mama sent him to get bread)
How I Responded
A Facebook friend posted: “…last night we were challenged ‘How can we share our gifts? What gifts can I bring to our church in our passionate desire for change?’ I’d love to read your responses.”
I responded:
How can I share my gifts?
How can I bring my gifts?
to a Church that does not
want my gifts
at least not when those gifts
are wrapped by God
in a woman’s body
Nevertheless I shall persist
and bring my gifts
to my sisters
and even my brothers
who are willing
to be gifted
to be blessed
by a woman.
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