We had oysters last night
Large oysters
Raw oysters 
On the half shell
Twelve oysters
Six for each of us
Four varieties 
Of PEI oysters
That’s 
Prince Edward Island
Three times four is twelve
So we had three of each
Of the four kinds
Forgive the foray
Into lower mathematics
Let’s return to the oysters
On the tray set between us
Oysters
Lemon wedges
Waiting to be squeezed
Dripping onto oysters
Open
On the half shell
That tray of pearly oysters
On their rough gray shells
Each set of three
Embraced by bright yellow
Sweet stingy lemon wedges
And on its own low pedestal
Just off center on the tray
A soft almost white
Mound of grated
Grated what?
Parmesan? No too soft looking
Mozzarella? No not soft enough
Having exhausted my current repertoire 
Of likely cheeses, I stretched forth my hand
Delicately pinched a single short string
From atop the elevated pile
Brought it slowly to my nose
Not cheese, not much smell really 
So I ate it
Horseradish
Thankfully pretty mild horseradish

Then came the intimate pleasure of eating the oysters.
But here is where we will discreetly employ that favored metaphorical device
And draw the curtain on our two young white-haired lovers
Facing each other’s eyes and hands and bodies
Across the small wooden table for two
In the small bar-restaurant
In a strip mall of all places 
In quiet off-season Niagara-on-the-Lake

How shall I start a prayer for peace
In my often troubled heart

To whom shall I pray
To God, to Allah, to Yahweh, to Jesus
To one of the Marys
Mary, mother of Jesus
Mary Magdala, tower of strength
Mary of Bethany, resurrection believer
Or to Martha, server of divinity

For what peace shall I pray?
For my own freedom from anger
For my family’s freedom from misunderstandings
For my children’s freedom from heartbreak
For my grandchildren’s freedom to grow
In peace

My, my, my, my
My prayer for peace feels unpeacefully selfish
Like a pearl found buried in a field
That I bought so I could forever miser that pearl
That pearl of peace
Created by what ancient oyster
In what long gone sea
Now a field
Waiting for my shovel
To fling wide the dirt
From that pearl of peace

I imagine God.

I imagine God
in my own image.

I imagine God
in my own image
with my own righteousness.

I imagine God
in my own image.
With my own righteousness,
I create my very own god.

I imagine God
in my own image
with my own righteousness.
I create my very own god,
forgetting that I cannot imagine the infinite.

I imagine God
in my own image
with my own righteousness.
I create my very own god,
forgetting that I cannot imagine the infinite
Divine Being.

I imagine god
in my own image
with my own righteousness.
I create my very own god,
forgetting that I cannot imagine the infinite
Divine Being whom I find in Silence.

Before my dark ink stains
The page is lined white light
Full of emptiness
Quiet, content in its expansive is-ness
Not knowing its only reason for being
Is to hide beneath my thoughts
To become the obscured pristine depths
Beneath my wordy islands

I myself
Am just such
Ego and personality scribbled
Over pure bright light
Beneath my me-ness
Lies the Imago Dei
Light and love
Glimpsed, on occasion, 
Under the endless words
That I call me.