This morning a doe and her fawn come up from the river
are eating green branches of honey locust
cut and piled for burning.
In time we all lose interest in who we are supposed to be.
I am a box of air now, emptying and filling
and emptying again.
When I believe I am something special
drawn there by hidden fear
I feel it as loss.
Your friendship is a gift.
It reminds me I am still alive.
Keeps me focused on the simple longing for God.
When I think of you, I am happy.
“God Rocks” painted by Aja Thomas of Barnashram
Freddie and the lights!
We lean against walls together, pretending they are solid.
Find ourselves falling through
find that we are flying!
For the little white dog every smell is a door
opening into rooms with ceilings so high
they have their own atmosphere, their own sun and moon.
He enters, following lights only he can see
and I who have drunk rain water from the hoof print of a white calf
Shivabalayogi Maharaj 1935-1994
In this world
we have to do our best
to keep our core humanity alive.
If we can see light
we must see it.
If we can catch sight of joy, we must see it
point to it.
Yes it is dark. This is undeniable.
Everyone feels that darkness
but not everyone can feel the joy
see the light rising and moving along the tree line.
It is my duty now
to feel, see, taste, to touch, if I can, the life itself
what we are.
There is an emptiness I know well
that asks for and gives no mercy.
There is a joy that sings
for no reason through what is hollow.
Having made nothing of myself
I sit on my bed in green dusk
listening to wood doves along the fence line
of my neighbor’s pasture.
…I brought him to my Mother’s house
to the bedchamber of the one who conceived me.
Song of Soloman 3:4
GO TO HER
Leave the flesh waving behind
as you would an acre of maize.
Float out to Her, calling her name
your voice a morning glory opening
in the throat.
The name forming on your tongue is
one thousand syllables of falling water
drawn from our Mother’s well
fed by Her spring
hidden until sung for
in the folds of Her.
A raven’s shadow, large as a red tailed hawk
follows me on the road to the White Salmon.
There is no meaning in this
unless I choose it.
I choose light and dark moving together
under a canopy of maples
as I walk along God’s forearm into the palm
of his hand.
There is a way through earth known only to water
and to the water witch with a pliant branch of willow in his hands.
I am a ghost of water
whispering into my own good ear
all I need to know
how I live and move and have my being in a Gulf
how all of us are bathing in our selves
the light we see by
streaming from our own eyes.