Lovers of God, sometimes a door opens,
and a human being becomes a way
for grace to come through.
I see various herbs in the kitchen garden,
each with its own bed, garlic, capers, saffron,
and basil, each watered differently to help it mature.
We keep the delicate ones separate from the turnips,
but there’s room for all in this unseen world, so vast
that the Arabian desert gets lost in it like a single hair
in the ocean. Imagine that you are Sheba
trying to decide whether to go to Solomon!
You’re haggling about how much to pay
for shoeing a donkey, when you could be seated
with one who is always in union with God,
who carries a beautiful garden inside himself.
You could be moving in a circuit without wing,
nourished without eating, sovereign without a throne.
No longer subject to fortune, you could be luck itself,
if you would rise from sleep, leave
the market arguing, and learn that
your own essence is your wealth.
Recently, all creative juices have been aimed at setting some basic life practicalities in place. This morning I come to the Archives with no cream for my coffee and feeling a bit inspirationally tapped.
Then I come across a photo taken by Jeb.
There does exist a well without end.
It sources somewhere between the notes of a song or the lines of a poem.
It courses through veins of arms that embrace.
My seven year old son has captured flow in motion.
The water pipes are still dry
so you go for tequila
bring a bowl and band aids
to your friend’s house
where you’ll soak the screw wound
in your sole
and sip a cocktail at sunset
you finally are ready to bring those boots outside
you’ll pat your soaked foot dry
apply the ointment
adhere the bandage
slip on a sock
and zip up that foot
into the leather boots
that have been sitting
waiting
by your travel books
now these boots are climbing
stairs to the top of the Ficus
a treehouse in the clouds
you clink glasses with friends
in pinkening skies
eat beans and beets just picked from the garden
get swooped by a flock of 30 dainty birds
all one mind
in speedy flight
used to tree tops
but not to humans in them
you don’t want serenity prayers
or downward dog poses
but you’ll try
to accept
to embrace your Dark Side
to breathe like Darth Vader
and after an hour
ok
you do feel better
And through some alignment with the Force
when you return home
the pump is primed
water is flowing
and you are in love with liquid
singing praises
and committing
life-long devotion to the element of water
by nightfall it’s time for poetry
courtesy of wanathan101
last night you were in treetop branches
with sunset clouds
tonight you are flush with the grass
poets circle a fire in starlight
and you stretch
beneath the Gardenias
soles warmed by flames
smoke circling to sky
sparks catch air in quick bursts
punctuating poetry
that spills from the mouths of your neighbors
words and flickers
stars and flowers
the smell of smoke in your hair
upon this earthen body
you and the poets spiral through space
resting on the surface
just above the treasure
layers and deep veins
hold the seeping springs of liquid love
the elemental elixir
you are prostrate
a devotee
giving thanks at the well
quenched
by the flow
of words
and water
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