Stretched out arms reach into the cooling air, keeping my distance from those around me.

Yet, welcoming them to do the same.

 

 

A sense of home can be of warmth,

But also of Abandonment,

Of those of should have loved me,

But didn’t somehow, Or could not show it.

 

Perhaps they did, but all I remember is the broken windows,

The winter wind which blew through our lives,

Not in malice,

But a reflection of a poverty, I didn’t know.

 

From which, someone who truly cared, protected me.

So, I might only know love.

 

 

The mystery of love is steeped deeply in our humanity,

In the incarnation,

In the gift of life,

And how we are all made,

From a mysterious desire,

Drawing us to each other,

Connecting us with a sacred sexuality,

And a faucet of grace which cannot be turned off,

Or exhausted.

 

Because love prevails; yet remains a mystery.

 

An Oriental Evening

The vigil is rewarded as dawn breaks again.

This time with a image of creation, only in an imagination;

For nothing could be this beautiful.

 

And not be of God.

 

Moving slowly, with eyes gently closed,

The door is closed once more,

This time bolted, to avoid distractions,

And traffic noise from the outside street.

 

Now seated, the emptiness seems to engulf me,

As a divine darkness descends like a cloak,

Sealing me off,

So I may concentrate on nothing.

 

Except the breath of life and its source.

 

The Blue Trees soak up the early evening light, and remain awakened.

 

I will give when the IRS gives back,

When I get credit for my philanthropy,

As someone recognizes me as a good person,

Or get my name on a bench,

And the web site. Of course.

 

Ensuring my glorious gift is raised up,

Because Jesus died to raise us all to another standard.

 

One I can no longer see.