Poems

Conductor in the Mirror

I was not objective then,
I was emotional, and unwise.
I was a player then,
I was on the field, I didn’t realize
That love and lust are not the same,
That God and Man are just names
For Faith and doubt, that wax and wane
With the tides of Yin and Yang,
That ebb and flow like waves on sand.

I was naive and proud then,
Certain that I could explain the mystery.
I had confidence in the future
Unaware of its history.
Gone was lost and to be was a dream,
Each existential for only the day,
For the minute, the second, the moment.
Time did not stop for me.

Now, I’m waiting at a station.
With a schedule in my hand.
Looking at the tracks that come and go.
And, I think I understand.
To be, or to be here now.
I see the conductor in the mirror.
The mystery remains mysterious,
It is not for me to know.

Old Souls Know

Old souls know.
When youth swaggers,
When bragerts display,
When naivety struts,
When young jacks brey,…
Old souls know,
Though they know not to say.
For back in time
They remember the day
They heard the word,
And the word was truth.
Old souls know.
They have no need to say.
They have long since seen the beacon
That lights the narrow way.

Another Morning

A sunbeam enters
through an opening in the curtains.
It is light finding its way in.
Morning is a covenant with time.

Blue Notes in a Bar

I know you don’t like it When I sing the blues.
Mine are not the lyrics that you’d choose.
My tribulations are fine,
But when you walk the line
You have troubles far more brilliant
Than the simple twelve bars that I use.      

Walk Away

Just walk away.
That’s what the voices all say.
Don’t look back, don’t cover your tracks.
Just walk away.

Wishes and Horses in the Wind

I cast my supplications to the wind,
Wishes and horses
No longer imprisoned within
My doubtful soul.
Yet, I feel confused and hollow
without these old friends,
And I find myself calling them back again.
Once unchained,
Nothing returns unchanged.
Where the mandala stops,
Is where it also begins.
If I could but ride a stallion through the stars,
Through the wisdom of the gods,
And return safely,
Back to my humble home,
Within.
I cannot reclaim the fate, however,
That I once cast to the wind…

What Then

I am told that
every word is heard,
every thought is known,
every action observed.
What then of
every physical pain,
every emotional strain,
every stumble and every fall?

What then of
every struggle,
every stress,
every moment of duress?
What then of
every sin,
no matter how distant,
no matter how small?
What then of
every good intention constrained,
every blind eye turned,
every unheeded call?
Does omnipotence know it all?
This is a heavy cross to bear,
that my march into oblivion
hasn’t a moment of privacy,
that One shall perpetually care,
that my ubiquitous insignificance
should be of concern out there.
Such is magnificent Grace,
That within this Sacred Heart
I might have a place.

A decision made.
A decision wrong.
The pathway back
Is twice as long.
All Advice offered
Is now abundantly gone.
When We must walk back,
We walk back alone.

Blue Lights at Christmas

I see your face in every shadow,
In the glow of moonlight your ghost appears.
Blue lights twinkle through the snowfall.
Our Christmas past returns each year.

Church bells ring from every steeple.
Happy people share Yule time cheer.
Your reflection haunts the holiday windows
Our Christmas past returns each year.

I remember you each year at Christmas.
The night that Holy love was born.
The night you turned away, into the winter.
The footprints in the snow on Christmas morn.

I remember you each year at Christmas.
The kiss you you left me at my door.
White Christmas was playing in the distance.
Blue Lights adorned that cold Christmas morn.

I see your eyes in every stranger.
Through flickering candlelight your ghost appears.
While people top their trees with angels.
Our Christmas past returns each year.

Say What?

The premonition crept in, quietly at first,
and whispered to my head. “No”.
“No” is initially all that it said.
But, it spoke to my soul,
with whom I don’t always communicate well,
wherein my ambivalence dwells.
“No”, what? What are you trying to say?

This all started yesterday.
It bothered me throughout the night,
and spoke to me again today.
“Don’t go” it seemed to say.
“Don’t go” where? I pondered.
So, I didn’t go away. I decided to stay
here, in plain sight, and fight
with my anxieties and doubts.

I reconnoitered the local terrain.
Checked if there were any accidents,
by auto, plane, or by train.
Nope. Nothing reported so far today.
Is this insane, I inquired of my brain.
Nope. It’s just how these portents go.
Rarely are there answers, rarely does anyone know.
Should I stay or should I go?

There are documented cases from the past.
Folks who had a feeling, who changed their fate.
Folks who did not know, though, until after the die was cast.
Then, there were those who were too late.
May as well toss a coin, if we haven’t the oracle’s gift.
If we act subjectively alone we can be left adrift.
Or, we can seek guidance from the Light.
The Beacon is steadfast. Bright by day, brighter still at night.
Where there are no answers, the answer there is faith.

I keep an old wooden box of prayers on a shelf
juxtaposed with the Shruti, Tripiṭaka, Dhammapada,
Tanakh, Talmud, Dao de jing, Analects of Confucius,
Qur’an, Hadith, Guru Granth Sahib… and coupled with
a vintage copy of Mama’s old Bible, for myself.
There are hand written supplications in that box,
beseeching a loving God to intercede on my behalf,
on your behalf, on behalf of all.
On behalf of those who will dare to read
the Universal Word that is written in blood upon the wall.

It is not the edifications of a bearded old man in the sky.
It is not the dogmas of the church, temple, mosque,
cathedral, chapel, pagoda, gurdwara, synagogue,
hussainia, or monastery that hunts the passion within you and I.
It is not the interpretations of the priest, reverend, bishop,
deacon, pastor, abhyasi, Guru, Imam, rabbi, lama, swami,
yogi, shaman, or other proxy of the incorporeal eye.
It is transcendence of egotistical self to the fulcrum of the soul.
The word is LOVE, written in blood upon the wall.

And so I keep an old wooden box of prayers on a shelf,
coupled with a vintage copy of Mama’s old Bible, for myself.

The lady facing me is seated looking forward.
I don’t know her. She doesn’t know me.
We do not acknowledge each other.
Her lips are moist. Her eyes are distant.
She sees where we are going.
The train rattles and clacks along the tracks.
I can see where we have been.
“Don’t look back” you said,
I look back again.

I can see my reflection on the window.
I see the image of the lady facing me there as well.
Fantasies in a world passing through a rainy day.
All goes dark as we pass through a tunnel.
When it is light again no one is across from me.
There is a heart drawn in the condensation on the glass,
but it is dripping, melting fast.
Momentarily, I recall when you took off your mask.

The train makes a brief stop at Providence Station.
I see the woman from the train on the platform,
glancing back from beneath a red umbrella.
Her lips are moist. Her hair is wet.
Our eyes should have met, but they did not.
The wind blew our gaze away into the storm.
The train jerks forward into insentient consummation.
I look back again, as this withdrawal proceeds.
I look back again and see a reflection.
I see your face. But, I don’t recall the time or place.

There Are Wings

There are wings.
On birds,
And bird-like things.

Man can fly.
I’ve seen
In mid-air,
Angelical signs.

Love will respond.
I’ve seen inside.
Our eyes reveal
This spiritual bond.

I have flown.
I know there are wings.
I’ve seen them on birds,
And bird-like things.

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