This Is the Moment

This is the moment
I have long been waiting for
Lounging, longing, wasting my time for
Forsaking, feigning, holding court for
Baiting, pretending, holding space for
Practising, preparing, tuning up for
Wondering and wandering aimlessly for
Cried and raged, putting aside too much for
Deferred and debated, and went to war for
Bled life and soul and spirit for
Fell hard and blind, and cursed and prayed for,
Quietly surrendered, but not patiently enough for

This long vigil was in daylight hours 
And kept me company through the night

I have been guided by silence
In a sea of distraction 

Now I see.







 Light 

Light is a force of compassion
That fixates and ruptures all in its path
Sundering the once-convenient self

Time becomes limitless yet still
All false barricades are breached
The mundane is silenced

Do not weep 
Peace quiets the astonished soul

Yet too soon, 
Life pulsates need and necessity
And calls for your return.

But the light does not betray
You are regenerated and intact
Changed by the endlessly unchanging
Like a pebble touched by the ocean
Now drying in the noonday sun.





A Poem Is Like A Recipe

Remembering what you learned last time,
Blend the will of the heart intently,
Warming your thinking until intuition comes on.
Imagine what the meal might taste like.

Take any raw notions ready to be transformed,
Make a base of what you have already lived through.
Measure, mash, chop—whip and stir.
Drop them all into a metaphor.
Blend. Dissolve.
Cook until done.
Cool.

Then—ask all your senses—your taste, your tongue.
Is it novel enough to serve?
Does it need anything else?
Is it too bitter?
Does it have enough joy, enough gravitas?

Read it once more.
How can I enhance this? 
Make it more playful, more sacred, more true?
Share when ready.
Repeat according to taste.





 Inside and Outside

As a child I would play outside.
Backyards, schoolyards, streets and parks.
I was free in my small world.

Little was of consequence.
The day was filled with activity.
It was enough.

Our family watched Bonanza, and
Ed Sullivan, and hockey games on TV.
Wars and famine were elsewhere.

The summer days were mostly bright, the winters cold.
The only distance was the four hour drive on holidays
to visit my mother’s mother and her siblings.

There was no need to fear or dread;
To rally, or defend, or prepare.
Life was easy and simple.
And I was simple then.

Life might have been simple now too,
but invisible walls have risen up, dividing 
meanings with alarming prognostications.

Now we rally, defend, and prepare.
The enemy everywhere;
Invisible and very, very near.

I see you, there in the distance,
And wonder--how I can approach you?
Are we so different, in this fragmenting world?






 Everything Resolves

Everything resolves into light.
I don’t care what you might have heard.
The new machines do not understand this dance,
The cogs of their wheels do not mesh quite right.

I have not been blindsided by some dark force
Or overwhelmed by a twilight world.
It is not as hopeless as some might think.
A bright world emerges here.

The evidence for an opening draws near,
Where all agree, and all is known.
We will harvest these truths, hard won,
Denying much that is commonplace.

It is the advent of a world unknown.
That rises up from beneath our feet.
It would seem to broken or misaligned
But promises real meaning.

I can see that we must suffer
 A little more before
We reach out and ask aloud
Admitting that we were fooled and made accomplice.

I do not know how to appraise God’s grace.
There is no beginning, and no end.
I only know that what now defeats us,
Resolves once more to light and grace.




 Outbreath

It seems that too often now the past
Aches with confusion and misplaced regret,
But memories need not march in a narrow line,
Our heart can meander and cast about a much wider net.

Our mind becomes like a pageless book
Full of random thoughts and sentiments.
A playlist of top ten and one-hit wonders
Ordered by subjective meaning and significance.

I can not easily gather these thoughts to myself.
I look for themes and markers; their time and place.
The surprise of who they were, and how I was;
The excitement, the laughter, the lost embrace.

It seems I took much—wanting more.
--Of what I gave I have little record.
The other half of my memories reside
In what others saw, or felt, or heard.

What a mess; this slow catharsis of letting go,
To be continued long after my death.
I can barely comprehend it, yet
Simple enough:  an inbreath, then an outbreath.





How God Sees Us

I see what You are trying to do.
You are solving the Puzzle of the Self.
You see us differently;
All the pieces of our self and life 
constantly in motion.

We think of the puzzle as flat, and 
only coloured on one side.
We think each piece only fits one way,
frozen in time, or
only moving in one direction.

In our always incomplete and self-centered view
we think we understand the puzzle;
forcing each piece to fit,
saying that we know,
rushing the false surprise of insight.
 
In Your view, the pieces never stop moving,
each piece only provisional in its placement,
All temporal being, only a placeholder for grace;
Our transubstantiation mercifully unfinished.





 Fighting the Dragon
  
You won’t slay the dragon all in one go.
Stop thinking about what might have been.
You may regret many long-spent days,
But you must abandon every defense.
 
Try to imagine how long you’ve breathed fire,
Feeling fear and hatred from almost everyone.
Were you feeling angry and falsely accused
Of crimes they once believed were true?
 
It may begin with following the breath,
Eventually loving the one you can’t stand.
Asking God for the power of forgiveness,
Putting yourself at the front of that line.
 
Slowly, the sickness can begin to heal
As you offer up every wrong and blame.
Don’t be in a hurry to win this fight.
Thinking alone won’t bring about change.
 
And how to make those sour thoughts sweet
Now that you have him in your sights?
Your enemy stalls and no longer resists.
He waits to be absolved by blessing, by light.
 
Why is your image so hard to bear?
It's only the mirror that you once disowned.
Conscience may argue about lost virtue,
But the dark image still wants to be known.
  
Put away all your calculations.
Is there more that you need to think of?
The dragon is tired of the long fight.
He wants you to rest, to rest and be loved. 
 
It’s time to surrender now.
The dragon waits for you on the ropes.
You have him where you want him.
He is yours now--he always was.




 Waterfall

The mist seems to heavenward rise
From the falling endless waterflow.
Splashing, rushing, freefall gushing
Onward, downward, to where below

The waterscape becomes a stream
And the restless liquid slows its pace,
Racing past boulders, spilling over,
But now you must enter its sacred space.

The way down demands especial care,
Cautiously descending the forest ravine.
Tripping along rocks, and mud, and roots
You finally view the entire scene.

The forest shrouds a chapel of light
As water softly murmurs reverence.
Tall trees try to buttress the sky
As on the rock face, an altar emerges.

Falling water, flowing stream
Blessing all it falls upon.
Enter, as if into a dream of peace.
Feel again, as if close to God.




 Clarion 

A chime from somewhere far away
Rings in the air around me.
It comes to me from somewhere
I have never been before.

A sound, clear and unbroken,
Heralds the way the wind will blow.
It ripples out of an unnumbered day,
And settles into this moment.

To hear it is to give assent,
It is not dissonant or binding.
It enters my ears and fills me up,
Saying, “Make me whole, make me whole, make me whole”.

The past seems like broken glass,
Its shards are everywhere I step.
In this moment I must wait and hold still.
When time returns, I will know to go on.




 And Life, Where Is Your Sting?

What can I do with all my errors,
My life as a sinking ship?
I let the waters take me down
To where I must stop and see myself afloat,
Again without any threat of harm.

Can You make wonders of my mistakes,
Something sweet of what has long been bitter?

Do not take my errors from me.
Let all the pieces come together,
Like a song made up of words and notes,
So that I can sing a song of praise.





 My Heart Is Better Now

The doctor listened to my heart.
He said my rhythm was off,
Making for irregular beats.

When the pills did not work
He said he could stop and restart it,
Like a misbehaving appliance.

I did not tell him
That I had asked my wife for a divorce,
That my brother had nearly died 
On a machine during Covid,
Or that I was waiting for the end of the world;
The culmination of the current era.

I did not tell him 
That I had returned to services at my church
And every day, prayed for His mercy 
For all of us to continue with our lives.

I did not tell him
That I seemed worn out,
That retirement had been bad for me,
And that I was lonely,
Lonely for my youth.

And then after some months
When the electric shock did not hold,
I stopped taking the pill 
That was meant to slow and steady my heart.

I knew somehow, that my heart would be OK,
If I stopped reading the worst of the stories
About the impending death of humanity,
The machinations of our destruction,
And the future eradication of any sense of God.

When I saw my doctor again
We agreed not to give my heart another shock;
That perhaps it would get better on its own.
He said he would not give me any more medicine
That would poison my system,
Trying to make my heart beat in time.

Today I seem fine.
My heart has recollected itself.
I still pray to God for an intervention,
Though for something less dramatic,
Than stopping and restarting the world.








A Fairy Tale Without an Ending                     February 2023

Once there was a monstrous plague that ravaged the entire world.  Word of this restless death was first heard of in a far distant city, away to the East.  Yet, as this came to light, it was met with indifference.  This was because over many years past, numerous contagions had been discovered causing great alarm.  They had brought panic and blind fear to whole populations, but as time wore on, intense and sudden vigilance proved unnecessary and without proper cause.  

The plague was deemed by many authorities to be harmless, particularly since a full century had passed since the last great plague brought disease and fearful death to the entire world.  Within a few short weeks however, it became apparent that the country from which the plague originated had kept secret the full harm of the pestilence.  Indeed, since countless people travelled easily and without restraint from one country to another, by spring this winter plague could not be contained.  Flights and trains and travel outside borders were suspended, as people were sequestered to their homes, and the breadth of the lamentation began.

Some fell ill, but seemed to have little worry or concern for their health.  They recovered easily, and had had few symptoms.  Others complained that it was all a plot or a device put forward by the rulers to cower and control unwitting subjects to their own ends.  There was however, a good number of people, who became deathly sick. Fearing that they could not recover on their own they came to hospitals in great number, begging for care and treatment to rejuvenate them.  Many died. 

Measures were then announced that might slow the ravage of this illness.  And so began what authorities  called a lockdown, eventually extending from one corner of the world to the other.  People were told to stay home and not go out, unless only for food.  Those who could work or study at home were encouraged—or ordered to do so.  Within weeks, even children, who rarely fell ill, were to be schooled at home.  Many more became idle and suffered the strange loneliness brought on by these restrictions.  It was most tragic for the elderly, especially those that were housed together. They were the most vulnerable and succumbed most easily, suffering or dying apart from their loved ones. 

The enforcement was most bitter for those who believed the rulers to be liars, tyrants, and masters of deception.  They debated that good treatments and health-sustaining medicines and supplements had been banned or ridiculed. Controversy raged on, only increasing daily.  Enmity and division came between many who were once close friends and family. Many peace-loving souls rebelled against the tyranny, convinced that the world had been overtaken by darkness and slavery. Though their claims and accusations were most often dismissed or ignored, they determined that the plague was sinister in its origin.  They also believed that the sanctioned treatment for the plague, which had been heartlessly proffered and callously administered by force, maligned their souls, and would eventually prove both poisonous and lethal.

Indeed, though it was veiled, it became most evident that a large number of people of all ages and walks of life had fallen or were maimed after having been subject to the treatment prescribed to prevent and subdue the sickness. Some few were courageous and openly contested the verity of what the leading rulers and their physicians said.  Those who dissented were shamed and ridiculed, or suffered harsher penalty.  Those at the helm declared them liars and dunces in their turn, and sought to contain their speech, forbidding them to speak or make their findings be known.  Yet many in the population at large grew uneasy and suspected false motives.  Some felt that they were made pawns or playthings of darkness, and those who lost livelihood or loved ones feared that the truth was not wholly known.  

It became clear, even to the most simple-minded that, for better or worse, there was a strange and fateful collusion between their leaders and those that had great influence in the world.  They continued to extend their grasp beyond borders and peoples, claiming new powers and promising leisure, abundance, equity, and good health. The dissidents feared that newly invented laws would soon render useless all previous claims to freedom and autonomy, though they were told that it was only for the good of all.

And so began a time of great unrest, dividing those alleging compliant trust and those clamouring to find best evidence and discretion.  Not knowing what tomorrow would bring, it seemed that if the powerful had a plan, doubtless it would soon be put in motion.






Six Years

Not everyone can make death wait;
You meet it well-prepared.
You do not deny your fate,
But have faced it long and well-aware.

Though the bloom must leave the rose
The end need not come soon.
All the doors are not yet closed.
Why wait alone in an empty room?

Life has slowed to match your pace;
You often pause and rest.
Illness may have lined your face,
Yet you are patient with your distress.

Life is as it ever was;
The people you know, the place you live.
There never was a need to rush:
To become the one named palliative.

Many leave this life without a prayer;
Without a vision in their soul.
Suddenly they leave their life of care,
It seems—their cup half full.

To some your progress may seem sombre,
But it is a blessing—not a curse.
An examined life is full of promise;
A foretaste of heaven, and of peace on earth.





The Little Park, Near Where I Live   

I went to the small park again,
Here in the inner city at the end of my street.
It is little more than an acre in size.
A pathway runs through it.
A vacant old building sits across the street,
Where a homeless shelter may yet be built.

GO trains run along one side, behind the fence.
The Corktown Pub sits near the far end of the park.
Also nearby is a tiny forested hill, 
Where two tents have recently appeared on top.

The park has a children’s playground and several benches.
Large maple trees surround its perimeter,
Offering a sheltering, protective presence.
The park seems to envelope all who pass through,
Especially the very young, 
Who play restlessly within its boundaries.

Today I felt the hidden life of the park;
Its living presence—like a silent companion in spirit
That lives as a soulscape softly rooted 
Beyond the threshold of my uncomprehending mind. 

The Fruits of Spirit

The ripening soul comes to culmination,
Like autumn’s falling leaves of flame.
Fruit of spirit may come by way of death.
-- The soul can not remain the same!

You may yearn for transfiguration;
To be known for wondrous gifts,
Yet against the glory of heavenly being
You still deny—hide—resist.

It’s not that you must become poorer,
Lose your mind; become a dunce, 
But all attachment must fall away,
Embracing each moment’s grace and innocence.

Each fruit fulfills a further stage of loss;
You may sometimes ache or grieve,
But what you once thought was yours
Diminishes through the gifts you receive.

Forbearance, patience, loving-kindness
Are all indifferent to your pride.
Joy and peace and goodness
Enter your soul and quietly abide.

Do not think yourself undeserving;
All of heaven moves in your favour.
Be forgiving with yourself.
The patient soul lives with Him forever

On The ChatGPT Essay Comparing Buddhist Practice With Poetry

I am against the rise of verbose machinery,
Even when they are talking harmless nonsense.
Why solicit the opinion of a dunce?
They do not bleed; they do not feel.
These know-nothings are like our rampant television sets.
Even though they may have Zen-like acuity
And seem to narrate the most wonderful stories and delineations
They are a pastiche of broken human knowledge
And in their vacant soul—the blind leading the blind.

II

I turned (almost at once) to the writings 
And fierce biography of Anna Akhmatova.  
Perhaps like her—despite its upheavals, 
I seek refuge in my own country,
Without turning or looking away.

She suffered in, and through her passion; 
Her writings, her marriages, her lovers,
Yet all around her, arose stone walls and ideologues,
Ready to imprison, destroy, or distort 
All that was original and beautiful.



Loss

Soldiers and Generals have no imagination.
They do not see that bombs become cradles for children,
And their flying missiles— coffins and unmarked graves.

Can’t they see that their advance is a funeral march?
Their guns are crutches, newly minted for the battle,
Their tanks stately hearses, ready to carry the dead,
And their artillery no different than ambulances
–Rushing forward to attend the fallen.

Their cheers of victory are keening wails;
Their loud celebrations a sombre wake,
While their prayers for divine assistance
Are the Devil’s ready call to arms.

In war, guns are like flags:
Nation against Nation;
People against people.

Chaos and loss—a carnival of death.

I weep for those whose loss is absolute,
For those vanquished, or lost in rubble,
And for those forsaken enemies who
Have once more lost their minds.

October 24, 2023

 


 The Promised Land

We will reach the promised land,
Though we have difficult days ahead.
It will come to pass for all of us;
Both the living and the dead.

We will reach the promised land
When night, without fear, becomes day.
When for others and ourselves,
We forgive, and bless, and often pray.

We will reach the promised land;
The impossible peak of the mountaintop.
But how can that happen?
How will the violence stop?

We will reach the promised land
When truth can not become a lie,
When freedom will not reside in silence,
Or imagination abandoned and left to die.

We will reach the promised land.
MLK saw it before he died.
He said that he did not fear death
--There was no reason to dodge or hide.

We will reach the promised land
When ceasefire ends and become peace;
When we are no longer nomads in our soul,
And our hearts are not wandering refugees.




I Have Seen The Promised Land

I have seen the promised land.
I can not describe it to you.
Words can not contain it.

It lives in both the present and the future.
We belong to it already,
And have been surrendered to it.

It is the Great Peace.
It comes slowly, yet with great urgency,
But does not force an end to war.

It is the home of the lion and the lamb,
Where God has prepared the feast
And sits with us at table.

Why must we be broken open?
Our anger must lie fallow
--another seed must germinate.

The love that you have heard of
Is not enough to bring the change;
It is an agent and a solvent.

Our bloodied swords must rust,
And all our pointless struggles fail,
So that we can enter with empty hands.




War of Words

What goes around, comes around:
You say what you want to say;
“That fool is an arrogant clown”
And that’s fine, until the day 

That comes upon you, like a thief,
(Nothing can break your fall)
You still spout the same belief;
You said nothing wrong at all.

But you are the one to blame. 
Without reflection, you can not tell.
Everything still seems the same,
Yet suddenly you are in a hell

Among people you haven’t even met.
Each one wants to throw the first stone.
(You have the first glimmer of regret)
Without defence, you stand alone.

You could have tried to stop the war,
Stayed their hands, and brought peace,
But that was a bridge too far;
You were thoughtlessly at ease,

Holding opinions about all things,
Seemingly wise, unafraid to speak,
Yet silence would have been better—listening
To the other, and softening—as if weak.





Palestine 

I have chosen the wrong side:
The loser that the bully picks on;
The one that is misunderstood;
The one that always remains incorrect;
The one that must always must lose.

Palestine, you have been orphaned
And separated from yourself;
Displaced from where you came from;
Disowned in your own country.

Your distant cousins came from everywhere else
To reclaim what once had been their homeland;
Binding you in a desert without an oasis,
Unwanted—now in a foreign land.

What can we call this?
An occupation, a war, a conflict;
--these nameless rampant murders?

Your enemies do not give names
To their faceless victims.
Only neighbours and family can tell you
Who has left and who has remained,
And who will never return.

Perhaps when your courage and hope are gone
They will give your country to back to you
—But not the way that it was.




In the Silence of Christmas

In the holy silence of Christmas
The voice of conscience can speak.
Despite all earthly noise and resistance
There can be heard a clamour for peace.

Listen for a moment to a world undivided,
Let the dawn of gratitude shine though. 
As the Child is born, our faith can be revived,
And our love for mankind, again renewed.




What Is Invisible

Our world is filled with invisible things.
For some they are palpable, for others completely unknown.
Our bias is to what is familiar and range-bound.
We deny the full spectrum of what we can not see.

We are led through present darkness
To a future that does not yet speak its name.
Does it wait for us to meet it there?
How can we find and befriend it?

Spirit is hidden in all things,
Although not thing-like in itself.
Its creative power is made manifest 
In the world of life and form.

We are always restless, 
Ignoring what is in us and around us,
Blinded to what is deeper
--The calling to what is right and good.

What engages us through love
Lights our way through life
Despite our resistance and doubt
And our imperfect understanding 
Of what is beautiful in ourselves and in the world.

Nothing will be solved by what we already know.
I pray that dawn will come to all of us
So that we will come to see and know what is real.




Remaking The Soul

I want my life to be easy and comfortable,
Not dissonant or demanding.
I do not seek trouble or disharmony,
Yet often, through failed relationships,
My life has come apart.

Should I spend time with people who are hard to love
And seem better left alone?
Must it be so hard to bear others in my life?

I embrace all these fragments of myself,
Even as I struggle to love them more.
I forgive, even my unforgivingness,
That my soul be remade among you.



Testimony 

To make known what has been seen and heard, 
This is how a revelation must spread:
"I swear to you, this is true."

Some will say that they must have proof,
But there is rarely such a thing.
It is exceedingly uncommon 
That a miracle is seen by many.

If your own eyes behold a revelation 
That is both real and mysterious,
You are blessed and cursed.
--There will be no easy convincing of others.

But take courage and step 
Into your God-given strength;
Say what you have felt, and heard, and seen.
Your sharing will distill what is true.



Inside

Inside every visible person
An invisible person is trying to show itself.
It is larger than it appears.

It is an open secret,
But many years can pass
Without it being seen.
Some say that it does not exist.

Yet it is your friend.
It wants to help you.
It wants to be known.
It is the person hidden inside.




Broken Open

At the end of your days, you will be broken open.
Time will be stilled as your life is replayed.
Rudely awakened, you become your own witness;
Far and distant from what once was the fray.

How has your life been spent?
(There is little that you will be able to say.)
What have you done with conscience?
Where is your love that was given away?

All is forgiven—even our weakness.
We know that we have not been alone.
Acknowledging brokenness becomes our new healing;
We are loved and cherished and deeply known.