Spiritual Elements

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Shadows Of Religion

Walking the shadows of religion,
I see belief and opinion throw
mystifying patterns on the walls of reality;
darkness around the corners
of circular reasoning.

Yet if there are shadows
there must be a light.
Faith and reason intersect
as the solid and the permanent
in an air full of mist,
and cast a cross, in my path.



Gazing at the eye-candy,
sticky sweet temptation
in an alluring wrapper.

Sugary cute confection

that the world wants to mold
into mass produced profit.

She is above that and even

sweeter on the inside.
Yet the desire for the treat

leaves me unable to fill
the cavity, that she leaves behind.



A completely logical device.
     That’s what she thought I was.
She wanted to press my buttons,
     and make a selection from the menu,
and then cancel her query
     at the last moment.

She thought personal identification
     was a secret number,
          that only she and I knew.
Like the hand she let me hold;
     a sequence of digits.

Of course all she wanted
     was to complete the transaction
          at her convenience.
Remove the cash,
     and seldom make a deposit.


The Words Between

Like our ancestors,
     the medium speaks Germanic-Latin
          and a swoon of sounds;
the spirit of elusive utterances
     of words for family and friends.

Between the days of learning letters
     and being unable to execute
          the cultivations of age,
we spell out meaning,
     and punctuate the moments.

Everyday life
     juxtaposed between nouns of being,
          and acting out verbs;
like the history that shaped
     standard speech, into art.


A Colder Season

Suburban holiday missing the meaning.
Shoppers charging the latest
gizmo memento like a carol crescendo.
Outside a soldier rings his bell;
a drop in the bucket.

A colder season for many,
as dreams vanish in the mist
of Saint Nicolas,
and the coming year brings
the old acquaintance, of necessity.


Image Of Invisible Love

Glowing metropolitan mass
     wandering ‘round the sun,
like a race of
homeless orphans.

Our light defies the darkness
     making it impossible to see,
the glory some see above;
     the image of invisible love.

We gaze into the sky
     together with blind eyes,
wondering if we’re alone;
     believing in our unbelief.


Weapon Of Words

A fire to keep us warm,
     or extinguish the growth
we knew.

A word providing power,
     but so often leaving waste
that destroys the life within.

Splitting words,
     a chain reaction of devastation
          that blinds us to ourselves,
and leaves discarded ash
     across the landscape,
of our emotions.



In a moment we see our breath
     on a cold winter’s day.
We are forced to inhale the chill,
     and exhale
the mist that disappears.

If we were warm we wouldn’t observe
     the image of the divine.
When the world gets cold,
     we should see it most.
For just a moment,
     evanescence of understanding
appears in the hardship,
     and we seldom notice.
Proof, of the life inside.


Mist Across The Sun

A cloud was drawn
     across the sun;
a veil hiding the light
     from the world.

In the coolness of the day
     I wondered if the shadow
would ever go away.

Shades of grey stretched out
     across my path,
so I looked up and saw the silver
     around the edge of mist,
and realized, this is a better way
     to see the sun,
than the blaze, I could never gaze,

Worker Bees

The fruited plains are worked
a little less often.
Us worker bees once had a good union,
but now have priced ourselves out
of the sweet satisfaction.

We expend most of our effort
trying to keep the hive cool,
or dancing in our midst;
showing the way to nectar
we find a little less gratifying.

Late afternoon, we relax
with a good buzz,
and wonder why the juice,
isn’t as sweet



Cultivating a little more
than a child in the garden,
thus growing up a little
harder and faster than one should;

love was a crooked trench
for planting flowers and weeds.
Can we tell the difference now?

You learned how to dig a hole
from your father, and he from his.
Our hollow spot may hold the same seeds.

Along the way of the rose,
I too may plant and reap.
I’m hoping my patch
will also grow towards the sun,
and the colors be, a little brighter.


The Way Of The Rose

Planting in fertile soil,
you dug a hole hollow and deep;
a seed you got from your father.

Hidden in the life under your feet
it dies in order to grow,
and naturally defies the gravity
of circumstances beyond its control.

Pushing through life
it rises to meet the sun,
as you do your best to nurture the bloom;
not knowing how to guide the wild,
never learning why you cut into contentment,
you break the stem and grasp the thorns,
only to bleed in the same color, as me.


Well Beyond Text

Theology is over a thousand books
that I’ve forgotten on my kindle.
Enough words to fill the corridors
of fake ham in a can and cookies.

Logic looks like a four bit video game
that no one remembers.

Beyond the pixels and the image,
and even the invoked emotion,
is a call of light on a line.
A word beyond text.
A meaning, and an answer.



Empty words;
graffiti in Silicon Valley
like spray-paint in a GUI.

Meaning distorted by media,
mass marketed for personal use;
bits on a line, the pulse of a people.

The young not knowing
a character based system;
chatting in emoji
and textspeak abbreviations,
losing the meaning, of words.



Image frozen into a warm
The lens bends the temporal
     into what seems eternal;
motionless she stoops
     to pick up a rose.

Peddling fulfillment,
     she is scratched by the thorns
of society,
     and we seldom blush.
Odd numbered petals fall to the floor,
     and wither, in our memory.



Extracting the unnecessary,
     the tart verbs that don’t rhyme
with orange.

Formed and solid,
     condensed, and contained
          in the freezer of emotions,
to be reconstituted in someone’s
nourishing life.

It will end up fluid,
     before someone ingests it.


Vintage Mint

     that green leaf that lingers
          as a cool memory for a moment.

A memory of the mountains
     frozen in the warmth of August.
Green as we were,
     recollection like the glory of the fall,
a season now past.

Two pumps,
     and it was San Bernardino;
a wet spray, on my lips.