THE CHARIOTEER

The blacksmith steps away 

from the forge where the gold 

is cooking like a thick brew

to help the young boy

into the chariot,

to hand him the reins,

leaving the ore unattended.

With a fire and fury, the boy gallops 

off into the distance, and with him 

magically, surreptitiously go

some of the blacksmith’s 

precious gold, unbeknownst to either.

The neglected element 

is not fooled:

it knows the cargo 

the charioteer is carrying.  

It knows the village

will never reclaim its losses.

 FLUENT AS EVER

Everything now is a herculean effort:

           drinking water from a paper cup

            reading what’s right in front of her

            forming the simplest sentence.

And yet…

            when I hand her the phone to hear 

            the voice of her 94 year old boyfriend 

            the words are there 

            in a repeating stream: 

            I love you, I love you, I love you.

And, when 

            I leave her hospital room

            telling her I love you, Mom, she says

            so easily, so directly, so effervescently 

            smiling, broadly, with eye closed

            I love you more!

WANTING TO BE REAL

Doors are 

so easily 

made into 

metaphors.

But for 

the Buddhist 

on Death Row

a door’s 

an idea

wanting

to be real,

to be taken 

in hand, held –

the knob, the handle –

and pushed 

or pulled

with the strength,

weight and will 

that’s one’s own.

Give this man 

an actual door

to open

and he will cross

a threshold

neither his meditating 

mind nor jailer

could deliver him to:

the simple freedom 

of fending 

for himself.

BEYOND A QUARREL AND A COMPROMISE*

Opposites don’t

have to collide 

as contradictions.

Paradox

would have us

blend and transpose 

them into 

each other

like overlapping 

circles

to create 

a new thing

a third thing:

a space 

between

that is shared

as a harmony

a unity 

a dignity

a worth 

wholly and holy 

combined.

*From Robert A. Johnson’s, Owing Your Own Shadow

THE PARABLE THAT COULDN’T*

I wanted it to lift me up

and out of my pain.

To free me of my suffering.

But it couldn’t.

It didn’t have the hydraulics

I believed it needed

to do the job

the way 

I thought it 

should be done.

It took a different approach,

by showing me 

I was not 

alone.

By showing me

we all carry

 

grief and loss

in our bodies 

like a weight 

we can’t shake.

By showing me we

are the mustard seed 

we are seeking.

We are the missing

ingredient our neighbors

can’t give us.

Only when we put down

the need to be lifted 

does everything 

get lighter.

Do our hearts 

get less heavy.

Do we rise.

Do we become 

the parable

freed 

of its pages

and binding,

that then simply  

floats away  

on the invisible 

wings of grace.

*To learn more about the parable of the mustard seed, click on the link.