Notes from my spiritual journal:

I always liked impossible scenarios. When i was young i looked up to Philippe Petite who tight roped across the world trade centers before they fell. Back then, few knew of him.
Or St Stephen who’s face glowed as was killed because he was staring at God.
I also like failed attempts like St Peters, who started actually walking on water until he started staring at the storm instead of Jesus.
And of course, Phillip who suddenly “appeared” in Africa. These types were always heroes to me.
At this stage of my life the most impossible thing i see—the new tight rope-is a deeper formation of God’s Love in my heart.
All the suffering i see, is now aimed at that end, formation.
God turns out to be the highest tight rope, and being more “in Him” the greatest spiritual stunt.
To really love your neighbor, is nearly impossible, that is, apart from Him, i can do nothing!
//
It’s much less about where i go or what i do now; and more about who i am becoming inside, and how i offer those inner tree’s fruits! The eternal ones which may grow in us all.
//
My greatest obsession has always been the true identity of things—seeing calling forth and living from that authentic place. Beholding that place in Love, and living from that place and addressing it in others.
I’ve always wanted that deep to deep life with others, nature and with God. The rest keeps floating away and altering, but that space remains.
//
Forming fatherhood inside of me, has become my highest goal now. The rest has faded. Expressing that place within, is a passion for me.

I’m starting to like this poem i wrote about the old man across the street, whose eyes i often meet, as he cleans the blue birdbath by hand daily!

the old man across the street
hand-cleans the robin’s egg blue bird bath
out of habit each day.
his wife is elsewhere now.
he has lived forever already
and nearly died many times.
We relate in that, and wave
or gaze occasionally at one another in mutual silent respect; and
the pecans still fall this season
into that bird bath-making
their own type of syrupy mess
which we alone are meant to clean by hand-
and the squirrels only take half
the bounty, the rest is his!
And ours, together, somehow.

in the theater with God:

my poetry forever
waits in unwilling seats!
come sit with me my friend,
the Great usher repeatedly repeats….let’s watch a movie
about ourselves! Let’s be friends
as we discuss the story. Instead,
we sneak in before the show
and tell our new friend,
I told you so…

Another napkin poem for ya this week:
(i keep finding poetry in my pockets!)

What we all share…

the old man across the street
hand-cleans the robin’s egg blue bird bath
out of habit each day.
his wife is elsewhere now.
he has lived forever already
and nearly died many times.
We relate in that, and wave
or gaze occasionally at one another in mutual silent respect; and
the pecans still fall this season
into that bird bath-making
their own type of syrupy mess
which we alone are meant to clean-
and the squirrels only take half
the bounty, the rest is his!
And ours, together, somehow.

Ok last napkin post i promise, but cleaning out the archives today, and found, yet another from when i was living and teaching english in Jerusalem, and evidently living mostly on rooftops even then! Love finding old songs which still speak!

jerusalem is best
at night in moonlight
on a curved white rooftop;
that’s where the song of songs
lands on earth. or a girl’s hand
slips into yours forever.
moonlight, God, and ancient white stone, kiss like this, there,
with our own true skins.

jerusalem is best
at night in moonlight
on a curved white rooftop;
that’s where the song of songs
lands on earth. or a girl’s hand
slips into yours forever.
moonlight, God, and ancient white stone, kiss like that there
with our own true skins.

Another incomplete napkin thought from the day i was at 911 on the George Washington bridge. This poem could take a lifetime, but this was what i wrote on the napkin anyways…

at 911
from george washington’s bridge things
sped up and slowed down
at once, that day-today,
fire and steel
were both also
silent for an instant, twisting firstly into one another, and then
suddenly very loud, cacophonous
like the inside of thunder, i heard
the man of steel shriek
in wonder of
why he made
sky scrapers at all, for an instant;
perhaps he had a memory of babel…
and yet the angels
kept catching bodies
in mid air, in sheer kindness, and
beneath, i saw only
the dragon cloud; and
on all sides
as we all fell together, so many bodies tumbling
down through our Styrofoam cups-
falling curiously in slow motion-
God seemed to have lifted His Thumb for a second,
but was also very much there, catching us all in time, as we landed
into the kindness of His enormous tender endless Palms.
At least, that’s how it looked from the first father’s bridge that day!
Already and still remembering each person’s name in mid air,
us all falling together
there…

at 911
from george washington’s bridge things
sped up and slowed down
at once, that day-today,
fire and steel
were both also
silent for an instant, twisting firstly into one another, and then
suddenly very loud, cacophonous
like the inside of thunder, i heard
the man of steel shriek
in wonder of
why he made
sky scrapers at all, for an instant;
perhaps he had a memory of babel…
and yet the angels
kept catching bodies
in mid air, in sheer kindness, and
beneath i saw only
the dragon cloud; and
on all sides
as we all fell together, so many bodies tumbling
down through our Styrofoam cups-
falling curiously in slow motion-
God seemed to have lifted His Thumb,
but was also very much there, catching us all as we landed
into the kindness of His enormous tender endless Palms.
At least, that’s how it looked from the first father’s bridge that day!
Already remembering each person’s name in mid air!

Another poem i found today written on a napkin (seems to be my favorite medium-napkins and receipts!)

my grandfather’s palms
were so tender when he passed
like train tracks made of velvet snow
they remembered railroad ties
and tobacco glow,
ropes
and corn
jarring lids
up until the moment
when he couldn’t tighten things
any more.
At the funeral, a train passed
and rattled the words of
preacher Horn that day;
many felt it
as The Holy Spirit
we waited for as it passed through; Then,
we all filed out,
and went back to our other lives,
the ones we barely know in passing…

Iowa Winter, i never knew
what constant chill lives there
but i know snow
better than fields anyway,
and that ice skin climbing wind
must be my cousin
or at least akin.
But your skin must still be cold
tonight, years later friend.
For we never forget weather, so
somehow we all know one another
well already.