In the Turn of Time - poetry

 And, so, in the turn of time,

the wheeling of the stars, if you can see ‘em,

the earth swinging around the light,

and the light swirling amid the Milky 

expanse of a small to middlin’ galaxy, 

in one far corner of something

beyond imagination and grasp,

measured in time impossible, and distance

at the speed of light.

And, so, here I am.

A blip … a speck … a mote of dust.

Dust, would you believe?

The Bible says God shaped the dust,

and then blew something of God’s heart

into the dust, into it’s nostrils, the nose.

The nose knows, I suppose, what the rest of the body

has been trying to figure out forever.

Where did this stuff come from?

This dust, this breath, the nose, the madness.

I’m here, and so are you.

And we’re working at something called love.

“Love one another” says Jesus.

And we can barely manage it.

What we do well is hate.

We do that with skill and cunning and brilliance.

For every love we might manage, we’ve got a ton

of hatred, ill-will, suspicion, and malice of forethought.

The nose still knows … the breath of God.

Like a dog on a walk, suddenly stopping

to sniff the air, we catch a hint of the original wind

that made this little heap of dust become a living being.

A soul, a nephesh, nearly divine, even as the dust

swirls around our feet, and fills our homes with

the past.

DNA and tribal instincts makes us hate.

Original sin?

We wanted … and we suspected God

cheated us.

We took it, and damn, if God wasn’t right.

Take it, and you’ll die, said God.

And we thought God was b-s-ing us.

But God wasn’t, not at all.

Death has been stalking us ever since, 

and to ease the burden on our minds,

we give death away by the handful, 

every day … we give it away,

and dress it up with our righteous hatreds,

and wonder why death still clings to us

like some kind of black mold in the corner

of the drawer.

Ah, yes, so here I am … this little dust mote, 

a fly speck, some might say.

A smear of nonsense on the wall.

A stench to the earth and its water.

A blot upon the snow.

The nose knows … and I pause for a moment

in the hush of the morning, and I lift my

head to the hills, just north of town.

And I think of God … and hardly know

what to do with it.

But God remains in my mind, stuck there,

like a nagging thought, that I am what

I am, and then some … a bit more than

meets the eye.

Could be, I think, could be.

Is There a God?

Is there a God?
Perhaps ... maybe not.
Whether there is or isn't doesn't seem to make a lot of difference ... as folks seem to make of it whatever they darn well please ...
A god of hate?
A god of love?
A god of damnation?
A god of welcome?
And a little of this and a little of that.
We all know the tired and dangerous claims: god spoke to me ... god said to me ... it's in the revealed word of god ... god's spirit convinced me ...


And, yes, a lot of goodness comes from that ... but so does a lot of evil.
Hospitals and schools built ...
and slaves to farm the cotton and cane ...
and prisons for those who would make trouble for those who own the cotton and cane ...
and visions of social justice in the likes of a Martin Luther King, Jr. ...
and the healing hands of Mother Teresa ...
and the gun-slinging patriots who believe that Jesus favors open-carry ...
and every form of nobility and love ...
and every form of bigotry and hate.


This pretty much leaves the question open.
I guess its up to you and me to chose.
And like the Knight said to Indiana Jones, "Choose wisely."

I Am One with the World

I am one with the world.
And the world is one with me.
That's what it means, I think.
To be human.
Created in the image of God.
Who created the world.
The whole of it.
All of it.
To be a good and redemptive place.
Where everything can thrive.
Where generation is the rule.
Where the new emerges.
Where the unexpected happens.

A world always waiting.
For something.
Because the world yearns.
It's built into us.
To stretch.
Reach.
Grope.
Look high and look low.

I am one with the world.
In its eternal nature.
"World without end."
And in its limits.
It's finitude.
The boundaries of time.
When the Big Bang.
Is finished.
Or something like that.

I am created.
I didn't invent myself.
I didn't choose to be here.
I was thrust here.
(I like that imagery).
Of birth.
Of labor.
Pain and sweat.
Tears and agony.
Pop - and here I am.

And for a season.
Which, always seems strange to me.
When I think about it.
A season.
Of love.
Trial and tribulation.
Friends and family.
Good things.
Sad things.
Terrible things.
And glorious.

I am one with the world.
In its beauty.
In its sorrow.

I am its beauty.
So are you.
I am its sorrow.
And you are, too.

Saint and sinner.
Some would say.

Life and death.
Good and evil.
High and low.
Grand and ugly.
Generous and stingy.
Loving and hateful.
Giving and taking.
Concerned and care-less.

I am all these things.
And you are, too.

And so it goes.

I am one with the world.
And the world is one with me.