The Holy Fools
Basil the Blessed sat naked,
On the Church porch,
Eating sausages during Great Lent.
Xenia lived in a graveyard.
And insisted in being called,
By her late husband’s name.
There were many others.
Their main message is to
Tell us that the Church is the ultimate
Finger-pointing-at-the-moon.
Their main danger is
Exactly the same.
Where I’m From
I come from the Central Valley
Of California.
It was not intended to be developed.
It would have been just a few
Scrub oaks and grasses,
With a few human beings,
Here and there.
But white people moved in after 1849,
And there was irrigation,
And crops,
As though they’d always been there.
Then it became a “bedroom community” for the Bay Area,
When people could no longer afford to live there.
And now it’s going back to
Scrub Oaks and grasses.
Laughing at us as it reverts.
Eric lll
I was lonely 40 years
But didn’t admit lt.
I’ve not been lonely 25
But didn’t admit it.
I have a spiritual friend.
(It’s in the realm of gift.)
And now I admit it.
My Spiritual Life
Like a Pskov church,
Its plain exterior belying
The glories within,
I lived my Central Valley life.
But I stood at the threshold
Of the Orthodox Church in Kodiak,
Not entering, because I didn’t belong there,
Not leaving because of the familiarity,
That had me scanning my memory banks,
For a trace of candles, incense,
And icons, bad, I later learned.
But finding nothing, still I stood.
And my grandmother haunted my
Church dreams of that era.
(The late 70s)
I was like a Pskov church. No
Telling the glories within. Later,
It all went away.
God
“I am God!”
Declared the mystics.
And they were right.
But they’d still have to be
Them to say that.
And they were right.
Sunset
I don’t know why I was walking
By the airport, but I was.
I just remember she pulled
Up beside me and asked if I needed
A ride. I don’t think she wanted
To fuck me. I think she was just being
Kind.
The thing I remember, though,
Is the incomparable valley sunset.
That filled the sky. I’ve not seen the
Like elsewhere. Red and gold.
Clouds going down to the
Coast Range. Gold and red.
As though to memorialize, though.
That simple act of
Kindness.
On Being Gay
We’re ten percent of the population
At most.
When marriage morphed from
Man and his sex object or objects,
To a union of two like minds
(Seldom attained)
We stood by as witnesses.
Showing what marriage could be.
As we suffered for not fitting,
Sometimes with our lives.
As the ninety (or more) percent
Struggled to make marriage fit
The old tribal reality,
Because the Bible was said to
Have said so.
The Moon
Finger pointing at the moon
Is the ultimate metaphor,
Unless you focus on the Moon.
Then it’s the stupidest of metaphors.
But knowing that the moon is just analogy,
You can go anywhere.
It’s Ordinary
Finger pointing at the moon,
Though it surely rhymes with June,
We see that satellite each night,
It’s easy to get not-quite-right,
Of allegories it’s the king,
Get it—you’ll do anything.
To Be a Saint
I said tell me what to do,
When I met a saint like thee,
To become a bit like you,
He said the answer’s in the tree.
Skepticism
Most, who skeptics claim to be,
Are from Religion refugee.
If you’re skeptical or dead,
First you doubt the color red,
Then clocks and cliffs and both the genders,
And question streusel,
Waring blenders,
Question one place ‘gainst another,
Question sister, now, and brother.
Then skeptical’s your neighborhood,
And you’ll finally do some good.
Mindfulness
Of all that knocks the deathless door:
The eightfold path. It’s number four.
There are truly seven more,
The noble eightfold path’s the score.
Buddhists are thus wise to shout,
“They’re not what we’re all about!”
But it’s getting much too late,
To say they’re only one of eight.
Keep Looking
When you encounter the miraculous,
You know, anything supernatural,
Keep looking that way.
Because you’ll see that,
What’s before you, is as miraculous
As anything could be.
And all you need. The alternative
Is idolatry.
And the miraculous is right here.
A Guided Tour of Hell
My boss, he went on down to hell,
Like Delogs, Dante Alighieri,
And like them, he came back to tell,
A tale so very cautionary,
About that hell (both hot and cold),
And how to live to best forestall it.
Compassion truly broke the mold,
In missing that, the book is all shit.
On a Lookout on the Charles River
The black bird doesn’t care
If I’ve had a stroke or am “normal,”
He only wants to know if I’ve brought
Him food or not.
May I be like him.
Father Alexander Schmemann
1921-1983
He had that knack for
Non-separation
And with it comes the false
Impression that everything that
Crosses your mind must be
Correct. And his followers got
That false impression too.
Instead of looking for that same
Non-separation in themselves,
They looked to him.
That was their first mistake.
Not questioning him.
Not questioning themselves.
Lookout, 8 AM
I am the sun,
Shining through
September-green trees.
To be alive,
Is not to be,
The sun or September-green,
But to be separate enough from them,
To get their beauty.
I am grateful to be alive,
And separate.
Karen Tate
Born 1907
I got your last name And birth year from My mother’s family history. Which also said you were an “Invalid,” and “had polio at Age three.” I assume you’re dead. Otherwise you’d be 112, and I Bet you’re not, but I don’t know When you died. I met you twice. The first time I don’t remember. I was baby. And you visited California Trading in your usual tricycle, For a real wheelchair. The second time, I was about ten, And you were in what was then Called a “rest home” In Missouri. And I was afraid of you then, because Of the tricycle and because you Talked like me, post-stroke. But now I think of you In that class of women sacrificed, Like the “girl who died in the fire,” Who’s calling was to give up, A life of relationship (though it Was involuntary) so other women Could fulfill their calling To be mothers. And the feeling That it had to happen. And you Knew about it.
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