The bird that clings to the branch
in the crashing of the wind and rain,
dreams of no other life,
prays to no imagined god,
but waits for the sun the clouds
daily lay for her.
Alone, orphaned from the egg,
she seeks no solace, or complains.
She is not sad for she is free
of the lust for happiness.
No rights protect her. No duty
binds her to another’s will.
She does not resent the storm,
builds no paranoia from the raindrops.
Water is not a punishment to her,
just as the rainbow, now,
is not the sign of her redemption.
She is a bird and it’s time to feed.
Nothing matters to me
more than curiosity.
Doubt is the currency
of the rich in mind.
The poor have faith
but no questions.
How could they live
Always, at twilight,
on his favourite twig
Blackbird fades like any shadow
and the service ends.
It’s enough for me.
We do not own ourselves
but borrow from the living stream
a spool of life. Turning is all we know:
patterns that haunt the world, disintegrate,
drifting like smoke and fading out.
Intangibles, we grip the intangible.
Belief is a rock we cling to as we go:
floating through the day, we keep on living,
carried by the stream that has no end…
that passes through us…that we’re passing through…
I drew a circle with a compass.
A sort of god emerged, full of immense power,
but it did not speak…
so I drew another…
‘Why burn heretics’?
You are an ignorant child.
Stand in the corner.
All gods, nowadays,
are invisible. A trait
no faith discusses.
If everything was white:
the stars, the sky, the looming trees
and all the beasts and all the bees,
and every building white as these,
then there would still be names for them,
a word for each of these,
but there would be no word for white;
A universal shade, invisible in tone:
Far too evident to be known.
Dear Sir or Madam
It has been drawn to my attention
that you are experiencing “suffering.” Continue reading “His Prayers Are Answered”
Can God be known by Man? Perhaps.
I found a clue when young – in maps.
The teacher said to me: “Find Asia.”
Well, I looked. But where on Earth was Asia? Continue reading “The Divinity of Asia”
They stand there holding leaflets, nothing else,
for hours each day: relentless islands of faith
in the flow of indifferent faces. They ring no bells Continue reading “The Religion of the Shovel”