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Possessions speak to us all day long.
That book you purchased But have never read Says “Read me!” And the empty shelf Says “fill me up with more.” Some possessions warm and nurture While others distract, dissuade, and even harm. If we are not careful, the things we own Can siphon off our strength. Or they can build us up, Make us better. So choose carefully what you own And don’t be afraid of letting go Of a thing When it no longer serves The purpose for which it was purchased.
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They say that not all who wander are lost,
And that’s true of me, I think. I wander, wander, Never sure Exactly where I’m going, But also not without a rough idea. The inner light points in a direction And I begin to act, to move step by step Toward the place where it feels that I should go. And I trust the way to open up before me. And it does. That’s the miracle Though it does not come Without the work Of exercising faith. I relate to the albatross and its endless worldwide journeys. It is said that the albatross can travel ten thousand miles To bring home one meal of oily vomit for its chick. Yeah. I think that’s it. Ten thousand miles To find one little treasure, One morsel To regurgitate here upon the empty page. I find myself wanting to expand upon this work. To share more of what I see and feel, More of the people that I meet As I wander, wander, Round the world. It is possible to serve the light
For your own sake? To be Dark inside, Filthy with secret pride While outwardly stacking up Your achievements, Allowing others To laud your name, And never once realizing That your soul is lost, Not in gross immorality, But in the actor’s game The hypocrites play. Listen closely To yourself. Is your story one of redemption? Or is it the hero’s myth? They are not the same story. I have a deep distrust for the latter And an unfailing affection for the former. So don’t tell me how you slew the dragon. Tell me about the dragon inside of you. That’s the story I long to hear Because he lives inside me too, And it is all I can do With the help of God To find my way. There is the part of me that likes to go out
And there is the part of me that likes To come back home. And both play a part in the strange way That I support my family, My family. And you are part of my family. I go out, and I come back home. And I share the wisdom that I’ve found from the road With the ones I love, the ones I love. I love you, and I pray For you in your own journey. Perhaps one day, you will grow up To go out and come back home And share your wisdom From the road. And the cycle goes round and round, You are my children. And one day You will have children Of your own. Lessons from Raymond, the homeless man
Who helped prepare me for the road. To view previous lessons, find my playlist entitled: Raymond Lessons. Lesson 11: All Day Long I almost didn’t mention this one Because it contradicts Something else That Raymond said. But it has become applicable. You see, I was skeptical When he implied That everything came to him without asking. Sometimes, maybe. But always? And so I asked Raymond, Do you ever have to panhandle To get the things you need? “Yes,” he said. “How much?” I asked. “All day,” he said. “Every day.” “Oh…” I said. And I didn’t like that answer. Because now it appeared that our good fortune Was a special providence, and that I would not be able to escape The work of asking. Just a note for those of you who aren't yet subscribed to my YouTube channel, if you want to hear me read these poems and also hear a little background on them, go subscribe. Here's the link.
Many changes are afoot. I stand on the brink Of, yet again, a leap of faith. And somehow, it feels as if These little thoughts Might just not be enough, As if I should be, do, Something more… Something more… And I wonder, Is it enough? What do you think? Might the world feed me and my little tribe If I just keep showing up…showing up? Soon we will find out, Won’t we? I weave your dreams from autumn leaves
Turned brown and drifting downward Toward the emptiness Of summer skies When the snow flurries Upward toward the starlit heavens And the moon looks down Upon the restless hopes Of careworn souls Who daren’t Believe That anything Could be so real As the grind of wheat upon the wheels of time. And the feet of those who’ve gone before In the dusty tracks of them Who couldn’t find Their way.  This is Dillon. I met him while taking a walk yesterday. He was about to lift a lawnmower into the back of his pickup truck and I stopped to help. From what he said, it sounds like he is a cattle rancher who mows lawns on the side to make ends meet. He seems so young to be a cattle rancher.... I always picture cattle men as big burley guys in their mid-fourties with cowboy hats and beer bellies. I guess that shows how far stereotypes go. In any case, as I went on my way, it occurred to me that he is just like me, making his way in life, doing the best he can to make ends meet. And it occured to me that I might be him if I had been born at another time and in another place. And so I stopped a half a block away and wrote this poem. When I finished, Dillon was just finishing up trimming the lawn and I went back and got this photo. (If you can't see the photo, you may have received this through email. I don't think the RSS feed sends photos. If so, just go to my website, click on the BLOG and scroll till you find it.)
I wonder, If I were someone else, Would I be just like them. I can't help but think That to some degree, I would. That makes me think that it's just me Walking around and being everyone. So many people can't help but be themselves, Just like me, just like everyone. I wish that I could be A better friend to them And in turn, a better friend to myself. God help me to see it deeper To feel myself in the others That I meet each day I pray. Note to self:
People want what they want, And some graciously give, God bless them. But when it comes to making a living, It may be better me to focus on what others want Not what I want. Sell them something That they are already looking for. And then use the surplus To graciously give. One day, the world will change To an economy of gifts. I look forward to that day. But in the meantime, it’s a balance. We work. We sell the people what they want. And then we give of our surplus property. It is an imperfect system. But it works. And perhaps we can use it as a tool To shine a light on the coming world of gifts. I am the roots of the tree
The thing unseen. I am There but you can’t see me. You think that it is you, That it is he, But it is we Three. Remember. Oh, remember. And when you think that you’re alone Draw deep from the unseen place that lingers In the memory of what you were before you sprung Up from the ground so many years before. There we were together. And though You cannot see me. I have never left you and I never will. I am the source, the wellspring of your deepest desires. And one day, when you’ve grown tired of living, And fall down hard to the unforgiving soil. There I will wait to meet you deep In the hollowed end, That is beginning. Thank you For letting me nourish you. I am the roots, and I love you And though you think that we are separated, We are not. We cannot be, we three, Are knit together in oneness Always. I have to slow down and visit meaning
Or it escapes me. I have to ask myself, Do I find meaning in what I'm doing now? I ask it all the time, of myself. And to my surprise It often says, Aye, there's meaning. And that's classic, to find it In the most unexpected ways and places. But it's not enough to find my meaning I have to see it in others also. I have to hear the stories. I have to watch their Sacred paces. And the sight, the sound, of it Restores my faith in meaning itself. And as, like a flood, it washes over me, I am restored to the unnamable meaning of it all. There are those who try to deny hell
But I am not sure why. There are those Who choose hell in this life When the light shines the day long. I can’t imagine that the next life is so different. But I also can’t imagine That the light doesn’t shine brighter there. But that means that the darkness Must also be deeper, The contrast more stark. There is always hope for those who want the light Though they flounder and fail to find it. I do not worry about them. But there are also those Who do not want the light. They seek out the shadows. They revel in causing pain. And you cannot force a soul to heaven Though you extend the hand of mercy the day long. I wish that I could give the world His love,
Not a system of belief, But the Man Himself. For I am cradled in his kindness. My home is in His heart- And though I wander O’er the earth My pillow a stone, My shelter rain, I am at home In Him. It makes me think of those Who have no home In the love Of One. It makes me want to wrap them up In the harbor of my heart, To clothe them with acceptance, Peace, truth, and kindness, And to free them, Like birds To the belief that they are loved, How is it done, I wonder, When I, myself, Am yet like sparrows? It seems so little to love. And yet it, so often, has been The only thing I had to give. Old friend, the world that you have chosen,
The spoil that you have taken, Sits rotting Under your canopy. “But I could pay,” you say, “I could pay. And here is the receipt.” Fool! You believe that you are the hero, The saver of the day, the victor By the thickness of your pocketbook. And what’s more, that you have escaped The eye that sees all things, When in reality, You have dealt treacherously. You have whisked away the hearts And the very souls of men For your own pleasure. Bring them back, I say! Bring them back! Before, with fierce anger, I come into your house to repay. And your family is stripped from you, Your pocketbook emptied. Your soul ravaged Of solace, And you left desolate Amid the furious winds Of the desert of the soul. Old friend, we are still friends. But know that you can’t go on this way. And I mourn to see the future that awaits If you do not swiftly change your ways. |
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