Can one talk about God except through poetry?
No and yes,
Because without song there’d be nothing memorable to say
But God insists upon our being intelligent, or, at the very least, intelligible,
And poetry often is “not that!”
Without inspiration, (taking a spiritual breath), there’d be no God –
But that’s about breathing “in” – not “out” –
Yet, when we’re talking about God, isn’t it always a mix?
Part understanding and part a tapping of the feet.
Isn’t it true that as soon as God comes to mind
Our heart wants to start singing –
Isn’t it also true that as soon as black letters hit white pages
In an attempt to describe God –
A bucket of color gets thrown over the words –
Because God is so wild, alive, and unanticipated.
A newborn baby first opening its eyes to the world
Could not be more surprised
Than a poet sitting down and starting to write anything about God.
Men invented the ego but kept it mostly to themselves –
Women thought this quite the magic show
Generally permissible to watch.
Men created masks for dancing round a fire –
Women hummed and pounded the earth with their fists
Which resulted in many children for the community.
Men invented writing but kept it to themselves
Women said: “alright” and retreated into kitchens with daughters
Resulting in men monopolizing societal memory
Which, in turn, encompassed gods, wealth, and power –
Thereby inheriting a “male heaven on earth.”
Someday, all these “men-as-Gods” will have to stop
And take a break – in order that women can stand up without fear
And show us what we’ve all been missing.
I pray the right woman, reading this – today –
Will stand up and say: “alright – I’ll do it” –
“If the world is now willing to accept a “woman-as-God” –
“Here I am – ready or not!”
Each year, a few more people attend my blog
So that, suddenly, it starts filling up
And looks like I’m getting noticed.
Then, one day, everyone goes away –
Was it something I said?
This blog is whittling away my natural optimism –
Coming and going – chips flying.
My wife usually remembers to support me –
But one day I made a mistake in repeating an earlier blog –
How could she not notice?
Yet no one has that kind of memory.
I don’t sign the blog with my individual name
Because that’s unimportant –
Instead, I’m writing little notes to God
Who, I hope, appreciates the effort.
Writing, for me, is like being underwater
Then, suddenly surfacing –
Waiting for a bit, and then going back down,
Hoping to reach ecstasy before drowning –
Hoping it might be the same thing –
Drowning in God while dying in me.
To lose everything might provide total freedom
But it doesn’t usually happen that way
Since a person can only lose one piece of themselves at a time.
Writing is freedom on a blank sheet
Without even a dot –
This sheet appears as empty as God
Who’s been busily filling everything in.
Love is like leaving a window open
So that, suddenly, if a bird flies in –
It’s the symbol of your heart returning home.
I keep tearing off pieces of myself
And tossing them out into the dark –
Pretty soon the night will be all lit up with me –
After a certain age, sex and gender start floating off –
What’s left is much greater freedom –
It’s what you’ll see when you get close enough to look directly at God
While, later in life, you start filling up with so much love
That you can’t hold onto anything else.
God is a surprise
Because you never see God coming –
Just don’t piss in your panties
When it happens.