The Archers
They are moving quietly
through the shadows,
barely below the threshold of
my discomfort;
They are whispering:
calling out my True Name,
the one I forgot;
they are tugging,
insistent, forceful,
their firm dark hands
on the blades of my shoulder,
turning me first this way
then that;
Like an arrow
they aim me
with tender, merciless love
directly toward the center of my fear,
their exquisite accuracy measured
unerringly by the windsock of my resistance;
It is an oddly practical dynamic:
the harder I struggle,
the clearer their target.
through the shadows,
barely below the threshold of
my discomfort;
They are whispering:
calling out my True Name,
the one I forgot;
they are tugging,
insistent, forceful,
their firm dark hands
on the blades of my shoulder,
turning me first this way
then that;
Like an arrow
they aim me
with tender, merciless love
directly toward the center of my fear,
their exquisite accuracy measured
unerringly by the windsock of my resistance;
It is an oddly practical dynamic:
the harder I struggle,
the clearer their target.
The Way I Love You
The most difficult thing
is to love
without claim,
to trust
without owning,
to give up the
safety of preconception;
If we are lucky,
those whom we love
will never be who we imagine
or want;
They will never do
as we expect;
The soul,
too virile
to be contained
by our simple expectations,
commands it’s own
unique destiny;
We can never know
the people we love;
Their truth is far
more glorious
and alive
than we could
ever invent;
Rather,
we love by allowing
something uncontrollable
to unfold, and those willing to
travel bravely
along that vibrant edge,
if only for the briefest moment,
can never love
any other way again.
is to love
without claim,
to trust
without owning,
to give up the
safety of preconception;
If we are lucky,
those whom we love
will never be who we imagine
or want;
They will never do
as we expect;
The soul,
too virile
to be contained
by our simple expectations,
commands it’s own
unique destiny;
We can never know
the people we love;
Their truth is far
more glorious
and alive
than we could
ever invent;
Rather,
we love by allowing
something uncontrollable
to unfold, and those willing to
travel bravely
along that vibrant edge,
if only for the briefest moment,
can never love
any other way again.
Wanting
You can want something
so much,
so long,
so badly,
when it finally comes
to your door
you mistake it for a beggar
and send it away;
The wanting
has become the end
in and of itself,
a mask,
rendering unrecognizable
the true nature of your desire;
Throw off your wanting
and you will see clearly
these gifts
that come to visit you;
Admit them all!
Lavish them with
gratitude.
so much,
so long,
so badly,
when it finally comes
to your door
you mistake it for a beggar
and send it away;
The wanting
has become the end
in and of itself,
a mask,
rendering unrecognizable
the true nature of your desire;
Throw off your wanting
and you will see clearly
these gifts
that come to visit you;
Admit them all!
Lavish them with
gratitude.
My Father's World
They came in white laboratory coats
soldering under microscopes
in dust-free rooms,
pushing my father’s world of blunt tools aside.
That world is fading slowly now into
the cracks of an old man’s memory.
It can barely be seen through the dark glass. Look!
Do you see that ball-peen hammer? the chisels laid out
evenly on the wooden bench?
They appear Neolithic;
relics of another way of moving mountains.
My father lives marginally
in this modern world.
After eighty-three years
he’s taken to preaching.
Eight or ten people gather
in someone’s living room
and listen to his account of dying
on the operating table.
They support him with love offerings.
Occasionally, he loses his place and
thinks he’s back in the shipyard doing an important job;
the men in laboratory coats remove him quickly and
ask him to not return.
It can barely be seen through the dark glass. Look!
Do you see that ball-peen hammer? the chisels laid out
evenly on the wooden bench?
They appear Neolithic;
relics of another way of moving mountains.
My father lives marginally
in this modern world.
After eighty-three years
he’s taken to preaching.
Eight or ten people gather
in someone’s living room
and listen to his account of dying
on the operating table.
They support him with love offerings.
Occasionally, he loses his place and
thinks he’s back in the shipyard doing an important job;
the men in laboratory coats remove him quickly and
ask him to not return.