Content to Dream

Content to Dream

 I

Last night

I wanted to stay

Forever asleep

In my hidden temple

Of legends and dreams.

Where our souls were one,

And we ran as one,

Over the Misty Mountains

And far away.

Down into the lake of morning love,

Where we broke bread with God,

And dreamed as one

About the lives that we would be twice as sweet

If we stayed as one.

Flesh tan by the golden sun,

Souls stripped naked,

Endless summer fun,

Swimming through the oceanic mystery

With one and only one

Sacred pact to act,

Solely out of the unwavering love

For the Union,

The Creator,

And the creations to come.

 II

But then this morning,

I woke

To a screeching alarm

Late for class

With a stinking wet ass.

And as the dip spitters congealed,

It was revealed:

This high vision was sealed

Only in my infinite imagination.

It was not real,

It was not real,

It was not motha fukin real enough

To come true

Until possibly I made due

On my holy promise,

To be a Running Thomas

And wait ever so patiently

On Mother Fate

To give me just one more library date

With the woman with whom

I'd like to mate.

 III

Only then could we see,

That if in this divine mystery

The two of us

Were meant to be,

Or merely,

The one way wish

Of a lonely poet,

Content to dream,

Afraid to get his lazy ass up,

And crush five miles at Bream.

The Wise Oak

101 years full of good sap,
The wise oak stands tall.
Above the glare of tiny trees,
Soaking in the sun.

Her roots are deep in Eden’s soil,
Watered not discouraged by the rain.
Her leaves change with the seasons,
But her beauty she does retain.

Winter is near,
And maybe soon she’ll wither,
But not before I walk to the forest,
To hear her say, “come hither.”

Then I’ll kneel by her feet,
And listen long,
Let her tell me stories,
Grow wings from her song.

She pays no attention to criticism,
Let’s no other keep her from growth,
She stands tall and strong even in old age,
Never says no to sunlight.

She might fade with winter,
But I know,
Come springtime,

She’ll shine again.

Acorns and Oaks

Acorns and Oaks

I used to be an acorn,

Soon to be an oak,

Until one red hot night,

A demon launched me up the sky,

So high God held me in his hands

Sung me bed-time stories,

Made me think I was his only son.

I looked down on my acorn friends

In an arrogant gaze

Cuz I was the chosen one,

God talked through.

They were drunken acorns

Stained by sinIn need of cleansing,

From up high.

I was too high,

Too high to remember

That the ground

Is where acorns grow.

I was too high,

To listen to the calls

Of my friends crying out to me,

"Come down"

My oak tree parents,

I saw above.

Ignored their pleas.

To come home and grow.

Then one ice cold winter,

An angel kicked me down.

And in a quick flash

God was far, far away.

I fell like Lucipher.

Through the earth,

Into a nightmare.

Where demons laughed at me.

My acorn friends were growing into oaks,

Too high to see,

That each day,

I faded further away.

I was tormented forever.

Like a magnet to the low pole.

Brain chemistry experiment failed.

Dreams of a quick death

But, by the grace of the pen

I rose.

Poured my thoughts on the page,

Found a way out of the devil's trap.

Filed for a divorce from hell.

Literature gave me new life,

Writing exercised the demons.

Warped hell into heaven,

Emptied out the illusion that I was alone.

Then i could see my friends

Growing into oaks.

Calling me out,

Telling me to come home.

My story inspired,

Blessed the bedside of beautiful girls,

Teachers taught it in the classroom,

And I began to bloom.

Roots in the ground,

From an arrogant acorn,

Into the great oak,

We were all created to be.

Creative Christianity

Creative Christianity

If a curious character inquired

“What religion are ya?”

Avoiding a cliché worn and tired,

I would answer like this.

“For years my religion was of a submissive shade,

Bound to by fear of a grey, bearded slavemaster,

Chained by the dogma of powerful pedophiles,

Inner light trapped,

From coming to be.

Until my confirmation day,

When Jesus drew near,

Proclaiming “perfect love casts out fear!”

Setting me free,

To spit custom poetry,

And blaze,

A new trail,

Free of fear,

Full of the perfect love,

My mother and father gifted me.

Creative Christianity is

The religion that works for me,

Because it’s set me free

To practice the Golden Rule,

And be a wise fool,

Without having to worry about some tool,

Threatening the fires of hell,

If you don’t submit to his rotten spell,

That leaves no room for your humanity,

“Salvation through Christ and his virgin bride only?"

Nah I’ll try a fresh Christianity.

Loving my neighbor without condition,

Starting a new family tradition,

To be supernovas of unwavering light,

Warm, creative, undeniably bright.

Inspired in everything,

With God we co-create,

If it’s not committed out of hate,

It’s an article of faith.

I Had to Pray

I saw you holding a child today,
It was oh so natural—
Like you were born to be a beautiful mother,
Every since your parents dream of you came true.

I know you’ve had your dark nights,
I have too.
But may I say,

That in the light of this spring day,
With a giggling child at your sway,
I had to pray.

“Dear Lord, make Maggie’s bulimia go away,
Make your peace here to stay,
Then give her a gift,
That makes her heart lift,
Up to the sky,
A truth that cannot lie,
A child so funny and smart,
With loving parents and a sacred heart.”

Maybe it won’t be me and you,
But I hope this prayer be true,
So the angels may break through,
And turn the midnight black,
Into ocean blue.