Theology Set

Theology

How foolish we are to deny God's grace.
Here we sit on the third planet,
with mass and velocity just so,
and spaced, just so.
And we call it Chance,
all the while resting easy
in the right hand of God.


Theology II

I am a planet in distant orbit.
My sun is Jesus.
His gravity and my mass
held in divine balance.
One atom's change
would send me spiralling in
to his all-consuming love,
or out into the Buddhist's void.
And I muse...perhaps being Jewish is enough.
(To which a friend replies "that's just because
you haven't met my Aunt Sophie")


Theology III

Ah, the fate of Jesus,
a prophet who eschewed earthly glory
(but who earned it anyway),
only to be flanked by others
claiming the right of dominion
or the right of domination,
claiming by blood, claiming with blood,
or claiming through blood,
a secure or ordered world
for the glory of God.
I say the wisdom of the desert fathers is enough:
Keep to the middle, walk to the side.


Theology IV

The Taliban shell the Buddhist statues at Bamyan,
as if blowing up rock
can destroy an idea.
Buddhist thought informed the Sufis,
children of Abraham,
who in turn, dancing within Islam,
love Jesus,who, in turn,
learned to love all.
Cannon shells, religious vanity, and fear (always fear)
cannot break this chain.

Paul Bley on the Jazz Sound

In describing how a jazz musician develops his sound, Paul Bley said: "You get the sound you hear."
The same goes for poetry.

Work in Progress

Early one morning, I was thinking of the differences between my wife Edna and myself, in regard to where we would live and how we would raise our children - and this fragment of a poem popped into my head:

"...to raise them as wolvces to live in a forest I had not the courage to enter."

Later, I had the following thought:

"...while you gave them a grace and gentility far beyond my rudimentary abilities."

People have always gone out of their way to tell us what good kids we have (they are now in their early twenties to early thirties). I have to agree, though I have the usual misgivings, occasionally, that most parents have. I don't know if these two fragments will ever come together in a formal poem, but didn't want to lose them.

Observations at 62

I
Its turning towards Fall again
and I can't decide
if I'm grateful for the change,
or tired of the repetition.

II
I smell myself
and its not too bad,
except certain places.

Invitation

You're invited to the feast.
The table's piled high,
the food awaits by day and by night.
What's your pleasure?
If you're tired, let someone else's fingers
feed you grapes.
If you're hungry, be a two-fisted eater.
Its OK! We're all here to serve.
Right now fresh fruit is being peeled;
the dirty dishes swept away.
Look!
Tiny birds chase the crumbs at your feet.

Pomegranates

You sat across the room, unknown to me.
And then between us
the cosmic axes and sacred geometries of space
silently and gently folded,
and collapsed.

From above, a branch laden with fruit descended.
And we picked each other!

At first we were hard and content within our skins;
then, swollen with summer's heat.
Finally, battered by a late autumn storm,
We broke against one another.
And found inside, to our surprise,
Sweet ruby kernels we could share.

The Arms of My Eyes

Out in public,
the arms of my eyes reach out,
and women suddenly adjust their clothing,
tugging this way or that,
to cover exposed flesh.
They don't know why.