Image: Sesshu Style Painting – Enhanced by Grok (see below)
A Quiet Security
I wish I could feel peace as a warm glow In the brain— Fears falling away Leaving no scars— A quiet security that my soul is blessed.
I wish I could feel gentle pulse-beats— Reminders of the Lord’s knocking At the door of my heart— Fears falling away Leaving no scars— A quiet security that my soul is blessed.
I wish I could fill my life with self-realized people— People who are souls wearing bodies. People whose fears have fallen away Leaving no scars— A quiet security that their souls are blessed.
My fleeting dreams do float through dark waters. Mortal visions melt into deep silence. My mind then cowers from earthly slaughters. My heart beats hard in fearing violence.
Still, I wander from dream to starless dream. I undergo birth and then death again. My journey moves on through a storm-tossed stream— I face meaningless bouts of grief and pain.
Yet my soul rests beneath Thy sacred wing. Thy mercy shelters me from constant fright. Thou bring’st me peace no fleeting dream can bring. My soul grows bright in Thy flame of pure light.
Thou dost guard my life on this stormy sea. Thou dost keep my soul forever with Thee.
Image: Created by ChatGPT, inspired by “Ready for Morning”
Ready for Morning
He stayed gently by me. Wrapped me in his lush, dark arms. Soothed my bones when they grew restless. Brought me cool water when my head fevered, When my tongue parched. He whispered soft, sweet love, Chased away intruders who would turn me out of bed. And now I am ready for morning— Night was a good lover. He kissed away my sighs. Played between my lips, between my breasts. Worked all my instruments of lust. Entered the orchard of desire And plucked my fresh love fruit. His body-less body was A clean dome of skin-less skin. And I am ready for morning Because night was such a good lover, Loving me all over my dreamless sleepless sleep.
The things of mortal world are mere symbols Whose meaning shines clear standing near The Divine Creator’s love for souls.
They hint at divine essence in syllables. Their sacred beginning becomes clear— The things of mortal world are mere symbols.
Some thoughts seem harmful, others good as gold. Angel care enjoys and dark devils fear The Divine Creator’s love for souls.
Seeing with wakened eye, I take on new roles, Moving in divine realms, unafraid, sincere— The things of mortal world are mere symbols.
Divine Belovèd rings the bell that tolls Calling my heart to repeat my new prayer Of the Divine Creator’s love for souls.
Striving to achieve all my worthy goals, I study all letters’ symbolic fare— The things of mortal world are mere symbols Of the Divine Creator’s love for souls.
the things of this world hold so, but if i think of them all as symbols of my divine beloved’s love, they loosen their choke-hold, they whisper that a sacred essence is their source, a sacred essence permeates them, how could they not?
getting used to sacredness, purity, divinity, mystic health—just getting used to it is the challenge, because for years i have thought of things as harmful or helpful, mostly harmful, good or bad, mostly bad how could i not?
i want to experience the source of all things, the one whom i have named my divine beloved— love is everything, love is the reason for everything i do that i really want to do, love is the reason for being everything i am being, i am being for love, for my divine beloved, god is my divine beloved, and all the things of this world are symbols of his divine love.
I walked out as a sinner In the hands of an angry God—
And the earth opened up before me On my path to Church And I could not keep my foot from Slipping and slid down and down And soon stood at the mouth of Hell. And no one greeted me; nothing visited Save ash, gray, dead ash. No sighing pagan, No river, no whirlwind lovers, No brimstone—all was equal Ash. And as soon as I questioned— What goes with me now, my God?— I was answered: You are My Image, My Child, sinner though you think yourself. Cast your flaws upon the grate And watch as I cast the fire That licks them to ash. I then saw my impediments form bold lettering On the grate—Greed, Lust, Jealousy, Sloth— And flames did engulf them. And a Voice spoke to my Soul: Gaze on this Dark pit and know that here sins are burned, Not sinners. Sins become ash. Sinners become saints In time in Love with Me. And thus assured I rose to sunlight again And standing in the path That leads to the Congregation Turned my steps home where I sought My closet, seated myself in solitude And prayed for the first time with a clean heart.
Image: Create by ChatGPT, inspired by “May I Become a Fountain of Song“
May I Become a Fountain of Song
I plumb the heavens for a song to stream through My waiting mind, for my waiting hands — To hear the strains, to play the notes A tease, a glimmer of melody begins to trickle Shimmering silver on my tongue, I sing And soon the tune comes flowing forth
I listen as the fountain of sound bursts again Strumming the melody in a calm, clear tone Leaving my mind to wonder what it heard Lifting the veil of darkness as it moves Reviving my listening heart to accept The golden decibels of joy and love
Again and again, I plumb the heavens for song And again and again, the melodies flow From the vast divine scripture of song I would have as mine but humbly allow That only the Divine Hymnist can compose The bliss of the songs that flow through me
My purple dress with blue hue so slight I wear in Thine honor, O my Blessèd Lord Twelve o’clock, one or two o’clock, day or night— Whenever Thou consumes the time I afford
My hat I doff to clouds swimming in the sky My shoes planted on the ground remain true All my colorful clothes I present for Thy sacred reply Every thread waits and waits for Thy clue
I am more than all my fine clothes My heart is burning, yearning only for Thee My mind is turning, turning from woes My soul is shedding its veil of mockery
I will be Thy humble singer of sacred lore That without wings my sacred soul will soar
In Memoriam My mother Helen Richardson June 27, 1923 — September 5, 1981
Astral dreams let me see your sacred form. Southern woman, strong but of fragile frame— O Kentucky Mother of love so warm!
Greek grandfather, gone before I was born, In soul joins you, free from the mortal game— Astral dreams let me see your sacred form.
Strong in spirit, heart tender as the morn, With wisdom shining as bitter trials’ claim— O Kentucky Mother of love so warm!
Those turtles we spied moving through the corn— You praised their shells that guard from worldly flame. Astral dreams let me see your sacred form.
The heart needs protection from matter’s storm. Sorrows cut deep wounds from bigoted blame— O Kentucky Mother of love so warm!
Your wise words allowed my soul to adorn My life with faith—a path that discards shame. Astral dreams let me see your sacred form— O Kentucky Mother of love so warm!
Image: Created by Grok, inspired by “Mockingbird in the Weeds”
Mockingbird in the Weeds
Breath works to bring the cells home Morning spots loom and roam He was willing to seek derangement Before he got his eye put out
Breath heaves in the open air Wine stained shirts open there On the same planet he felt Would use his best words
Breath lost its heft drifting His fingers were still sifting Maybe he finally smelled His own stench for a second
Breath gained on the heart Spiking trenches for airy arts But he stayed in the muck Preferring filth to joy
Breath day trips the wing Blind bat in cave does sing Stirring the stillness into dust Waiting for the plant to yield
Breath like a mockingbird in the weeds Speeds the lungs to deliver its seeds He spun in a circle of madness Writing his doggerel of death and lust
Breath slow and quiet became my guide My light turned on the shore of love not pride I make my way as I try to remain humble Banishing war and hate to tranquility
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