Happy Union: A Path To Enlightenment

Happy Union, Texas

at the waterhole, north end of grandfather's farm

where Kirby keeps his cattle.

It's evening and 110 degrees.

Barbas de Oro is whooshing up from El Rio Grande.

The chaparral throbs, and the cornfields rattle like pissed-off snakes.

I float in a pond, listen to killdeer, and scissor-tails.

Frogs plop in the water and ripple after ripple

passes through me.

I'm a buoy connected to Yahweh.

My head bobs in the swish\swoosh

body of water, and I muse –

If Jesus is omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent;

if He is here at this moment,

has He counted every strand on my head?

If He knows me fully,

and I know Him,

having consumed His body

and drank His blood,

if He is here now,

does He ascend in golden plumes,

arms raised, palms turned outward,

pale face, blue-eyed, and blond;

or, is He in the water

nude,

dark, shiny as a stone;

hair raven and in curls,

eyes black and catholic?

"Well Rabbi," I begin,

"It's like this --"

We talk late in the evening.

Just me and Jesus

-- neither here nor there --

in the heart of Texas,

in a slow spiral,

our heads bobbing

in the swish\swoosh

body of water.

When Flowers Were In Bloom

When flowers were

in full bloom,
I saw you.
You were more beautiful
than any blossom
in any garden,
in any city,
in any state,
in any continent,
in any planet,

You were more beautiful --

When wildflowers sweetened
the bee laden days,
and sudden northern winds
blew those strange Saturdays
into so many lost Sundays,
I danced like a dervish
whirling, whirling
till flames burned
above my head.

And though I offered days
of bells and honey,
your heart walked
down a narrow road
to a temple in the east
never  to return --
I lost myself.

And in evening light,
I sat in a pasture
with a thousand bluebells
and waited for the stars,
and the cosmos dark daggers
shredded my heart,
and I hung naked
on the North Star
and wept --

Still,
I thought,
You were more beautiful
than any blossom
in any garden,
in any city,
in any state,
in any continent,
in any planet,

You were more beautiful --

although

my daughter screams
all you do is drink and write poetry
it's not true
i've never been drunk a day in my life
although
i've written plenty of bad poetry