The blood on the end of the spear that pierced Jesus.
The expert who says, ‘I don’t know.’
The father admitting his powerlessness over his son’s cancer.
The grace with which winter withdraws its white in favor of May’s green.
an abdication to what is.
The bedrock of most faiths.
The strength you never new you had.
What some call a sign of weakness.
It beats with the rhythms of the Universe.
Gives and receives silent as the tides.
It is
the thunder of humility.
Humility
is the addict
clawing, sweating
in a church basement bathroom
crying out to a God he doesn’t know
exists to set him free from hell.
He casts aside everything he thinks he knows and prays in fervent desperation.
Humility is the sea, accepting the sun’s love, no pride in sight.
Humility is about never getting defensive.
Humility is reaching out to the man in the church basement
bathroom, knowing that helping him will keep your connection
with God alive.
Humility is an integral part of forgiveness, being aware of your own
transgressions, knowing they are probably no worse than the active addict.
Humility is about being in the center of the Universes, neither worse nor better
than anyone or anything.
The greatest humility is a steadfast abasement before God.
It is the appreciation of difference between others and oneself,
and not trying to ‘fix’ others, but in recognizing that even if they
are broken, I don’t have the power to heal them.
Humility is minding one’s own business, in that respect.
The earth worships the sun, knowing it is reliant upon it.
The sun worships the galaxy it finds itself in, knowing
it wouldn’t exist without it.
There is a web of worship interwoven in the Universe.
There are vast, quiet halls of worship in deep space.
All other principles come from humility,
as Thomas Merton wrote, “Humility is the surest sign of strength.”
We pray without knowing it, as do we worship the things we find beautiful,
I pray now that I have the humility to accept suffering.
And I pray that you have the humility to accept yours.
And may the almighty here this prayer, knowing that
this is one of the last ways I have to share
and I am his vessel.
The Devil’s Birthday
The old couple
strolls down the riverbank,
staring at the Charles
in amazement of its new glory.
This is the Devil’s birthday.
There is an over-ripe orange
hanging low in the sky;
the Charles river
is bleeding.
A man who’s body
is in the midst of a civil war
peers out of the apartment complex,
at the reddening river,
at the strolling couple.
He knows it is the Devil’s birthday.
Somewhere in the red coating
reflected on the river
are the rippling dreams
of the man split against himself,
of the elderly couple
nearing divorce,
of all of us.
This is the Devil’s birthday.
A few red ripples on the water
flare, then disappear,
as red turns orange,
and the dreams in your heart are stolen.
Dawns comes late
and the old man can’t
look at his wife,
and the sick man
groans himself awake.
The devil’s birthday has
come and gone.
The sun is the sun again,
and whatever was invisible
inside all of us
is that much thinner.
whistle dawn, Portland-
My heart rises with your sun;
So, I never left.
————————–
lumbering winter,
stroll down Congress Street and leave.
follow me, winter.
—————————–
Poor Preble Street blues-
can’t get a fix or a meal.
the street leaves me not.
———————————
Hate and love simmer,
betrayal through words and deeds-
it’s all a set up.
————————————
pavement has no heart-
doesn’t care about anything.
but at least it stays.
——————————
My heart aches so bad,
all the trees look thin today.
why can’t love be real?
—————————–
losers are good folk-
they just feel too much too soon.
my mind sinks at dusk.