Poems

Once when I felt so compassed about with false witnesses, so battered and bruised by false accusations, I fell to my knees. Then I remembered that was a good attitude for prayer.

Why climb? I asked. Why the trouble— the boots, the parka, the pack— Why climb? And they said, The discovery.

As you grow up, grow out; Out of finite human ability into Infinite spiritual capability: Expressing, reflecting God, all good. Grow out of mortal sense and strife Into glowing, radiant, vibrant Life.

Thank you for this tiny little mustard seed of an hour, tucked into a week of seven days, one hundred sixty-eight hours. Yet this little hour fits in, sweetly, innocently.

"Which way from here? Oh yes, I know the land, Each hill and stone; but Whither now? Whence and why? WHERE AM I?" Holy ground. Put off thy shoes.

It was Sunday, and I had to sing once more, but no voice came. I thought of stuttering Moses, who wondered why he had been chosen; and of God, who said, "I will be with thy mouth, and teach thee.

I used to think nothing was more important than somewhere a poem was waiting. And then nothing was as important as love, and looking for it.

Sober, ever vigilant, Protecting what I best express, I stand a watchman at the gate Of holy consciousness. Turning every thought away That comes pleading for lack or excess, I stay contented—safe within My holy consciousness.

Banish discord of the unkind word; muffle the envious friction of belief that one's pure light is dimmed by another's glow.

I really wasn't enjoying the show playing on my stage of consciousness— sad, depressing, even frightening, and with a cast of characters no one could love. "The show must go on.