Poems

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.

Each day I try to search (a search within myself) for a deeper sense of love. A love so discerning that it turns to God even as human will shouts, "This is the only way!" A love so all-pervasive that it draws on divine Love to reach out tenderly with healing thought not just to the near and dear, but even to those called "untouchables" in our world today.

Take, eat: you are no longer offered milk, but meat. You are no longer babes, but men.

Sunfalls of dim mortal belief would cast deepening shadows across the pages of our passage— We must lift them higher into the light of the morning star to read our homeward way! Paul Edward Gingell.