what is it
to listen to
God, a voice
within that knows
right from wrong
freedom from slavery?
what if we
could all live
fearless in our
love for humanity
for the decency
of all people?
what if the
north star still
shines bright, if
only we be
not blind to
our inner truth?
what if we
are all Moses
wading in water
helping everyone across
to that dry
land of faith?
we rarely speak
of God that
him her force
lives in heaven
forests oceans everywhere
we pray to
be always in
good stead with
each moment where
light is ours
this karma knowing
watching to see
if we are
truly in his
image like clouds
floating peace through
sky we try
meditating while walking
the quiet path
of constant love
and one day
may we arrive
wherever there is
union with all
that ever was
Killing ants seemed normal.
Six-legged black bodies scrambling
on slab rock patio, drip of
citronella candle wax, my own
backyard Pompeii, dead, then
frozen for all time, and me the
volcano, or God or murderer.
Bored kid waiting for dinner,
smell of pork chops on the grill,
smoke into summer air.
This was published in California Quarterly back in 2006.
I don’t pray every night, but I probably should. After baths, books, conversation with wife, I usually drift into writing, creating, rearranging words on a screen. Mind a whir, could journey depths until dawn, but the clock of calculation, of sanity, of sacred sleep, tells me to stop. I go into my daughter’s room, turn down her light, I love you, I say to her curled up slumber. I meditate in my son’s room, the sound of his breathing, my pew, my stained glass, my sanctuary. Seated, darkness, air in, carbon dioxide out, first minutes filled with brain bouncing from thought to thought, the earlier, the tomorrow, the could happen. Then sometimes the indescribable now, when I’m nowhere, everywhere, witness to all time, and no time at all. Emerge a short life span later, pray for my colleague, that her malignant tumor retreats, allows life, hers to continue. It feels like I could stay forever, talking to God, to no one, to everyone.
Daniel W. Polk 