In the begining

In the beginning

was the Word,

and the Word

was God, said John.

And in the end

will the word be the

Large Language Model?

Or will it all be gone.

Just blips and bleeps

of binary noise escaping

from Adam to atom

road dust to stardust.

Imagine the first moment,

like an astrophysicist

or a mystic prophet does:

Formless void, darkness.

Perhaps all existence

dwelling within a single

infinitesimal point. a speck.

Until a mind imagines

what if that grain of salt

explodes into being,

nothingness blooming

into everythingness?

Volcanos and icebergs

planets of frozen gas.

Crab grass. Alligators.

Orchids. Sonnets and

diatribes. Post cards.

Graveyards.

And God was pretty amused

with all those dinosaurs.

Like a 6-year old kid.

Must have been.

Because He kept them

around for a real long time.

Until He turned them into

hummingbirds and vultures.

Maybe He got bored,

(if God actually is a he, I don’t

presume to know, it’s just

the conventional formulation)

So in the last few minutes

of the sixth day He made

two creatures who looked

like the way He imagined

himself if He had a body.

Gave them a garden

to see if they could find

a way to be. Eden?

That is indeed, in deeds,

the essential question.

We have the ultimate power

to answer in the affirmative

or the negative. Or we could

just wait around to see

what happens.

The ironic thing to me,

is even if we invented God,

God will live far beyond

our own extinction.

In blips and bits and bleeps of energy

emanating through the universe.

Captain Kangaroo and Sixty Minutes.

Wheel of Fortune and the Game of Thrones.

Bible, Quran, and Bhagavad Gita.

until it collapses into a single

infinitesimal once more.

Smaller than the period

at the end of this sentence.

Meanwhile, we have

oceans, rivers, and forests,

the aurora borealis,

and roses. Coffee.

Mountains and music.

Violins and violence.

Poetry and atrocities.

Sonnets and bonnets.

Day still becomes night.

Eggs from sweet hens

who are happy layers.

Prayers. Moments of pain

and moments of bliss

and the Holy Kiss

remains the one

that always bestows,

Love.

Living water

The drying wind

tore the leaves

off the sycamore trees

and pinned the pages

of a checkout rack tabloid

against the cyclone fence

that bounded the edge

of the liquor store parking lot.

The strobe lit faces

of a senior senator and

a skanky tik tok influencer

in a skimpy tank top,

fluttered in sync

with the withered ivy

that encrusted the wires

of the fence.

She was beaming,

he looked scared.

I turned my collar up around

the back of my neck and looked

up to the wind-feathered

clouds of Heaven.

If the eyes of Heaven looked

down at Earth just now,

would the planet tremble?

If God touched the hills

would they become smoke?

A man with the face

of someone aged by years

of pain sat on the pavement

next to the wall of the store.

Asked me if I could spare

a couple dollars,

said he was thirsty.

Jesus said to the multitude

that if you believe in him

your heart will flow

with a river of living water.

I gave the man a five

and my thirst was quenched.

Clouds

Lying supine

on the green knee

of the hill behind

the house, the world

of humankind

disappeared

The strength in the clouds faded

like a drop of milk in a pond,

like a thought or a dream

when awakened by the ticking

of a leaking spigot.

And my eyes closed.

I was free from that place,

those clouds, time itself …

The smoke after the candles

were snuffed clung to the face

of the Virgin, restoring her

from French to Palestinian.

Until the whitening of the cathedral

was complete and changed her

back to her original gothic pallor.

The strength in clouds only lasts

until the lightning blasts the pines

into fiery candles.

On that day however,

as I lay flat in the fox tails

and barbed oat-grass,

and savored the song

of a meadow lark,

the only reminder

of the world just over

the brow of the hill

was a mockingbird

mimicking the jingle

of the afternoon

ice cream truck.

Listen to the moon

Slings and arrows

were all I felt

in my ignorant

know-it-all youth.

I could shout at

a hot summer moon

from a ridgertop

as if it were God.

Hearing no breeze

no crickets, no answer

just the faint whisper

of far away trucks.

The tall grass bent

and crackled under my feet,

releasing the sweet aroma

of crushed ripening seeds.

The moon sailed up

to the top of it’s arc,

fell away, over the hills

that separated

me from the ocean.

I had to wait, I hadn’t

lived nearly enough

to get even a glimmer

of what matters

and what doesn’t.

I asked God in a prayer hastily 

scribbled on a scrap of paper.

And it’s been answered!

Many times, if I listen

to the wind and the moon

and the far away trucks.

To the crows flying

from treetop to roof top.

to the shrieks of children

in the playground down the street.

To the soft breaths

of my beloved as she

sleeps. Before the hawks

and turkeys awaken.

And the absence

of sirens is a blessing

that I pray could be shared

with all the sleeping billions.

Because sometimes

God answers with words

and sometimes with

a powerful silence.

Shalom, salam alaykum,

Peace be with you.

Yes, you heard me,

Listen to the moon.

 

sugar and salt

I have delighted

to eat the stone,

the pink salt mined

in the Himalaya

I’ve not yet kissed

the Blarney Stone,

but I wonder if

my gab is a gift.

Or mere grist to be

ground in the mill

between the stones

of mind and soul.

The bones of this

world, gathered

and piled ready

for angry hands

to cast at the woman

who slept with one

who was forbidden.

Until they were stayed.

Deep in the heart

of mountains, the soul

of primordial forest

and fen, the coal

waits for the fire of

power and industry.

waits to blacken

the lungs of the men

who drill it and blast it

and haul it up from

its ancient grave

for the furnace.

One grain of sand,

perhaps from

a favorite beach,

trapped in a shoe

can be a torment.

Ten thousand grains

of sugar, a teaspoon,

a delight not unlike salt.