What the birds and squirrels teach daily…

What the birds and squirrels teach daily

The birds continue as they were
We keep evolving our latest noises
To bring supposed comfort
They have their own forts
Against our fortitudes
And they won’t budge.
We bring our gas leaf blowers
To blow away leaves from our golf courses. In the meantime
Egrets nest in that faux stream
We made to emulate tranquility.
The birds are already tranquil
In being, feeding singing, flying high, just being themselves,
Above us all. And they know how to nest, and when to migrate.
The squirrels are willing to deal with us
If interested, for a nut or two
But they too go Ariel eventually
Having gotten fed up
With our overwatering of their hidden nuts
They are nuts, I heard one say while climbing away on a telephone line yesterday. He was both explaining what he buried, and us. At least that was my take away!
We have not learnt to tend the earth,
So it is now in a position to remind us of how
To tend ourselves until we learn to listen,
At least to the birds and squirrels
In Love.

God is what is between us…

God is the Master of in between!

Light and dark
Day and night
He is Evening.
Knows what it is like to transition
From this to that
While staying both.
God knows how
To come on stage and exit well
He knows the wings of the stage
As well as the spotlight center stage.
Where can we stand
Without Him knowing it?
He knows all our phases of life
Puts up with us, but also accompanies us
In all our in betweens
In Life.
Jesus lived in between worlds realms dimensions. And He understands us who
Also do the same.
So, God is also evening—dawn and dusk.
God gets us! Who are always transitioning from this to that.
God understands the coda between the notes, and can read us between the lines.
God is what is in between us……..: ; ——
And that blank space-in between- is Love.

Poems…

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//
The birds continue as they were
We keep evolving our latest noises
To bring supposed comfort
They have their own forts
Against our fortitudes
And they won’t budge.
We bring our gas leaf blowers
To blow away leaves from our golf courses. In the meantime
Egrets nest in that faux stream
We made to emulate tranquility.
The birds are already tranquil
In being, feeding singing, flying high, just being themselves,
Above us all. And they know how to nest, and when to migrate.
The squirrels are willing to deal with us
If interested, for a nut or two
But they too go Ariel eventually
Having gotten fed up
With our overwatering of their hidden nuts
They are nuts, I heard one say while climbing away on a telephone line yesterday. He was both explaining what he buried, and us. At least that was my take away!

//

The worth of a quarter

When I was working with homeless
And was nearly homeless myself
Back when I lived in my car
And studied art
(Which was the only reason I
Wasn’t technically homeless)
I used to call a friend every Sunday night
From a toll phone booth which no longer exists. It was my one weekly ritual-
Other than feeding the homeless with art
And sneaking into an occasional mass
To overhear the nuns praying.
Just to feel calm, that weekly phone call
Was all I had. For a quarter I could talk,
What felt like all night to her. She had a home and was one for me during those years. We would talk weather, religion
And how to live better daily.
She knew what I was trying to do about it.
And she knew when it didn’t work-for me or them.
And all I had was that night’s phone call.
But, One quarter’s worth of talk
Was enough back then.

I spent that same weekly quarter later
After 911 calling every friend I still had
On earth. Strangely recalling,
All their phone numbers by heart.
Trauma quickens the heart! And….

A quarter goes a long way
At the right time of day. Or,
It did in those days.

And everyone needs to call home
Or at least feel they are reporting in
To somewhere or someone who cares
A dime or two, or more
About you.

//

Trees know
Birds flow
We are meant to glow
Rivers glisten
We are meant to listen
Rocks and stones
Recall our bones
Dirt is our mother
And darkness our womb
And we are Lights
To see them all
By.
Wind is the whisper between us all
God whistling through everything
Until it is only One long endless song.
Each note playing its part
In Love’s Tone.

//
Prayer is an answer before asked
When we turn at all, we have received
What we really wanted all along
Prayer is turning
As small birds do
To their mother
When hungry
Prayer is a life worth living
Prayer is the orientation of blood
To the Heart.
Prayer places us in position
To catch the rain on our tongues, like kids,
As it falls. Prayer is all we are.
Or shows us who we might be
And already were once we started to pray.

Notes on dogs and church

I always get dreams before my dog’s cross over into their world. With my first, I saw Jesus and He asked me to hand Him Freda’s tennis ball. I naturally said why? But handed it over. The next day Freda died. So I immediately knew He was playing ball with her. And what a better shepherd than me! It was strangely comforting.
Plus Shepherds like shepherd dogs!

I grew up in church literally
Conceived in a presbyter house
And first kiss in a steeple
I liked looking at church from above
And of course kissing
When I first read Song of Songs
I was shocked to know
This had occurred before
But the girl was God
In that poem.

At church, or in that milieu
I mainly trusted the sound guys, the artists and the deacons, they knew where to smoke without anyone noticing
And they didn’t like the decor of the church, but they did like Jesus so
Put up with it all. And hung out
To make it a cooler more authentic scene. They got that Jesus liked broken things, and had to live with bad aesthetics!

thoughts from nowhere

This time without my back braces and knee medicine, I will go naked of these false comforts or crutches to the hotel and live like a normal king. Alone, happy, have a moonlight cocktail on the roof, and pray for dead friends. Like a real man, this time.

Why am I so tried, almost too tired to write. Yet be so free inside somewhere at the depths. I hear poems and music always, and any time I’m fortunate enough to fall asleep, I watch my dreams like cinema undisturbed even by myself.
Just happy to be at the free cinema.
Happy to be me, for once.

One of my friends died this week again
Or again another crossed over
He liked Christmas lights year round
And I still have many of his up in my studio. He also liked to sit alone
When watching sports. And had a cool hat collection. He used to be in bands
And still liked to play on occasion.

They say I authenticate places and people—make them let down their guards to just be themselves. Let go of the luxury veneer of being, or those personas we were to hold our blood inside.
I hope I do all that.
It is after all
What they say.
I don’t mind being a safe place
For us all to hear our names
Spoken by Love though.
That’s a reasonable way to go…..

Journals while building a house for angels

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The history…..my journal raw broken notes as we build a monastery of angels and artists……

The ART chapel: A haven of integration of art and spirituality. Like a Labri for artists. Arts resources and creative exchange. An art monastery.
It’s not a dwelling unit it’s an Arts Chapel. Haven retreat connect create.
Offering workshops, retreats and arts sabbaticals, international arts events, film openings, poetry readings and book making workshops.
A place to be yourself through the arts.
It’s a modular space having mystics makers dreamers and great open dialogue. Teaching workshops, art therapy, art skills, excellence.
To haven artist a gallery house. Learning to live inside our metaphors. A spiritual autobiography.
An in the hood arts center, place of creative exchange and reflection refinement, integration.
A monastic arts and resources library.
Writerly space, contemplative, maker.
Active and contemplative.
A chapel for the arts. Like Rothko’s, but you can also linger in this chapel. Not a chapel TO the arts, but one of and from the arts. It is an angel come to earth, that you can dwell inside.
It’s not a home. It’s a chapel. And we need chapel’s these days!
Places to leave the everyday and step into an open heaven space and get vision in peace. Contemplative but active!
Not quite a home. Our main house is a home; the addition is more a sanctuary or monastery or chapel.
That welcomes the community into its belly or hearth just to BE.
It is a place where being can expand and feel safe enough to become.
Thanks to all the midwives who have helped us birth an angel. Their hands incarnated our prayers and vision!
It’s a metaphor you can dwell inside of.
Art for artists. But also a teaching of the symbolic imagination.
It has our DNA on it, but also is open to other’s. It is an open ended quest-ion.
But hopefully it expresses already the amount of truth we have known and loved.
That people matter, that art is an integral part of who we are. That we should feel safe enough to create and hear and explore our names together.
And that we need to be like kids to enter the Kingdom.
That the kingdom is filled with wonder and whimsical joy. That we can live inside those realities while here on this odd and beautiful earth.
This art house is a piece of art that holds many levels of Reality and what is possible. We hope it blesses for many generations to yet come!
It has been tiring to birth it—for two odd artists-but we pray worth it to bring God just fun pleasure and a bit of whimsy in His Long Day! That never ends.
Or maybe it will just be a mystery to many, like a great poem you can enter from many angles, and keep getting new lines depending on your season of life!
Either way, this building is art, and art is irreducible to simple categories or systems. It requires and encounter, and to the degree you enter that dialogue you will be transformed. And we will transform together. We pray!
Art’s function is as an invitation to encounter God. In new and unexplained ways. We hope this Art Monastery will allow for that conversation to occur for many!
Our house isn’t luxury, it’s fine art. Art is not a luxury.
We have met all the previous tenants on our property, even the little girls who are now in their upper 80’s. We got their blessing before building on. To respect the generations including those before, is basic Wisdom.
The house is like Gaudi in the sense that it will have unfinished aspects to be continued when we move in, and hopefully beyond. Like art, it is a conversation to enter, not a doctrine to agree to.

//
She just wanted to make a house to haven her soul. Hers was lost when young, so I said yes; it nearly killed us both and could’ve broken us apart.
It didn’t only because God is One.
Yet, would I do it again, never in this life time. Did we make great art. That we did.
Did we make wonder and an open ended question of mystery beauty grace and other big words. They are all in the mortar by now, as long as that lasts.
//
Forgive me for mocking you just wanting
To write our names on the cement before
It dried forever Love. Forgive me for my snottiness before we leave this earth my love. My friend, I was having a bad day
And forgot your little girl’s heart which lost the whole house. And here we are
Making a new one. That’s enough to write our names on any tree or house or life. Let’s write our names, and write them large like the word Love while here dear.
//
The Art House is an expression not a mission. It is an expression of our identities and our identity together.
It is a symbolic poetic statement of our lives together.

//

Have the mention the dogs we lost during building this haven for heaven and earth to meet, conjoin and confluence on another. As they have already crossed over dimensions and we are still here making a space they would’ve loved:
I always get dreams before my dog’s cross over into their world. With my first, I saw Jesus and He asked me to hand Him Freda’s tennis ball. I naturally said why? But handed it over. The next day Freda died. So I immediately knew He was playing ball with her. And what a better shepherd than me! It was strangely comforting.
Plus Shepherds like shepherd dogs!

We remember the dust we came from

“As you get older you yearn for the landscape of your childhood.”
For me the Appalachians. The quiet presence of the creatures, and sound of streams.
Something about the old mountains just being. When I went to Scotland I felt the same. Parts of Ireland also trigger it in my heart.
They know how to hold memory and being. And mainly just to be.
Like a grandfather staring at a fire late at night. Or the silence of my own grandmother’s hands as she quilted.
We remember things inside before we know we remember them. For, they are interned in us—the landscape of our childhood never leaves us.
We all came from dust, sure, but we all came from specific dust that somehow, mysteriously our bones recall.
One of the mysteries of identity, and why it must not ever end. Our names are grounded somewhere, and as kids we knew.

My body has become our poetry

My body is your paper
The sky is my lover
It writes on me at night
And we write together
All night in glow in the dark ink. This is a love song
I’m your parchment
You be the feather that you choose
To write upon me
I’m here in waiting for your words
To be marked on my skin….
Im here in waiting for your words
I’m not a whore or an aristocrat
I’m just a lover of God
I’m not even a democrat or republican
I’m just a lover of your poetry in motion
On this body of mine
Which has become
Our shared poetry book.

My body

My body is your paper
The sky is my lover
It writes on me at night
And we write together
All night in glow in the dark ink. This is a love song
I’m your parchment
You be the feather that you choose
To write upon me
I’m here in waiting for your words
To be marked on my skin….
Im here in waiting for your words
I’m not a whore or an aristocrat
I’m just a lover of God
I’m not even a democrat or republican
I’m just a lover of your poetry in motion
On this body.

My body is Your paper…

My body is your paper
The sky is my lover
It writes on me at night
And we write together
All night in glow in the dark ink. This is a love song
I’m your parchment
You be the feather that you choose
To write upon me
I’m here in waiting for your words
To be marked on my skin….
Im here in waiting for your words
I’m not a whore or an aristocrat
I’m just a lover of God
I’m not even a democrat or republican
I’m just a lover of your poetry in motion love you always know just what to say just when we lost our compasses and then we lost our senses using death as entertainment and commodifying everyintng again until we could not sing until we forgot we are just Your papers in the wind and chapbook to write upon, ink blown and dried by Your own breath

congealing ages of Loves songs.