Category: poetry

Identity holds itself in God

Identity holds itself in God.


a satellite disc on some deserted horizon

like the ones i used to see at dusk up

in los alamos, New Mexico

what was i doing there then?

same thing as now

just with less fuss

and less stuff-

seeing people

noticing moments

where identity stands still

and the whole universe is resonance

identity holds itself in God.

(memory of sitting in hot springs with a friend)

was it your shoulder, bare, emerging

from hot spring surface back then

which i remember most;

or the way snow passed, falling towards us,

through that steam

scattering in patterns just before touching our faces.

i just now recall the instant of feeling

very human.

Identity holds itself in God.

coffee alone was reason to awake

back then; that was the first half of the day

making it to the cafe

making the rounds over everyone’s depression

and splendor. We, all artists

with no living room

but this.

Identity holds itself in God.

My cars mainly

are what i called home

my front yard-harvard square etc

at night pushing the seat back all the way

in case someone passed

i would look like a package

from another world.

Identity holds itself in God.

sleeping under church pews

figuring escape routes

stealing communion wafers

drinking welches grape juice

all a child knows of


Identity holds itself in God.

train passes

coffin rattles

preacher makes altar call

at my grandfather’s funeral.

just outside watermelons shine

beside the endless tracks

Identity holds itself in God.

we look at one another over

again, going from room to room

of the same house, wherever it is,

staring at our particulars-

the curve of this clavicle

the bending of that wrist, over time

not to mention the endless history of eyes;

or our own life stories-all details included.

maybe this is the purpose

of marriage, to behold

over and over


we know

this kiss

when we haven’t been visited by beauty in a while, we fall

for any passing pleasure, and then, turn back
to leaf,

something simple
coming down and sealing with window

in early
morning storm mist,

and we are
reminded of another realm
of daily revelation.

This particular leaf–poplar i think, with burnt crimson rim, lands unexpectantly still

on my morning window, clinging then releasing its temporary seal,

today, in the midst of such warm storms.

This shape could be

a continent of memory.

i think even the storm warmth itself has something

in waiting
to teach me of God

Keep me seeing You

in all
that presses to my window seal

keep me still enough to hear
You, in falling of a single leaf,

from such unseen distances through time;

to notice these instances and

not settle for less than this kiss from heaven


In a dream, i come into an enormous room

and say yes before

these others and am seated at an endless table.

I see strangers faces taking shape.

A voice whispers against

my skin. Again, I recall this
as my first brush with friendship.

Trusting i say yes, it will come
He has spoken.

i say to this group’s shadow, it will
not be long, or maybey
it will, and we will have to wait til
heaven to see all

of who is here–there are more saints

than i can see in this space-

their contours nebulously glowing…

though i can make out your face clearly friend;

trusting, i know already
i too, belong. i am part of this. i am included

In this particular circle; I and You are

securely seated and coming into view…

We, together, waiting for a banquet to begin-

a banquet a stranger has made just for us!

the epistemology of light

I cannot be taken away from.

He has made me as I am-

connected ray or beam passing through

invisible chasm, over

the contours of a heart i cannot see.

A path in Him can only be

a wavelength, never interrupted…

Enjoy me, or not; be illuminated or bored

I do not care anymore

the roads above are made of light

I am here as I am, to shine-

Multifarious diademic gem on His Staff, or a diamond mine


On His robe, nearby His Heart.

And I will glow because of my location there

Because He enjoys it as sunrise passing

through the thread of dusk

And I will serve with myself; this husk will be a prism!

I am translucent

His Wisdom turns

the right color towards you

His emblazoned words emit

in a complimentary way

I am a translator of light, and

Light knows by shining. This

Is the epistemology of light

from a park in berlin

Sipping Champagne in berlin

It’s not easy sipping champagne in berlin

Or anywhere really now,

But this day I had to.

Like a thousand Sunday afternoons-this one

Crystal-toned on my skin by now, or burnt

On my bones, or pressed into my palms, is

A Berlin park by water.

No one can imagine this gift-

Verdant city park, agleam in history

Shelled by shrapnel, and now fashion shows

Still brazenly gleaming as if nothing

Could kill it! And me sipping joy

In the midst of her

As if the sun were not enough,

The father Himself shows up

downloading glory for free–apple trees

and fresh cherry blossoms-a young girl dipping her hands

in the stream beside me.

the wisp of me, floating in the metallic memory of Germany

He, refusing to leave Himself or this city

Or me, instead tells us our story-

Gory parts not excluded. Glory parts


As if the Father refused

To leave this mighty place of being

in Himself!

So, for me,

This park is a poppy resting in my palm, or His,

after boots have trampled orange petals into blood

what is left is love of us

for some unseen reason, and

On a Sunday afternoon, this park quietly proclaims:

Something within waits,

Regardless of wars, to burst forth!

This flower dust on my fingers today

(if that is what it is)

Is worth all the ink in the world!

And these bubbles in my crystal glass

are worth all these troubles.

Barely a poem…

Barely a poem, about myself and God

Covered in mirrors, I am a fleck, He

Looks upon to be

Reminded of His own flourishing radiance

I don’t know why he made me shine

for his pleasure.

Perhaps I was a toy in the manger

For the little Jesus to play with–I hope so!

There are spirits who are jealous of sheer sheen.

But then, it is hard to steal glisten-

Like diving in,


to grab the glisten of sunset on stream surface.

Perhaps, clothed in mirrors,

I was a disco ball in the womb,

Lighting up the inner workings of origin


This in-sight, started there,

In an inner illumination.

In the beginning, the spirit hovered, then the light dove in

To the fathoms, illuminating The Father’s mystery–suddenly, it beheld itself!

Do I get to participate in that flashlight moment

of Him gazing at Himself?

Creativity, birth–the mysterious womb-waters of origin;

Yes! That is my place.

God hung disco balls in the hearts of humanity

And I am one! That’s fine, I will do that, I will be

That part of Him! There is nuclear pleasure in this!

The epistemology of light is to shine


Amen Again prayer

Forgive me for not being as big as you made me

I will improve if more of You shows up!

I will get fuller, I promise, and strong–and expand to renovate the stars.

Until then, preserve the stupid by Your Wisdom

Put us in you–hide us until others see nothing

but what happens

When you come into a person–that supernova instant

birthing into the specific contours of our shine.

And we will shine as you made us to!

I forgot who I was for minute or a season, I am not sure…

I forgot what you said

I forgot I was meant to be so full, radiant, ecstatically alive

So alive, in fact,

that others simply had no choice but to glow

I forgot, and got dull–don’t mull over it

Never forgive my dullness

Before one so splendid

And yet, I am a fool

A dulled tool in your hand

Which holds the constellations;

Who am I to ask, or demand to shine!

(And yet, below

we wrestle for the blessing)

Please, help me shine

Until others can see their next line

And all is clear for you to read!

And, also…

Come read us over and over, come read us

Until You fall asleep! And dream us again

As we once were and will be!

Come read us

Until You are once again in the mood

To deal with us!

Thank you God

Amen again.


Every day is a play within a play

with glimpses throughout


we need to be reminded

of what should’nt be unexpected-

this glory falling on our wrists and faces

this sudden upward crest of conversation

between two people simply sitting at a cafe somewhere,

these instances

which never needed to be heightened

to see, in short, what

we are always

basking in-

light, nimble as air

balancing on the pinpoint

of our lives,

playing with us

one from the vaults

(Derek wrote this piece 4 years ago, and it’s still there hidden among articles, but even I like to read it again and again… this is where the idea for “the bearable light” came from. And not just because we were watching The Unbearable Lightness of Being.)

Trees today seem far between lands. I am coming to Him on an airplane from a park bench. I am awake and ready. Time seems endless and alive. We will dance before Him-the celebrators–all of us, together entertaining the King. I see the ones who on earth, got lost in dance clubs, gay districts, gallery openings, and mixing world beats..all of us here together giving our funky glory to The King, knowing, finally what all these creative giftings were for other than mirroring doom or our own pleasure-knowing as if for the first time, all our creative undulations were to delight The King-like court jestures gesturing with all our celebratory might to honor and bring delight to Him-this one who loves so meticulously. This one whose face is shining between trees of a city park I am in.

His Face is like bread to us. We see Him in each person we meet along the way. Today, in city park Prague; tomorrow in New Mexico we see Him as sunburst melon colored cresting on Sandia mountains. The places we have walked. His fragrance left where we traveled. And tabernacles-places He dwelt within. We ourselves as place of indwelling-as sanctum for His Spirit. But also the potatoes we hand picked from open market in Sante Fe.

We wanted to be His Wind where we went. When I started it was on floor seated with seekers and pilgrims in graduate programs up North. Something/ someone pulling calling-a song on the edge of awareness-a chiming. Taking me to California to study scriptures and work with homeless trying to be more of His Light to others who needed it as bad as I.

We started houses of Peace along the way: San Fransisco, New Mexico, Austin, Texas-then on the road in RV picking up dreamers and seekers of The Way-wanting to know Him as a daily reality, we rambled in and under His Blessings. Some called us missionaries, others poets, irresponsible dreamers, deniers of reality, when all we sought was the True Core of Reality-this approachable King. This bearable Light. Christ.

Christ in us. Christ among the nations. Christ in reststops, restaurants, pubs, county lines. Christ in homeless, downtrodden-this endless loving of more and other. Christ as Kindness to clerks, singers and sages. Christ over and through the ages. Christ in us loving the nations. Christ through us building and adorning. Christ using us broken melodies to sing His Atrributes. Christ ruler of every dimension.

This journey is into Him. My journey is themed in His Grace. For I kept turning away, and each time somehow towards This Light He is. My journey took place in the orchard between building and silence; between those who wanted to taste and see, and those who were asleep in The Light. I wanted to get near to this one called Jesus. Sometimes this led me to monasteries along the roads; othertimes to brothels. I wanted to go where He was, and to start to actually know Him. His Face.

His Face is where I come to, and His Feet. To kiss the Son. To bow down, to serve Him in order to know Him. To enter His essence by proximity. Oh One above all others-one who rightfully rules.Oh gentle wise passionate sufferer make me a room for you to dwell within. Amen.