SOUND OF HOPE

Burnt out mailbox at the corner,
reminder of our feeble words.
Crushed diaries litter sidewalks,
manna for dark and hungry birds.
Scraps of beauty die a thousand deaths
while ugliness rides in herds.
Darkness creeps, fitful tossing,
dreadful dreams, nascent hopes absurd.
When carried brightly on gentle breezes,
whispers of hope played by fingers curved.
There will be music despite everything.

(photos taken by and used with permission of

Christine Valters Paintner from www.abbeyofthearts.com )

A VISIT TO EL SANTUARIO DE PARADISO
- wherein we quickly learn why angels have wings

With a simple, quick call the time and date was set. And so, at the appointed time, I approached the white building in eager anticipation. No doorman…hmm, I guess even Saint Peter gets a day off every once in a while. Spotting the entry access board, I pressed the buzzer. Almost before my finger left the button, a clear, strong voice spoke my name. I listened intently to the instructions, never having been here before. After being buzzed in, I was to walk through the door to the elevator. Upon entering the elevator, I was to press the top floor button. Finally, after leaving the elevator, I was to look to the left for a stairway that I would take to the top and find a front door. (That's the part where the wings on angels come in handy.)

The door, not gates, not pearly, well maybe painted pearly gray stood before me. And, just as with the access board, my presence seemed known before I had a chance to announce myself. The door opened widely and my guide declared, "I'm K." After removing my snowy shoes and leaving them outside the door, I was led into El Santuario De Paradiso.

My bearings went a kilter as I was presented with an overload of creative beauty displayed in all manners of ways under 40 watt bulbs. K. is El Santuario's textile artist, but today he would also be my guide into the world of creation. Fabrics predominantly of earthy tones hung from high ceilings (yes, ceilings). Creation, creativity, cosmos, order, chaos, labyrinths, holy patterns from a universal world of spirituality created through the artful application of bleach lay overlapping one another, covering light sources illuminating their inner beauty. I suppose K. had been speaking for a while, but his art spoke to me more loudly.

I was shown a room of rest that took me to a Middle Eastern desert tent of royalty from long ago. It was easy to imagine quickly falling asleep in such a haven and the smile that would cross my face as I awakened to so much beauty.

I shared with K. my love of beauty and creativity and my avocation of poetry. Unfortunately, I came ill-prepared to share my work. A business card would have to do for now.

And finally the time came when we both ran out of words. We shamelessly looked deeply into one another's eyes for some time and instinctively knew we were in the presence of the Godseed at work. There were few words left that could express our feelings and so with a warm hug, I was on my way.

Just a few short weeks ago, I was blessed to receive the whispered message, "Son, take my hand. Let's go for a walk." I'm not sure I can even trace the steps that led me to El Santuario de Paradiso, but I know who led me there.

I am truly blessed.

Thank you, K.

Amen.

PRAYER OF UNITY
(inspired by Psalm 85:8 and Isaiah 58:11)

The God of warm places,
of sleek herons and skittering salamanders,
lumbering manatees and agile dolphins,
give me a quiet heart
that I might see and hear
what you will show and speak to me
when I turn to you in my heart.

Gentle eyes that seek your beauty
easily find deep truths
writ large by nature’s envoys
in your sanctuary.

Deep springs of clear water
nourish the souls of those who taste
art, truth and beauty
in a single, overflowing, eternal cup.

PEACOCK

He wore the burden
of beauty not well.
And so one day,
escaping his cage,
a prison no more,
he stood still on the ground,
and found no one noticed.

He missed the acclaim
so spreading his feathers

he tried to return to

the confines of old

and found

a thousand eyes on him.

Happy at last.

Inspiration and artwork courtesy of and used by permission of

Christine Valters Paintner at abbeyofthearts.com

(Edit note: My brother in Christ,

John the Baptist, spotted my error.

A peacock is, in fact, the male of the

species. I've revised the poem to reflect

this fact. I think it makes the poem all

the more interesting now. Eh?)

BEAUTY

A rock and a hard place
have nothing on
books and music
when they conspire
to lure you
into their web.

A midday midsummer saunter
through the bookstore of heaven
is pleasure enough for this savage.
But when the call of a temptress
with a voice of pure honey
blends with sweet notes from her piano,
then surrender’s the only path left.

Lured by these sounds
I crash
on the sharp edges of my soul.
Soothed while wounded
I collapse at her feet
submitting to this overwhelming power.

No words can describe
nor are needed between us
in this deep pas de deux of beauty.