when I read your poem
i want to write
i want to never write again

when i read your poem
i want to live
i want to never live again
as i have been living
i want to die
and begin again

when i read your poem
i want to be
a better man
i want to be a scholar
a poet
a painter
i want to make a mark
worth making
on the history of man

it is not that i
have been asleep
not the way
you sleep in a bed

but when i read your poem
i wake

a part of me
long frozen in the dark
wakes

as if a light
were suddenly put on
in a forgotten room
of my soul

keys

another excerpt from keys

i dream
of inserting my key
into your lock

and rotating it
until your inner parts move
with a shudder
that releases the stops

and you open
like a treasure box
like a mystery
like a door onto the night...

excerpt from keys

i will leave a key for you
hidden by the door.

do not let the locks delay you~
they are paper and string
and not even sealed.

there is just one key
to open the door

and it sings

so you will find it easily
if you listen.

it sings in key
of course,

it sings in harmony
and you will be humming

as you enter.

song for judy collins

sunshine comes slowly
sunshine comes slowly
sunshine comes slowly
in the promised land

nightfall comes quickly
nightfall comes quickly
nightfall comes quickly
in the promised land

stars will fall
from the mighty hall
stars will fall
in the promised land
stars will fall
in the promised land

sunrise comes slowly
warming the lowly
sunrise comes slowly
in the promised land

darkness comes quickly
cooling the sickly
darkness comes quickly
in the promised land

stars will fall
from the mighty hall
stars will fall
in the promised land
stars will fall
in the promised land

predictions for 2010

some things

some houses are cozy
some houses are cold
some houses embrace you
and watch you grow old

some gardens are fertile
some gardens are bare
some gardens are quirky
the neighbors will stare

some doors open heaven
some doors open hell
some doors open dreams
sometimes you cant tell

some windows show weather
some windows show walls
some windows are broken
and some are too small

some stairs go up
and some stairs go down
some stairs go nowhere
just round and round

some mirrors are cruel
some mirrors are kind
some reflect fools
while others are blind

some chairs are hard
some chairs are soft
some chairs are strong
and will hold you aloft

some beds are cozy
some beds are cold
some beds embrace you
and stories are told

some clothes are cruel
some clothes are kind
some adorn fools
youd think they were blind

some friends are here
some friends are gone
some friends will find
the place they belong

some friends are cruel
some friends are kind
some friends will love you
to the end of time

some things are friendly
some things are foe
some things are perfect
but you just never know

some things are heavy
some things are light
some things will hold you
all through the night

there is no home but your heart.

even the ocean
which draws the poison from my soul
like a poultice

cannot house the furniture of my life
nor shelter the delicate china of my work.

i am indigent without your love.

the source of my poems
is not the sea, not the sky ~

though the breadth of these
is a glimpse
of the face of god…

no, the source of poetry
is not an expanse of blue
nor an unfathomable depth

but instead the soft fresh green
of the garden
blossoming in the chamber of your heart

where i live.

if you have not seen the earth
from the sky
you should go.

if you have not been a slow-moving cloud
you should try.

if you have not been a gentle breeze
give yourself the gift
of flight

and know
the caress of leaves.

land is where you end

but sky
is where the heart is light
and the soul is free.

it is not a song
but birds are chirping again.

it is not a poem
but i am writing notes and lists
and sometimes
that is how love begins.

now the road is dry enough to pass
and i will make the trip to market~
how i have missed
apples and almonds, chocolate and wine...

maybe the post office is holding a letter...

rain and wind have come and gone
but in my heart
the weather of my soul remains.

body of water

i have grown weary of the vase-form,
of the vase as art form,
of the utter saddness of
a useful object
unused.

a bowl is no better~
its openness begging for substance
like a body for soul.

i want to fill it with foil-wrapped chocolates
or river stones
or late-summer lavender seeds

but a bowl is more soul
than body
and how it is filled
is to be done with gravity.

the art of the vase
and the art of the bowl
has become more art
than vase or bowl
and the preciousness of the form
foils the usefulness
of the vessel.

the hand of the craftsman
fills the vase,
fills the bowl
in its making
and the print of the maker
remains through the fire.

such is the art of the art.

i have grown weary
of the body as art form,
of the body as only skin-deep,
of the surface
being the sum of the whole.

i long to be a vessel of dreams,
the perfume of eternity
filling my form;

i long to hold the flowers of ecstasy,
the transcendental soup of the divine

and shatter the artifice,
the self-consciousness
of my art.

eating god

in the presence of the poet,

all is poetry;

in the presence of the lover,

all is love.

come to the banquet hungry

and ready to dance.

there is no sound

but music and singing;

there is no life

but celebration and gratitude.

has your invitation been misplaced?

have your ears been plugged?

you cannot remain dry

in the pool of devotion;

you cannot remain rigid

in the wind of the divine.

come to the celebration-feast hungry

and with dance in your heart.

http://royanthonyshabla.com

eating god

God offers you soup.

you say,

“I’m not hungry.”

“I’m not cold.”

God offers you a seat.

you say,

“I’m not weary.”

“I’m not talkative.”

are you ashamed to be honored?

are you ashamed to admit

your true hunger?

your true weariness?

the preparation of food is God’s work.

and the service of food is God’s work.

the eating of food is devotion.

the offering is God’s work.

acceptance is ours.

http://royanthonyshabla.com

eating god

all here is illusion.

this disease is not me

and will not go with me when I leave.

this loneliness is not real.

I am held in the constant embrace of the divine.

there is celebration in my soul

though there is heartache in my body.

the vast emptiness of my purse

and the vast fullness of yours

are distraction:

there is no need;

there is only grace and joy.

I do not need shelter

for God is my home.

I do not need food;

I am eating God like a glutton.

I dress in fine cloth

for the great gratitude of the gift

knowing well the sun and the wind and the rain

are my truer garments;

the stars in heaven my truer jewels.

understand that all here is grace and joy

because grace and joy are the only things that are real.

illness is temporary.

Truth is eternal.

where is your devotion?

suffering is temporary.

God is eternal.

where is your devotion?

where is your church?

and what is your altar?

abandon your religion of despair

and convert to bliss.

the hunger in your heart is the grand illusion;

the banquet of the soul is laid out before you.

the weariness with your life is a bad dream.

wake up! and run in the field of reality.

the black and the white is not true.

it is not you.

and it will not go with you when you leave.

http://royanthonyshabla.com