Stalked by A Giggling God

Long, long ago,

someone cooked up

a really foul stew

and fed it to the children of the world.

Friends,

I think we've all had

quite enough of that slop.

The Divine

has a recipe for Love

that'll tingle

you from

top

to toes,

let's get fat on that.

O

Famished from frustration,

soaking in sadness,

clutching my bag of scars,

I quietly approached God’s door and

placed them at His feet.

Some stuck together,

unwilling to be set free,

frightened of the light.

Others slipped quietly from my hands

and lay wilted

on the glistening marble.

Each one He took up like a newborn and held close.

With tearful, tender eyes

and the sweetest of smiles

he kept whispering,

“This one brought you Home”.

O

God has a roulette table in his rumpus room and is looking for anyone willing to lose a few bucks.

People spend everything they’ve got

because they know the game is rigged.

No matter what,

they always walk out

with pocketfuls

of Love.

O

For a month I strapped on shells and bells and danced around, singing, chanting and gesticulating like a hormonal beast,

trying to get God’s attention.

When that didn’t work

I tried prayers of praise,

then pleading and groveling;

I even tried being as annoying as possible.

When that too failed

I pulled out all the stops

and told if He didn’t

show I’m disowning Him.

Nothing.

Finally,

after having exhausted all my strategies

I became frustrated and angry

and decided

to give Him

the silent treatment,

Should have tried that first.

O

Monks sit in caves for forty years.

Others prostrate themselves on stones

with burning knees.

Some go weeks without food,

stripping themselves

of all pleasures and comfort.

Oh my dear Lord,

either You’re really good at hiding

or we’re really bad at finding.

O

Cruelty came crawling up the sidewalk,

another night of bingeing.

Tattered, forgotten scraps of kindness

hung like old seaweed from its filthy coat.

Envy and indignation leached

from weeping wounds.

Locking itself in its wretched room,

drawing the curtains,

it collapsed into oblivion.

Love can slip into the tiniest of openings,

the darkest,

dankest,

dirtiest of places,

but She’s a polite miracle,

not intruding where She’s unwelcome.

She’ll sit at the door, baking fragrant cakes, singing, telling stories of comfort and warmth, painting beautiful pictures,

knowing

that one fine morning, one splendid day,

that

dingy

old

door

will

open.

O