Her backdoor opens out onto the rooftop.

And of an evening, she steps out of this world

And into the otherworldly light

That can only be found

On rooftops.

And she keeps it a secret,

Lest her neighbors suggest

That she entertain them there.

But one day, she thinks

That she will share it 

With someone special.

Until then, it is her private portal,

Her sacred chamber, 

Her hidden temple.

And yet,

I see her there

From across the way

And avert my eyes 

From the sacred place

Pretending not to notice.

Come on. Let’s go.

Where?

Out of all you know?

Why?

Because it’s over?

Why?

I don’t know.

But I have bills to pay.

I know.

And a mortgage,

A career, and dreams,

And people who rely on me

To negotiate our little piece of hell.

I know. But it’s over. Let’s go.

Because He came

We do not need to fight about it.

Because He’s here,

We can have peace.

And it’s ok that some

May be wrong about it.

We will not resist evil, 

As he said.

But I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also. Matthew 5:39 

If you count on books to quench your thirst for truth

You will be always panting after something

That is just beyond your reach.

And the books will pile high.

And you will grow old

And die

As you turn the leaf

Of yet another volume.

And it’s because the thing you seek is hiding.

And only an unseen hand

Can turn the key, 

Unlock the mystery,

Open the door to the thing you seek.

And once it does, you’ll finally stop seeking it 

Where it cannot be found. And it will well up inside of you

A fountain of living water. And you will no longer thirst,

No longer think that it is just around the next corner

Or behind the next page as the case may be.

The hermit who hides himself in God

Knows that what he does in silence 

Is very important.

The world will never become whole 

So long as we pray for what we want.

We must learn to pray for that which hurts.

“O my Father, if it be possible,

Let this cup pass from me:

Nevertheless not as I will,

But as thou wilt.”

It appears that this is the example.

And why? Because, while veiled in flesh,

We do not know what is good for us or for the world.

We have but two eyes, one life, one brain.

And so we seek the will that is on high.

And trust the eye that sees us all

And the mind that knows

What we can’t know.

And this kind of prayer, the prayer of sacrifice

Will change the world and turn it ‘round 

Into a thing that looks like heaven.

The deeper I grow, the quieter it is,

And the closer I am to home.

I will dig, dig, down deep

Toward the silent place

And there, draw nourishment 

With unnumbered tentacles

To feed the leafy branches

Light years away.

And little will they know that it was me,

That fed their best dreams of all that’s real.

And I will sleep in silence

As they praise the light

And say, Oh God,

How great! Oh God,

How perfectly sublime,

The message of our life 

That unfolds day by day!

And so I say to myself and God

Dig, dig, down deep beneath it all.

And let me disappear.

That they may know

You better.

Let go of everything you know

And everything you think.

There are no formulas

Except to Hear Him.

The railroad man goes on and on,

On and on goes the railroad man,

From place to place 

And on and on 

He goes

Without stopping.

And without a home goes the railroad man

The railroad man goes on without a home,

Because his home is every place.

Yes, every place is home to the railroad man.

Can you understand it? Probably not.

Because you’re not like that,

Are you?

But that doesn’t matter. 

Because the heart of the railroad man 

Is broad like every place.

And in his heart 

Is a home.

Will you choose the home that’s in his heart?

And let your heart travel far and wide 

Upon the beating heart of the railroad man?

If so, then truly you will travel far.

And you’ll have a home

In every place.

A home in the heart of the railroad man.

It rained and rained last night,

Great sheets of rain, nonstop.

I am from the west,

I am not used to that. 

But I’ll adjust.

I love how wet it is, and wonder,

Will that last? The love of wetness,

For a while at least. But for now

It is so nice after so many years

Of the mountain desert.

There is a little town and wholesome

Where they’ve sworn off technology,

And people love each other and God.

I like it there. And if it weren’t for the call to wander,

I might just stay. All the same, I wonder

If I might just make it my home base,

For a while at least, until it moves.

Sure. Why not. I cannot find a better place,

And though I have not forsaken my cell phone,

I doubt that I will find a people so in keeping 

With the simplicity of my soul.

Reputation is nothing,

For it is almost always tarnished

In the service of transcendent good.

So let them drag it through the mud,

And content yourself 

With the approval of immortals.

The factory man goes to work each day

To spite the fact that he knows it’s not enough,

For the factory man is a family man.

He wasn’t “smart enough”

To refrain.

And so he’s rich at home

And poor when it comes to the bank.

All the same, he keeps on going to work each day.

And one by one the bottles pass his way.

And he counts them and checks for mistakes,

Day by day. The factory man. And that’s the story.

There’s not that much to say. And yet, I cannot help

But sing his refrain, for he is the mass of men, not the exception,

To spite the fact that the movies don’t make it look that way.

The Giant of the Great Rock Face

Sits nestled in between the tribes of the North

And the tribes of the South

As an ever-present reminder

That war is not the way.

And of a Sunday,

The people of the surrounding towns

Come and picnic in his shade.

I am stopped along my path - a place to wait. 

A place to organize and ponder, to reflect.

And the rain beats down.

And I wonder,

What will the summer bring?

I once thought that I could plan my life.

But, more and more, I relinquish my hold.

I surrender to the road, to the path that leads my soul

From place to place. And I don’t know what it means or where it goes.

But somehow I trust the thing that’s coming

Even though I have no idea what it is.

There are potted flowers at the entrance of the supermarket

An early sign of hopeful spring. And someone

Is asked whether she still breeds the kind of pups

That he once bought many years ago.

She does not, “But call me,” she says.

“Alexander has a dog that he’s thought of giving up.”

And he says he will.

And all along the upper half of the wall, there runs,

Like a ribbon, the route of old Highway 66,

With the cities listed one by one.

And right in the middle of the line

Sits Tucumcari, the almost proud little town

Nestled nearly halfway along 

The once-famous highway leading down

From the windy city to the sandy beach of Santa Monica.

And would you guess, that the people there are just like us?

That’s how it seems anyhow. And I am grateful to have stopped.

Two things seem disconnected

But are inseparably bound,

Your creative work

And your means of livelihood.

The first is the way you serve the world,

And the second is the way 

The world repays you 

For your generosity.

He walks away in silence.

He does not say a word at leaving.

And ruin follows in His wake,

Precious ruin.

And it will claim all those

Who wanted Him in the first place.

To refuse to be a victim

And to refuse to victimize,

It is a mystery for the man

Who finds that he is worn out in the fighting.

And how is it done? By walking away,

And by not needing the things that they provide.

Can you find safety without the need to enforce any laws?

And can you find freedom without the need for an army?

I have. And it follows me like the dome of heaven.

He’s going away to war

And I am walking away from war.

And that’s ok. Good men go to war.

Me too. I war within myself

For the principles 

That will free me from the need to go to war.

It is the last frontier,

It is the war 

That, when men, finally, are willing to fight it,

Will end all wars.