“DIG HERE,” The Angel Said

by St. John of the Cross

She caught me off guard when my
soul said to me,
“Have we met?”

So surprised I was
to hear her speak like that
I chuckled.

She began to sing a tale: “There was once a hardworking man
who used to worry so much because he could
not feed and clothe his children and
wife the way he wanted.

There was a beautiful little chapel in the village
where the man lived and one day while
he was praying, an angel
appeared.

The angel said, ‘Follow me.’ And he did out into an ancient forest.
‘Now dig here,’ the angel said.  And the man felt strength in
his limbs he had not known since youth and with just
his bare hands he dug deep and found a
lost treasure, and his relationship
with the world changed.’

Finding our soul’s beauty does that–give us
tremendous freedom
from worry.

“Dig here,” the angel said–
“in your soul,
in your
soul.”

Sunday Afternoon

I woke late
but woke soon, changed,
ate and drank
the rain – exhaled, and
came down
from the cloud
I juiced.

To you, I say,
put the dishes away;

I scrub.

I sweep, you
vacuum.

I’ll bathe, clean
up my act and clean
the litter box.

We’ll go to the market
for fruits,
that bogo on juice –

and begin the week
with this melody

I found
planning.

What Does Light Talk About?

by St. Thomas Aquinas

When you recognize her beauty,
the eye applauds, the heart stands in an ovation,

and the tongue when she is near
is on its best behavior,

it speaks more like light.

What does light talk about?
I asked a plant that once,

It said, “I am not sure,
but it makes me
grow.”

Mensajes del Espíritu

Hey—are you a dreamer?
I haven’t seen many around lately.
– waking life

Just try and leave your sleep at home.
Alone and small in night’s field, roam
like a fire ant in search for blood.
Above you: stars that shrink and bud;
a moon that shies and slugs behind
a lazy cloud.  Just watch and find
that sleep can keep your pace and trail
you into sunrays.  All is pale
when drained.  The sky is streaked a white
that runs like egg, and foams like fright-
struck wolves mistaking teeth for wings.

Escape before the Siren sings.

I once ran the race and lost to sleep.
She found me balled below a heap
of needle leafs.  She warmed my flesh
and called on wakeful dreams: a fresh,
sharp scent, like shaven wood on days
when sunrays seep; a sky ablaze
with blues like waves that lull and croon.

I glowed and woke a golden moon.