The Trackless Path

No more marathons.

No more striving for the prize.

It’s over. I’ve arrived

At the place

Where every want 

Has been supplied.

So that finally

I can rest

In silence.

Waiting in silence

For the word.

Sitting.

Listening.

Looking steadily

Into the unseen place.

Children of the light

Dancing into darkness,

Forsaking all

For the shadow 

Of the ones 

Who’ve gone before,

Paving the way

For future generations,

Not children of the body

But children of the soul,

They transcend 

The dark.

They are the fathers, 

Mothers of us all.

The hush of dusk settles in

And finds me at my dest

Still working.

And that feels good,

Not because it’s virtuous

To work till the sun goes down,

But because I want to keep on working.

As the sunshine touches 

The uppermost tips of leaves

With the day's first rays of microscopic bliss,

And as the birds gather to the warmth 

Of the summer morning,

Even so, I sense 

The hope of healing

In the outermost corners of my consciousness

And draw my focus upward toward the warmth 

Of the thought of a body renewed 

In strength and purpose and vitality.

I flap my wings. I move my body

Upward toward the light,

I sing the song.

I feel the vibrations fill my chest and abdomen.

It pulses through my limbs and outward

Shaking lose all darkness,

So that in, in, flows the light

Penetrating every organ,

Every dark and damaged part.

And I live in the future day of health.

“Thank you for this healing,” I say

So that its reality fills me even now.

Money is at the same time cold and harsh, 

And also beautiful.

It is beautiful 

Because it is cold and harsh and plain.

It is one thing in life that you can count on

To remain the same.

You bend to its reality 

Or crash against its solid frame.

Two plus two is four. It is the terrible truth 

That most men can never wrap their minds around.

One day we will escape into a math that bends reality.

But that new reality will require a forsaking of the old.

Until then, we face the horror of a truth we can’t escape.

And that truth is both terrible and wonderful

Depending on whether we humble ourselves enough 

To slow down and know the numbers

Or race on toward the doom

That awaits all those

Who won’t.

Never trust the praise of Mammon.

It says that it loves you for your hard work,

When in reality, it covets or clings to your ability to profit.

It claims to respect your responsibility,

When in reality, it just wants a piece of your acclaim.

It is a jolly mate at sea, 

A bosom friend 

In arms.

And how it clings to its fellows 

When the rough seas of commerce

Toss the collusion into upheaval.

But how quickly it turns mutinous

When one among its ranks 

No longer serves 

The gain.

It is a barrel full of fat hogs

Rubbing up against each other

Each rolling, laughing, in the mud

And clinging to the warmth of the other

While despising anyone who will not play the game

And hating even more those who've tried and failed.

There is a gift in single minded work,

Especially when it is for a worthy cause.

It is that you do not have to think

About your problems.

And there is a gift in believing 

That people are supposed to have problems.

It allows you to go to work 

And let go of other people's problems. 

I would guess that more than half 

Of our ideas are hairbrained.

Only by trying do we find out if we're right.

So step into the action.

Do something, anything 

Based on a best guess 

And find out if you are right?

You will have to come to me, little bird.

I cannot chase you any longer.

What I have, what I am,

Will have to be enough,

Since to chase

For me means death.

And so, I forsake your pretty feathers.

I wear my rags with dignity

And nurture these old bones with kindness.

Come close, little bird. I will not grasp you.

I will not harm you any longer.

Come and perch upon my finger

And then climb up up on my shoulder 

And sing your song into my ear

While I am living.

Be my friend,

Little bird.

Do not leave me to the forest

Dark and wide and grim and open.

I am a white man still and do not trust myself

To the ravages of nature, but I’m trying.

Be my friend, little bird,

And together, perhaps,

We will survive.