Cloud-layered sunset
   intimate yellow-orange
      a finch flies over
      
      
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This air is thin
but You are in it,
in my lungs
in my blood
in my being
in my house.

In this picture
on the wall
of a red tulip
You are cupped
within the flower
within the picture
within the frame
within my eyes
behind my eyes.

You read through my reading,
feel through my feeling,
flow through my flowing,
beat through the beating
of my heart which You own.

In the silence
I hear nothing
but You
if I but listen.
Nothing needs to be heard,
and the You in nothing
especially needs to be heard.

You in me
and I in You
are sufficient
for the now.

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Burrus was his name—
   Charles, my young band director
      for high school music.

Inspired and fearless,
   his musical soul was pure
      and he taught me well.

Schubert’s "Unfinished"
   was my first portal to bliss
      in sonic heaven.

Mr. Burrus shared
   and inspired from his knowledge
      and musical heart.

He loaned me one day
   a distillation of sounds:
      record collection.

At home in my room
   with Tchaikovsky's "Pathetique"
      I deepened my soul.

Startling my young ears
   was Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring"—
      new fire was kindled.

Six years my senior,
   Chuck, my musical guru,
      had opened new doors.

He was criticized
   by Board of Education
      for novel efforts.

Music was his love—
   teaching it was his dharma—
      wagon hitched to star.

Recently we met
   after fifty years gone by—
      met again in joy.

Music's been the root
   of continuing flowers
      in my spirit's life.

"Gratitude" falls short—
   no mentor better than Chuck
      for my youthful muse.
      
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5-7-5 form
   can say anything at all
      with title or not.
      
      
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(First two lines
paraphrased from
The Voice of the Silence
by H. P. Blavatsky)

Out of the black smoke
winged flames arise.
The furnace of living
refines as it destroys.

Black smoke
billows up just now
for a coming purity.
The Refiner observes
our age-long process
of combustive growth,
and patiently awaits.

Black smoke
of doubt and trial,
error and despair,
dissolves by degrees
into a clarity
and a loving
within any and all
who persevere.

Let our hearts flame up
out of the black smoke,
arise beyond pain
until pure enough to
fly to the rim of bliss
and cross into it.

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The wise man advised his son:
Get much knowledge and use it wisely.

This knowledge-loving son advised his son:
Life is short.  Get as much pleasure as you can.

This pleasure-loving son advised his son:
Make as much money as you can.

This money-loving son advised his son:
Conquer with power, and rule over others.

This conquering son had a terrible defeat,
had no son, and gave no advice.

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Tried to buy the Sun
   paying installments each day
      until it owned me.
      
      
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What could be so dark
   as lying awake at night
      dreading the next day?
      
      
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seeming
triumphs,
  no avail

years of
striving,
  renounced

done,
  all deeds

enjoyed,
  all joys

bought,
  all toys

suffered,
  all pains

goods
nor
dollars
fitting
through
this
  eye

proceeding
keepless,
  cleansed

on ahead,
beyond this
strict way,
  light seen

atomless,
  now out
  and into
  
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You've played the organ and piano
at this corner church
for more than 700 Sundays,
and the Wednesday choir rehearsals
that went with them
along with Saturdays
of practice and preparation.
You've prayed with your fingers
as our pastors have prayed with sermons.

The organ is a noble instrument
that brings to human ears
the music of the spheres,
and you yourself have been
a willing instrument
of the Unseen Hand
that moves our world
toward beauty, peace, and truth.

The organ only makes the sound.
Your hands and feet only play the keys.
Your eyes only read the notes.
But God has told you in your heart of hearts
to bring His voice to human ears,
and you have said, "I will."
He has made abundant use of your
obedient mind and body to channel
a bit of heaven into a troubled world.

You now step down
and turn your keyboard over
to other willing hands,
but you'll return to play again.
Since God has played you for this long
as His obedient instrument,
He will never let you rust away unused.
He will set your hands to other tasks.

The sounds of your Sunday music
remain only briefly
within the sanctuary walls,
but they will echo down through the years
within the hearts of those of us
whom they have nourished.

To Linda, with love,
From Alan

(Written in 1991, discovered
and posted in 2014)

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Metaphysical
   stairway to inner summits:
      reincarnation
      
      
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Mind is empty now,
   free of passing sentiments—
      no wind in the trees.
      
      
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Activity is a magic
that clears cobwebs
from the mind and
unclogs the heart.

To sit and sit
or even stand and sit
is not to walk the life.

Walking the life is
mixing with others
who are walking 
their lives too,
trying to try
and failing to fail.

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As one ages,
so do others
in the family
of humanity
who need help
continuingly.

How say no
to those who
can't or won't
help themselves?

If I were they,
would I not
reach out for
a helper's hand?

It is too hard
to be too hard
when the heart
is called upon
to be softer.

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A departed one
   still sounds the same years later
      in the inner ear.
      
      
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I saw a spider
   on my wall and left it there—
      gone now, but still is.
      
      
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When winter cracks open
and spreads infusions
of early spring air
through our kitchen
window screen,
we thrill at our gift.

New warmth assures us
of renewal and refreshment,
like the settling of
an old argument.

A robin, the first we've seen,
is poking in the brownish grass,
and through the window
we hear our aging neighbor's
Harley clear its throat
then murmur slowly past.

Who transforms winter into
spring?  Who melts the patches
of remaining ice in puddles
and brings buds to the bushes?

We sense a coming comfort
with as much faith as a baby
anticipating a maternal hug.

Spring will soon hold us
magnificently captive
in its luxurious cradle
from which we will
crave no escape.

In our side yard outdoors
two neighbor boys play catch
with a baseball which winter
had stowed away in the shed,
being now thrown with gusto.
Whap! Whap! goes the ball into
leather gloves which soften
the impact of youthful zeal.

Who guides this ball
from hand to glove?
Who prompts exclamations
like "Good throw!" or "My fault!"
oscillating between throwers?

Who cares for us all enough
on this pivotally warm day
to bring us sweeter breaths
after winter's bitter winds?

Who, indeed?
Yes, Who?

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There can come a moment
when stillness reigns,
when the actor in the mind
is curtained away from view,
when reading is unneeded
though the book be open.

Images stream in and out
with no conscious guidance
or disturbance, each
morphing into the next.

With animation suspended,
whole libraries may be
now serenely renounced,
classrooms unattended,
conversations unengaged,
writing saved for a later muse.

Is this interlude a taste
of the long and quiet phase
that humans call heaven?
An after-state wherein we
reap the ecstasy we sowed
while living the virtues?

For now the mind
is permitted its silence,
and the heart and soul
their benign repose.

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Room lamps are all on—
   how become this bright within?
      Not a slight question.


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If the sun could speak,
   it might inquire, "Who am I?
      Where am I going?"


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Unschooled in universities
yet flowing forth with ancient lore,
he offers glimpses of the One
to help all seekers see within.

He weaves his ample writings
with silver threads and gold
combined with rainbow shades
of steady faith and truth.

His lectures brim with eloquence
without the notes most speakers need.
His seasoned wisdom can be grasped
by any who have ears to hear.

On finding such a mind
as broad and pure as sky
a grateful soul is moved
to offer up this flower.

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Downpour on the roof
   makes wet roaring in Tucson—
      now the desert smiles.


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Knock—but look around—
   you are already inside—
      no need for the door.


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Tinnitus, like God,
   is always in there to hear
      during quiet times.


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