Look up!

A gentle drizzle spins through the air,  

A mist of golden flakes,

A warm glowing snow,

A matrix of pulsing slivers, -

Glitter comes sparkling down.

If you would only lift your head up from the human

Mess of blood and desire

The clock spinning around itself in a crazed waltz

Melting away minds

Connect your quivering pendulum heart

Unplug the drip

See beyond the rock-solid sensible,

Catch your breath,

Receive heaving handfuls of light

Begin knitting

Weave a lacework of filaments

To sustain and support

A rebirth waiting to commence,

A dawn of enchantment,

A revolution of light.

The cup of tears has overflowed,

Just take the gift,

Look up, you human nursling,

Beyond the Tree of Knowledge

Bearing plastic fruit.

Just look up, you,

Look up,

Look up.

The Journey through the wormhole

I came out of darkness

The kingdom of Mordor.

Crawling through a place of a still time

To find my own shadow.

I knocked on thin air, and -

The One Who stands behind the Wall,

Welcomed me home.

He hinted at the wealth

Of the Kingdom of Light.

He suspended me between worlds,

He weaved my soul into letters,

He tied me down with blood.

My ancestors, look down at me.

Have I not weighed my heart

On the scales of Truth,

And found it sorely lacking?

A half that became a whole

Birthing itself forth,

A Phoenix that tired of waking,

A car wreck wearing make-up.

Lost in the maze of now,

Running amok inside myself.

Staggering under the gifts He has given me,

Re-birthing from a lead chrysalis,

Lighting up threads to survive.

I knitted the yarn that wasn’t,

I painted a landscape with water.

I danced to the music of silence,

I am but an empty frame. 

Dancing empty-handed in the rain. 

Yet - in the kingdom of light -

My silence broke the scales.

My patchwork quilt of faith

The holidays’ blueprint

Is a golden tassels tapestry.

Every stitch measured out,

Weaved and laid into place

With total precision.

This is how it should be.

This is how our ancestors

Immersed in holiness,

Vested with wisdom,

Crowned with prophecy,

Marked the transit of the sun,

The landmarks of our history,

The ebb and flow of the seasons.

This is how they grew roots

In this ancient wrinkled land,

Cracking its stones into bringing forth life,

Seasoning its fields with memories,

Weaving the mycelium

That connects us all into one.

When I lift my own tapestry

I see a patchwork quilt.

The sun beams right through it.

It’s threadbare, torn and missing.

It’s so sorely lacking,

When compared to how it should be.

When compared to the tapestry

My ancestors weaved.

I am but a very inadequate child

Of those whose dough was blessed,

Whose wellspring ran pure,

Whose words still guide us.

I am humbled and awed,

I am forever patching,

Patching that quiltwork,

I am healing the scars,

I am holding up my quilt

To compare it to my ancestors’,

Sailing down my murky river

Of uncertainty and guilt,

Rocking my boat with joy,

Wrapped in the stained quilt of my faith.

Patched and threadbare,

It’s kept us warm,

Nursing my babies

In the stony Jerusalem winter.

It’s badly torn,

But it lets the sun’s rays

Right through.