Of Eels and Their Mysteries

If ever I came like an eel from the sea,
translucent and shimmering, tossed on the foam,
and learning again what it means to be me,
then let me remember the place I called home.

If ever I struggle to carve out my way,
to grow gills for freshwater, and muscles for mud,
to thrust myself farther upstream and astray,
then let me not lose the deep call in my blood.

And if, after years lurking deep in a pond,
constrained to the dark and the wet and the weeds,
I chance to recall the far place I was spawned,
O let me then follow my heart where it leads.

And then if I find my way back through the bourne
to choke on the salt in the wide open sea,
and if my old self I am tempted to mourn,
then grant me a glimpse of where I’m meant to be.

For I’ll follow the call that I hear in my soul,
though the miles before me are many and wide,
till at last I approach the great Sea of my goal,
and there, in my final and true Self, abide.

The Buzzard's Prayer

Come fly with me, Lord, in the bleak open sky,
as I hang around waitin’ for somethin’ to die.
Good pardners are scarce for a drifter like me
atwixt the hot sun and the barren prairie.
Some critter’ll cash in as we fly across—
like a jackrabbit or, if we’re lucky, a hoss.
But then when it does, I won’t rush to the trough.
I’ll circle politely, a little ways off.
You get first crack, Lord, ’cuz I ain’t averse
to showin’ some manners—and You saw it first.
So go have Your tuck out, and don’t mind me none,
when I smell that it’s ripe then it’s time for my run.
Then I’ll come down and sure be delighted to see
that You, in Your Grace, left the best part for me.

A Good Friday Blessing

May your Fridays be good, and your Thursdays be holy,
Your ambitions high, and the speed bumps lowly.
May your Mondays come late and the Saturdays early,
With the time in between spent more or less purely.
May your Tuesdays ignite in you zeal and zest,
To push on through Wednesdays and all of the rest,
And then when it’s Sunday, I pray that you’ll find
Renewal of energy, heart, soul, and mind,
As He renews gladness, hope, and mankind.

Goodnight, Gita

At night, Lord, when I go to rest,
remind me that I did my best.
Remind me always: every day
—in work or leisure, pain or play—
that everything I’ve done I do
so I can give it back to You.

Help me see that all my actions
(taken wholly, or in fractions)
are just simply mine to do—
results of them are up to You.
Then even when I’m in the act,
I’ll feel Your presence as a fact.

Today’s behind me: bad or good,
honored or misunderstood,
all of it I now release,
relaxing, and then finding peace
here in the thought that if I could
have done it differently, I would.

There’s one more bucket under bridge,
one less pudding in the fridge,
one more mistake I won’t replay
(or, not in that specific way),
and maybe one more good deed done,
a smiling glance that cheered someone.

So there You go, and welcome to it.
That’s my day, and it’s the truest
thing to say that I don’t mind
You taking credit for the kind
of things that every day I do:
they’re all just stepping stones to You.

O Lord, I Have Made a Mess

O Lord, I have made a mess.
It is for You.
Or so I assume,
given no apparent earthly purpose.

O Lord, I have made a mess.
If You inspire each devotee
according to his nature, his art,
then You must see in me a vast,
untapped potential for disarray,
for dashingly disordered disasters and missed marks.

A mellifluous messiferousness made manifest—
O Lord, I couldn’t have done it on my own.
You were helping, not just looking on,
so am I incompetent? Or blessed?

O Lord, we made a mess here, You and I,
for truly, among messes Thou Art this.
And even rubble hums with hidden life,
when You slip in and touch it with Your bliss.

So here I sit — in shambles — free from sorrow,
knowing You’ll help me clean it up tomorrow.