In Praise of the International Space Station

O wandering brilliance--
Avatar of our pilgrimage
Toward ourselves,

How the point of light in me
Rose to meet you
As you soared

A motive star

Across the scrim
Of the suburban night sky;

What you showed me

Was myself:
A frail enclosure
Moving across vastness

Containing life
Crossing paths
With other
Translucent vessels

On a journey that
Appears linear, finite,

But is in fact
Cyclical,
Eternal . . .

--Mr. Gobley

Please Confirm You Are Not a Robot

i laughed out loud
when the computer
asked me to prove
i was not a robot.

i asked it to prove to me
it was not a person,

and that i, in fact,
am.

--Mr. Gobley

Prayer for an Injured Child

O Great Healer,

Raise your mighty hand

And stop the flood of tears,

Blood,

Fury

And Fear.

Exalted Engineer of Life,

Restore the soul to its strength.

Knit the bones

Back together,

Mend the gentle mind

That still cowers

At the lurching memory

Of looking into

The jaws of

Destruction.

Suture the wounded spirit,

Spread the salve

Of your love

Over the burning stitches.

As the turning of day into night

Gives rest to your Creation,

Let it restore

Wholeness

Of mind,

Body, and Spirit

To the one whose pain

Is more than my frail heart

Can carry.

Heal her,

Care for her,

Revive her,

Hold her

In the

Great Embrace 

Of your Presence.

i stand by,

A whispered prayer,

A jagged breath,

A gasp of love,

Holding vigil

In the darkness of  

The fluorescent desert.

--Mr. Gobley

The Rebirth of the Muse

When the singing of the great angels ceases,
Have they gone,
Or are they merely crowded out?
When the mind fills with lists,
Scraps of metal,
Shards of memory,

The angels cannot be heard.

One angel in particular
Shadows you,
Embraces you with light,
Cradles you in sleep,
Pulls your spirit
From the earth

Like a blade
Of new grass;
Touches a coal
To your lips

And brings forth
Song.

Storms above the soul
Cause you to wonder:
Is she gone?

She is not gone.

She is behind the maelstrom
Of detritus,
Waiting for a gap

Into which she can step.

When she steps in,
The maelstrom stops,
The scree in your skull

Falls into a sacred hole
And you are reunited with her.

Find silence every day:
Carve a space for it,
Make a time for it,
Open your arms

And she will step forward.

--Mr. Gobley

The Tree

The tree stands in silent witness.
We do our worst.
It remains a tree.

Even if we cut it down,
Send it to the mill,
Grind the stump,
Sell the planks,

The ground bears
Not only the scar
Of our angry ambition
But the silent witness
Borne by the boughs

Through the currents
Of time,
The sea of breezes
On which it rested
And grew.

Today,
There is another scar.
Where before,
Shade and shelter,
Now, bits of bark
And broken leaves:
Barbs of time.

And somewhere else--
Please, let it be near--
A root has taken hold,
A seed,
An idea,
A prayer,

Curling down
Timorous,
Tremendous,
Toward the center.

--Mr. Gobley

The Contingent

All the cords connecting us
Are thin and frail.
All the fibers and filaments
That weave us together,
Illuminate us,

Depend on
Rest:
That diadem
In the crown
Of brave
Being,
That wraith
That beckons
From the shore of
The ever-shifting
Now.

Let those whose cords have broken
Go on to the
Now
That is only
Always.

Let us mend the brittle braids
Of those who ache to hold on,
And bind up the wounds
Of the weary.

There is no healing
Where there is no rest.

Bring silence,
Bring light:
Only what is sheltered
Grows strong;

Only she that
Is held
Is helped;

Only he that
Surrenders
Can at last
Overcome.

--Mr. Gobley

Pool of Souls

In the office park
There is an artificial stream
That gathers into separate
Symmetrical pools

Emerald green
(Thanks to modern chemistry),
Mock-contemplative,

Bereft of the
Deep-disordered
Harmony
Of nature's
Equipoise.

One pool:
A slowly circulating
Flotilla
Of autumn's castaways,
Dressed in a hundred hues
Of passage;

A second pool:
One leaf, poised
On upturned ends--
A miniature catamaran,

Sailing alone.

--Mr. Gobley