Holding on to Letting Go

Regarding the thing you find yourself aching
To let go of --
Hold on.

At least until you have found the source
Of the voice that loosens your hold.

And of that to which you would hold fast --
Let go.
What is held is merely a spectre--
The fear of loss,
Not the thing itself.

In the grip of rededication,
In the release of the newly found,
Lies the black pearl
Of all Presence:

That graceful defiance
That makes room
For
More life.

--Mr. Gobley

In Praise of Psalm 23

My own hymn of thanksgiving:

Whatever may come,
i shall remember,
eventually,
to be grateful.

The smell of new-mown grass,
Its blades crowned with
Diadem-universes,
Will gladden my heart.

(There may be no Shepherd
But we are surely sheep.)

Even in terror of my own death,
i see all encompassed before me

Through eyes that glimpse eternity,
Through hands that both restrain and revive.

And in this way am i nourished,
Despite all,
Resplendent,
Completed.

Awake.

--Mr. Gobley

Prayer Over Coffee

Fossil fuel of my soul
Black light of my veins
Course through me
Quicken me

Sharpen my senses
Dull my pain
Deepen the penetrating gaze
Which i fasten
On the route
Of my
Inner
Iditarod.

Sing to me.
Breathe your black magic
Onto the coals
Of my soul.

From the mountain of your birth
i look down
On the vale of my sorrows
And laugh.

Water is fine,
Yes,
And clear;
Water nourishes the body
And restores the soul --

But to what?

When restoration is not enough,
And hope must be injected,
I stretch forth my neck.
Drunk on the black blood
Of your pulverized essence,

I howl down the avenue
Of my day
And relish the heat
And the friction
Of life
Under your
Slightly
Sweetened
Spell.

--Mr. Gobley

In Praise of My Depression

i set aside the pills

and settle,

like a leaf in a pond,

into the absence of color.

i am aware of the dangers,

and aware, too,

of the blessed relief 

of authentic being,

with all its

shortcomings 

and quotidian terrors.

able at last to settle 

for who i am,

i discover that

it isn't so bad.

this scrim of suffering

is only that,

a scrim,

a veil,

a partition between

what one might wish 

and whatever may be.

Certain that we 

deserve better 

than to be separated

from our ideals,

we medicate our way

to a pale perfection, 

consisting of timidity

and troubled sleep.

evening by placid evening,

we become strangers to ourselves,

Lonely for something similar to a memory,

"liking" other lonelinesses

while the books

biodegrade

on the shelves.

i have been away from myself.

coming back from the long journey

into the second dimension,

i inhale 

into the gray

of a soft, perpetual grief --

and am grateful.

--Mr. Gobley

In praise of Leap Day

We should leap every day.
Once in four years is a travesty,
A sin of ingratitude
Against the
Crazy liberation of
Bottled-up
Being.

Today of all days --
Today is the day to shout:
We are!
We are!

We should leap every day --

But we can't, of course:
There is too much loss
To leap over,
Too much darkness
To dispel.

Gravity will prevail.

This day, though, should remind us:
Time spirals out
From within all,
Unfurls

A being that is
Becoming,
A becoming that is a
Departure.

Leap Day
Stands outside
What it stands within.

It stands within its
Proper, square,
Joined to the others
But hanging over
The Void.

It exists
Here
But points
Beyond,
Proclaiming
That the leap into life
(Like the eventual
Leap of leaving)

Is a gift
Which even
The angels
Covet.

--Mr. Gobley

In Praise of February

On this gray morning,
Every branch has a droplet
Suspended at its tip,
Like a bud
Or a pearl of milk

Nothing moves

All is suspended
In the equipoise
Of a mild
Midwestern
Winter

The barking of dogs
The sighing of traffic on
The expressway
The whir of an
Appliance

Spiral out into the
Waiting air --
Signals
To the waiting Spring,

Semaphore to the
Seeping aquifers
And sleeping ants,

Drumbeat of the deliverance
Of the Sun
As it ascends once more
To its black
Throne

We who hope
And wait

Hear the crocuses stirring

Smile as life
Comes
And the drops swell
And fall

On the waiting
Earth

--Mr. Gobley

In praise of reading

When all that is read
Ascends into the mind's eye
The letters evaporate into images
And rain back down from
Clouds of being,
Pooling again
As letters --
Drops
Coalescing in the
Ocean of Ideas.

What we receive in reading,
We give in writing,
We adorn with speech.

All that we are,
All that we uniquely are,
Resides in
The Letter
And
The Word.

The strings of glyphs
Run along the transom
Of our mind

And through the apertures
Of our organs ---

And we are gifted
With
Sight.

Transformed,
We move into the world
Glittering with thought,

Anointed with the oil
Of ideas

Able to reach out,
Or in;

In a word,
With a word,

To save

And be
Saved.

--Mr. Gobley

First Snow

Each year,
For billions,
It must seem strange:

The translucent dust
That rims the ponds
And frosts the forest's edge.

And yet, from great heights
To deep swales,
We receive the bounty
And the blessing,
And the reminder
That we all fall
Slowly
Uniquely

Into
And out of
Being.

--Mr. Gobley

Only the Lonely

Among us,
There are worlds unspoken
And worlds sheltered.

We look for eyes like ours,
Hearths brimming with banked coals,
A window from which to gaze together upon
All that passes.

We see and hear
Clearly
But from a distance;
We reach toward
Those who cannot be reached.

Tonight, in the pool of dreams
Beyond our solitude,
We will swim toward each other,
Smiling.

--Mr. Gobley

Sabbath's end

i dissolve back into
distinctness,
bringing with me
the baggage of being,
hauling over my shoulder
the work and worries of
personhood.

Still, having shed the skin
of the old week,
i am made new--
find new possibilities,
new meaning;
not merely in life,
but even in the breath
that builds it.

Each fallen leaf,
Each gust of
Autumn wind,
Conveys a world
In its presence --

What is my small satchel
Of worries,
Compared to this
Constant presence
Of peace?

--Mr. Gobley

In praise of the first day of Autumn

The Sun sets at the end of the boulevard
The cicadas' song becomes uncertain
The sky has no depth, only width,
Like a canvas stretched taut
Over the frame of the horizon

The equipoise of Autumn
Is the pause
In the respiration
Of the seasons --
The playground swing
At its apex,

Waiting to tumble back
Into the
Before
Of dark days
Cold nights
Turning inward
Waiting

And yet,
The moment of turning
The tiniest caesura,
By the time we awaken to it,
Has already passed

And so we, too,
Fall
in the immodest hope that,
Like all else that lives
And breathes

We will rise again.

--Mr. Gobley

How to Become a Ghost

First, put yourself at the center
Of an imaginary cosmos.

Next, dwell on the wrongs you've suffered:
The wounds,
The injustices,
The slow and halting
Healing:

How could
You, on whom
All
Rests,
Be subjected to this?

Finally, live for the future
While dwelling inwardly
On the past.

Free of the
Bulging burden
Of the present,
You will become
Translucent,
Then transparent,

Until all that is left of you

Is a scar.

--Mr. Gobley

In praise of a heat wave

Today, the Sun seems
Omnipresent,
Its fervid heat
Diffused in languid drops


That fall onto
My neck
And burn toward
My bones

Just today,
The cicadas
Proclaim the triumph
Of heat
Over all
Who walk,
Fly and crawl

The grass sends up damp
Curtains of chlorophyll,
The leaves bow and sulk
Before their intemperate
Lord

i stay low,
And remember
The deep snows
And the
Driving storms


The weather,
Like all other spiritual forces,
Is not personal,
Is intensely personal,
Is vast and private,
Mysterious
And self-evident

It makes me want to go on
Sweating, drinking,
Lying in the shade
Of the great question
To which the cicada
Sings
The only answer.

--Mr. Gobley

The Crabapple Tree

Its blossoms full
The air
All
Pregnant, swollen

Until fat drops of rain
Fell like oil

Astonishing as a shooting star

Each drop that struck
A blossom
Caused a snowstorm
Of petals

Thunder rolled like a barrel
Across the oaken vault
Of the attic sky

And the blossoms leapt
Pirouetted
Rested

Red, waxen leaves
Standing at attention
For their fallen leaders

The heralds of the season
Celebrating their own
Spectacular
Fall

And the pores of the earth
Opening to receive the
Unguent
of a
Spring
Rain.

Passing Over

i fly too low.
At this moment
of beckoning liberty
i must promise myself
not to inspect
all that i
pass over.

The loved,
the miraculous
and the missed:
these will beckon,
and these will i gaze upon . . .

And if by some chance
i learn to truly see,
then all that I pass over
will not snag the narrow nerves
and tender corpuscles

That pulsate and quiver
And thrill at pain and injustice.

In passing over
all that is, at last,
i'll simply be.

Until such time as
Earth and sky
At last pass over
me.

--Mr. Gobley

The Old Folks' Home

Well past sunset,
My parents and i
Reminisce, laugh,
Squint at each other's
Emerging silhouettes.

Under the darkening dome, a parade:
Children inventing a dance
Of Sun worship,
Teenagers flirting,
Pelicans commuting back
To their mangrove perches
Above a sea
Sighing itself
To sleep.

All we have is behind us,
And all with which we have been
Blessed
Is spread before us.

The horizon hints of morning.

There is no beginning and no end.

It was ever thus.

--Mr. Gobley

The Wave

We live on a thin crust of good fortune,
At the edge of a sea of chance.

Every ripple in the sea reorders the cosmos
For some living being.

Live with this knowledge,
And then,
Even when all is washed away,
You will be able
To gather the strength
To begin again.

--Mr. Gobley

Everything is running

Even the cars in the parking lot are running:
A woman sits at the steering wheel
Of her SUV,
Window cracked,
Smoking a cigarette.

In the far corner of the lot,
The engine of the Dodge Charger
Is running, too,
But no one is visible:

The seat is tilted back,
The driver asleep.

He needs the engine to run
So he can be warm.

Everything is running.
All may not be revealed,
But certainly all will be replenished
From the inexhaustible
Horn of plenty
Laid before us.

Our lives, too,
Like our engines
And our dreams,
Our naps
And our cigarette breaks,
Will go on
Uninterrupted.

Even after we awake,
Even when
The cigarette
Lies crushed and smouldering
Beside the retention pond.

Our comfort is perpetual,
Our rest undisturbed.
When the last drop of oxygen
is absorbed into
The last lonely vessel.

Slow asphyxia
Is a small price to pay
For all the comfort
For which
We have poorly paid.

Up until then,
We will rot
At room temperature,
Assured of a perfectly
Comfortable
And eternal
Rest.

--Mr. Gobley

In Praise of Staying Home on a Saturday Night

The house labors all week
To hold us --
We, who, in our haste
Toward nothing,
Hurtle from its
Careful carpentry
Into halls of
Concrete
Or to frozen fields;

We,
With our large ambitions
Encased in
Fragile frames,

Must at last
Come home.

There is, in shelter,
A splinter of
Such solace
As the angels must know
In the presence of
The All-Knowing.

Gathered together,
For a moment,
We truly live together:
Framed in fleeting harmony,
Embraced in solitary splendor,

We realize, again,
That we have each other
So briefly,
And must hold each other
For this brief
Eternity,
So that all that is without
May come within.

--Mr. Gobley

A Roof in a Snowstorm

Today the new roof
Juts its serrated jaw
At the elements,
Which are not impressed.

A new roof revives the self-esteem
Of brick and mortar, rather like

A new hat bestows new grace
To an old gentleman.

Some day, the elements will have won,
But today, the roof seems to lean
Into the wind and welcome its worst.

From behind the frosted windows,
i thank the Maker of all Shelters,
Even as i bow
To that same Force,

Which bends Its might

To taking back,
In tiny increments
And fierce blows,
The very shelter It provided.

--Mr. Gobley