Meditation on Peace

Today, resolve with me
That you will do everything
In your power

To vanquish hatred.

To do so,
You must leave wrongs
Unredressed,
Slights unanswered.

You must help
The ingrate,
The the thief
And the child
Who hates you
But does not know why.

You must learn to fight --
Yes, you must --

Then lay down your arms.

You must meditate on peace --
Yes, you must --

Exhaling broad fields
Of yellow light
Toward distand lands,

From your heart
Outward to the
Cold cosmos.

No matter how still the waters,
Waves are always breaking.

We shall fly to battle
On a rumor,
But run to peace
Only when shattered.

There is much to learn;
A wave of darkness
Rolls toward us.

Light a fire,
And hold fast:

Mercy is
God's own
Meditation on peace,
Borne back
Toward those
Who breathe.

--Mr. Gobley

Meditation Before Dawn

There is no Other.

Blackened sky uses all of me
To raise up
And transform itself --

We are lovers,
Bound together
In fire and ice.

Duality of the diurnal:
A joust in the light,
A dance in the dark.

All motion
All matter
All being
Suffuses
All life

And burns it away.

As it returns,
Like the Sun
To its post,
i return,

In atoms,
In verse,
In breath,

To take you with me.

--Mr. Gobley

Heart of Ash

Beyond fear,
Beyond caring --
Leaning,
Yearning toward death

And a swift end
To the endless struggle
To keep emerging --

On the knife edge
Of Being;

Drawn out
To our last breath,
Down to our last dime;
Cold,
Alone,
Beaten,
Almost buried:

This is when
We rise, because

This is the moment
For which we were made.

And it is in this moment
That we feel within us
The greatest stirrings
Of love and forgiveness,
Of understanding and peace:

A coming-together
As we fly apart;
Soul soaring
As body burns.

At the end,
Or something like it,
Our spirit
Emerges
From our heart of ash,

And renews us,
Remakes us,
Restores us:

It takes us home.

--Mr. Gobley

Proof

A person who believes
Will believe until the end.
No, beyond that end,
Raveled out until
The endless beginning,
The tireless, spreading
Root of
The tree of souls.

Even beyond, when shown
Any purported proof
that God does not exist,
Such a soul would say:

"But you see,
That silence,
That stillness,
That lack of an answer
Proves God's love:

"It is the provenance of peace,
The stillness from which
Comes the small voice,
The repose
For which we yearn
While living
And serving."

No void,
No chasm,
No cold and lonely expanse,
Revealed in this life
Or the next,
Could prove
To a lover of God
That God is not.

On the other hand:
A voice, a hand,
A place,
An order,
A registry of souls,
A reunion of lights:

The skeptic's ire
Would quickly cool
When delivered to
A world to come.

Again:

Whether here,
Or in the Great There,
No presence,
Or absence,
Can prove
That God is not.

But:

A soul may in this minute sense,
Or someday know,
That God is.

And this
Is the mystery
Of the highest order
And truth,
Written on the plainest paper
Of our being,
Laid out in plain view.

It is not proof.

But,
Borne in my heart
Along the stream of a constant love,
It is proof enough
For me.

--Mr. Gobley

Perihelion

raise your voice --
even if weak,
even if drained of light --

in praise:
in our darkest days
we pass most closely
by the Sun.

our seasons
always tilt us
toward Change,
a harbinger
of Hope:

our coldest days
grow longer,
our hottest nights
grow shorter.

and so
every peril
contains promise,

each gray hair
a hint of our
slow dance toward
the eternal youth
of our homecoming.

spin us,
Great Maker,
through our darkest days,
for in these
Your presence
is most vivid:

brief
but luminous,
cold
but faithful
to our lasting
embrace.

--Mr. Gobley

We Are All Chosen

Another year
Only darkens the print
On our invitation.

Like a blade of grass
Pulled from its sheath,
We will be chosen.

The waxen shriek
The blade makes
As it reveals
Its pale, fleshy root

Is all the protest
We will make

As the root
Of our soul
Rises upward

And recombines
With its Source.

That we celebrate
The passage of time
Seems odd:

Time turns on us --
Why honor
That which betrays?

Because our ancient souls
Recognize this:
As we fell to Earth,
So are we all
Made to rise again.

We are all
Just passing through.

Time is simply
The river we ride
Through the realm
Of gravity,

Until we rise
Back toward
The Timeless.

This is your last
2006.

You have been chosen
To live in it.

Your ride continues.

May you ride
Joyously
And well.

--Mr. Gobley

A Holiday Traveler's Prayer

Dearest Savior,
Lord of Laughter,
Soul of Kindness,
Winged and Bright:

Take us to
A small hereafter;
Bring us home
Without a fight.

Grant that we
But wait on waiters,
Let us know
Repose sublime.

Let us not
Find alligators;
Let our airplanes
Leave on time.

May the flight attendant prim
Glow'ring at her podium
Not deliver news that's grim --
(Did i pack the Imodium?)

Be it tropics, be it slopes,
Your mercy and your mirth await.
Please shed it not on angry mopes
Deserving of a harsher fate.

Let we few, the meek and pious,
Praying for Your swift return,
Find Your presence ;) swiftly by us
Ere we for our ending yearn.

Forgive our sin and and grant us unction,
Heal us with Your love Divine;
Rid us of our shrill dysfunction --
Yea, e'en this is only thine.

Help us better servants be
By leading us to healing waters;
Lend strength renewed, build faith in thee --
And keep a close eye on our daughters.

Let holidays dawn clear and calm,
And let each walk in Your straight way.
Drop on us your loving balm --
Let nothing us (and You) dismay.

And coming home, as You've decreed,
Having had more than our fill,
Our souls and not our stomachs feed --
May we know again the thrill:

Our hearts renewed and elevated,
Our souls on fire for love of thee:
Let us not be enervated
By chat and mail and MTV.

Some portion of Your gentle grace
Must follow us as on we move.
Our home is but the borrowed place
From which we strive our love to prove.

Love for You, who sped our flights,
Who filled us full of bubbling spirit,
Who graced our days and blessed our nights,
Hid not Your face, but drew us near it.

Let all who in Your vineyard toil
In every place and every season,
Returning to their native soil,
Know Your love, beyond all reason.

Mr. Gobley wishes you the deepening peace and boundless love that is the essence of each soul -- yes, even yours. We will meet again in the new year.

--Mr. Gobley

Honor

Shorn of its medallions,
Honor is
An active verb.
Applied to life,
It means:
Respect, revere,
Rejoice over.

Offer yourself,
Devote yourself
To seeing
And serving
Even an atom of
What is honorable.

Find and fortify
What is holy
Within
Another.

Here is
The hard part:
Every soul deserves
Your honor, has
That holy spark within.

Each
Has been
Hammered into shape
On the great anvil,
Forged in
The Divine Fire.

Can you
Honor that?

Can the judge
Within you rest,
So that your spark
And the spark
Of your adversary
May for a moment meet,
In sacred recognition?

Nothing may change.

Everything may change.

It does not matter.

Give honor to the spark
Within even the darkest
Of souls.

At this dark season,
String lights throughout
The world,
From soul to soul.

The light will be seen
And smiled upon,

From on high
And from a depth
Within each of us
Hungry for light.

--Mr. Gobley

The Sacrament

Tonight, it's wine.

But, really, it could be anything.

Air.
Love.
Loss.
The taste of your lover's lips.

Anything that you,
Deeply immersed in the
Sanctity of the moment,
Absorb into yourself,
With deep gratitude
To the All:
That is sacrament.

The goal may
(Or may not) be
To make
Life Itself
The Sacrament.

The goal may be
Just to get through the day.

But each day,
Of whatever kind
Must contain one,
At least one,
Perhaps even more,
Of these:

The prismatic shattering
And wholly, holy
Reunions
Of
Sacrament.

--Mr. Gobley

Cats and Dogs

What brilliant soul-sparks,
Clothed in fur,
Looking deeply into
Your eyes and
Silently training you
To love!

Love and obey them,
For they are teachers
Of these high arts.

In time, when you
Find yourself
On all fours,
Looking up
At a giant,
Perhaps you will
Understand in full:

Put love and obedience
Before all:
Place them at the feet
Of your master,
Your student,
Your soulmate,

To share
Like the saved morsels
That bind your four-legged
Teachers
To you
In eternal vigilance,
Unending compassion,
Silent devotion.

--Mr. Gobley

A Psalm for Monday

Oh, Lord,
Do thou remember me.
My soul weakens
And climbs toward thee
Like the frozen spire of exhaust
From the tailpipe of
The car in front of mine.

And though the Sun,
The bright shield of your love,
May shine down upon me,
Yet the earth is cold,
The radio chatter is shrill and foolish,
My heart is weary.

And the week has only just begun.

Another Psalmist said:

"Enter His gates with thanksgiving and
His courts with praise."

On this day,
In which i see
And yet cannot feel
Your love,

Let me pass through
Your gates --
Give me voice,
That i may yet praise
All that You have made:

The near and the far,
The kind and the unkind,
The 5-CD changer
And the seat-warmer,

The morning paper
That heralds
Your coming,
And the cup-holder
That caresses
The thimble-ful of Your compassion
That warms me on my way.

You, Lord, only you
Can give courage
To my timid soul:
As my seat warms,
So does my soul.

Your steadfast love gives me hope,
Your caffeine gives me courage.

i praise all that You have made.

--Mr. Gobley

In Praise of Mediocrity

We all are driven,
But by what we cannot say;
Lashed, burned,
Excoriated
Toward excellence.

All too often, we wake up and
Say to ourselves,
"i am not good enough."

Tomorrow --
Or whenever your Sabbath may be --
Give yourself a different mantra.

Let that mantra be
An absolution,
A Divine
Get Out of Jail Free
Card.

Let it be:
"Today, i shall embrace
My mediocrity."

Your shortcomings,
After all,
Are of Divine origin.
The flaws of our world
May be reminders
Of God's own failures.

Wherever we come up short,
Precisely there,
We find fellowship with God,
Feel the painful partings
Of Creation,
Nod to our mortality,
And -- if we are blessed --
Find humor in our
Clumsy climb
Toward Grace.

i proclaim my mediocrity,
i shout in joy to you,
wondrous humans!

Answer me back,
And let us together
Rejoice in
The immanence
Of our
Inadequacies.

--Mr. Gobley

Open Veins

"Bleed on,
Great rivers of life.

Flow forth.

Stir the silt
And fan out
Into the Delta
Of Becoming.

Though my veins empty,
i will never leave you.
No: i will depart
Only from
Shadows,

i will leave sorrow behind."

When you mourn
A great love,
Say this,
And they will
Say it along with you.

Say this, too:

"i have entered boundlessness.
i have found light at my center.
As i fly free of my
Home,
i enter the home
That you and i
Shall know
Beyond Time.

Here, we begin together
An endless beginning."

As you finish:
Pause.
Breathe in.

And as you do,
Know that you have
Absorbed a drop of timelessness
From life's
Ceaseless river.

--Mr. Gobley

Pride and Rain

The rainy season
Bids us recall
How small we are.

The tiny part we play --
We silent soldiers,
Tittering upstage
With our whittled spears --
Can help proceedings
Only if we remember
Our place.

If we think to
Improve the play
By dancing with our spears,
And trip the King
Upon His entrance,

There will be Hell to pay.

In the Hebrew Bible
We are told
That, as we follow
Commandments,
So rain will fall.

What can this possibly mean?

Only this:

Our self-aggrandizement
Will parch the Earth --
Our wickedness will flood it.

All the world is out of balance
When we are out of balance.

So hold back your pride:
Remember who you are,
And are not.

As you do this,
So will
Love
And Grace
Fall upon you --

Not all at once,
Not with Hallmark timing,
Nor apocalyptic force, but
In small,
Silver drops.

--Mr. Gobley

Thanks. Giving.

Together, the two words conspire
To rob each other of meaning.

We must look more closely:

Individually, they reveal
Themselves to be
No less than
The footprints of God.

God,
In whose name
Our strangely appareled
Antecedents
Left their homes,
Sought new soil,
Formed their feast.

It was toward the
Divine
Their thanks
Were directed.

It was
God's own giving
For which they
Gave in return.

And joining them
At the table
Were those whose
Understanding of God,
While vastly different,
Was,
Could have been,
Harmonious
With their own,
As grateful,
As giving as their own.
Theirs was a feast of thanks,
A celebration of giving.

Two words.
Every day:

Thanks. Giving.

Gratitude. Generosity.

But of course:
Thanks and Giving,
Scrolled around
Each other,
Form
A Horn of Plenty.

The Source of All
Brings forth Giving
From gratitude --
From Gratitude,
Bounty.
And it begins again.

This virtuous cycle
Is the very
Engine of Life,
The cyclic giving
Of the heart,
The cleansing work
Of the lungs,
The way life begins,
The way we all
Come to be,

The idea in whose service
All that is
Moves beyond
To become,
Again,
All That Is:

Give.
Be grateful.
And in gratitude,
Give again.

--Mr. Gobley

Rescue from the Unspeakable

What to do in the face
Of the unspeakable?

How to go forward
When a child
Is violated
A girl
Is murdered
An old man,
Stricken with cancer,
Is robbed at gunpoint?

How frivolous
Free verse can seem
On a brittle planet
Riven with hatred --

How precious our prayers
When, somewhere
In an ocean of
Scrub and sand,

A family of seven
Is hunted for sport.

And yet:
Our feet emit photons.
The crowns of our heads
Spout the light of our souls.

Which is to say,
We have power
We cannot begin to imagine,
Even as, each day,
We silently invoke it.

And with each act --
Of prayer,
Kindness,
Patience,
Perisistence --

We move
Toward
A great reunion.

The bitter earth softens.

Somewhere,
A killer dreams
Of his mother's embrace,
And is moved
To give a keepsake
To a widow;

And somewhere else,
A despot is enlightened
By the taste
Of a milkshake.

Impossible?

In the great net of being
One soul's small quiver
Can free a being
On the other end.

Never forget it.

--Mr. Gobley

Signing Up

What happens when you
"sign up" for something?

i'll tell you:

you make a determination,
an act of will,
and you "signify" that act:

that is, you "sign",
affixing your name
as a symbol of your act of will,
and that sign extends
to realms that reinforce your
beneficence
(if beneficence it is).

Up.

and what is up?

i'll tell you:

we are moving trees,
rooted in the earth
but reaching always
toward the
higher aspects of
our little sphere,

extended toward new heights,
even while touching,
drawing nourishment from,
the dust of our origins.

so go on.
sign up.
affix your name,
the crest of your will,
to healing endeavors.

just be sure,
when you sign,
that it is
Up
that you are signing.


--Mr. Gobley

Do One Thing Right

Each day, i set this modest goal.

i am,
we are,
so deeply flawed,
that, though modest,

my aim is not an unrealistic one.

i ask simply,
meditate briefly,
on this:

"please,
today,
let me do
one thing right."

to do one thing right --
anticipate a need,
salve a wound,
execute a task,
counsel a child,
make someone
feel loved --

is so supremely difficult
that aiming to meet this goal
but once a day
is aiming high.

try it.

the only rule:

if you happen to do something
completely right
early in the day,
you are not off the hook
for the rest of the day.

oh, and one other rule:
if it happens twice in one day,
it is not permissible
to take the next day off.

--Mr. Gobley

When You Think About It

When you think about it,
It snaps into focus:

You are unique as a fingerprint,
Brilliant as Bach.

Your music is
Just yours,
Made to shine
In a particular way.

To argue with you
About God --
God is, or God isn't,
God loves you,
Or doesn't --

Is like arguing about your fingerprints,
Taking Bach to task
About one
Derivative fugue.

Your relationship to all that is
Is just yours,
Just right,
Just as it is.

It cannot be other.

Why should anyone fight it?

Currency can be converted;
Not so with souls.

All that needs happen is this:

Examine each day
The meeting point
Between you
And Everything Else.

In the light that you cast,
Deepen your understanding of it.

All the rest is dogma.

--Mr. Gobley

What People Are Saying

Do you ever watch and listen to someone,
And get struck with the
Clumsy, primitive miracle
Of human speech?

What are people really saying when they talk?

What do these uvular clicks,
These moist plosives
Framed in a vocal-cord shimmy,
And the snakelike workings of the tongue
(Which we take to convey the essence of our meaning
But are only symbols) --
What do they really mean?

We can never say
What we most profoundly want to say.
Our deepest meanings
Never surface.

If we are made
b'tzelem Elohim --
In the Image of God --
Then our words
Are but images of
True meaning.

We live in a mirror.

It is a dimension
From which
Only the
Most Determined
Emerge.

Are you determined
To emerge
Into the realm
Of pure meaning?

--Mr. Gobley