Upon Seeing a Child Succeed

O silent Maker
Of my fragile heart

Thank you
for the bright, brief gift
of this borrowed soul.

We are blessed:

What wisdom is his!

With but a brief cry
Of complaint,
His soul
Set out again
Toward the mountain
He had
But recently climbed.

Let this child come to know
That it is your love
Which fills the lungs,

Your sparks
That light
The way.

Breathe into
This one
The presence of peace;
Let his hands work your will.

Your gift to me
Is your gift to him:
The strength
To move,
Full of sacred fire,
Aware of wonder,
Borne again
And always
Toward you.

--Mr. Gobley

When Other People Are Annoying

They breathe heavily.
They exude troubling odors.
They misunderstand you.
On purpose.

They lay traps.

They value dross,
Consume much,
And make prodigious waste.

They revolve around
Their imagined selves.

The world is their miniseries.

What does one do?
From where does one summon
The strength,
The equanimity,
The forgiveness;

The lofty traits of the
Enlightened?

Whom to invoke?
Beelzebub, to impale
This fool
On the tines of his own
Profligacy?

Jehovah, the vengeful Old Testament
Thunder-maker,
To rattle this flea's
Empty skull?

Joan of Arc,
To win in righteousness
Or die at the stake
Of principle?

Or do we
Just
Breathe?

Breathe and keep
Moving?

i am sick
unto death
of blame
and vilification.

Anyone who wishes
To do me harm
Has already done so.

And so,
i must forgive,
Because in forgiving
i deprive them of drama,
And begin a new narrative.

Their unction is
My unguent:

i am healed.

My shoulders groan
With the yoke
Of their burden,

And yet the legs
Of my spirit
Grow strong.

--Mr. Gobley

Sometimes

Sometimes
i want to fight.

i confess it:
sometimes
i feel my ribs
expand,
electric hatred
humming along
my blood vessels,
and i want
to stand
before one who will
cross me,
vex me,
dare me:

i want to strike.

Sometimes --
just now and then --
i am rushed by
rock-jawed brutes
in my brain
who want to
"settle things."

Their world
is a litigious
litany.

They push my heart up
through the ribs
and lower
a veil of blood
over my pupils

and all i can see
is
Revenge.

i watch
my
Inner Brute --
a companion
known to many men --

i hear his heel
strike the chin
of my tormentor,
i feel his knuckles
crack
the cheekborne
of the oppressor --

and i realize
that all the world
is flowing through me --

So large,
this world,
so infinite
in its energies --
and sometimes,
this is the frequency
on which i come to rest:

that of battle.

i move on down
the cosmic dial,
and i do not wait for
or wait upon

the warrior.

He lives in me,
but i do not live in him.

i will embrace all of you
encircle you with my arms
and breathe you
deep into my lungs

and then,
my blood will know
the richness
of your ire.

i will not be danced upon --
not as long as i can
sing of you,
great heart
of compassion.

Beat on,
great heart.
Beat out
the rhythm
of time's ascent
toward
redemption.

Remove the barbed hook
from my heart
and my song will
never end.

-- Mr. Gobley

An Open Letter to God

i silently rail
at your quiet

i quake inwardly
at your omnipresence

i cannot reconcile the two:
why are we left

to destroy each other
with stories about you?

why are we made too loud
to hear your deafening quiet?

i wait to be pierced with certainty,
and yet i already know:

you are as evident and intangible
as breath,

certain as gravity,
as flammable as fear.

if we were any more certain,
we would cease to be.

why must we teeter toward you,
dancing on our wire,

shouting blood
shaking fists

sobbing, uncertain,
knowing and not knowing,

desperate for company
we cannot have,

imprisoned in this hermitage
to which we cannot return?

i rise toward you from the kingdom
of the unjust

i howl at you
from the crypt of compassion

i tear at your robe
with my teeth

deranged by
tsunamis of suffering.

Tell me:
if i seal myself in quiet,

will you come?

if i tune my soul
to your voice,

will you speak?

Will i finally
understand?

--Mr. Gobley

a friend in weakened light

we sat for hours,
in squares of light
the weak blue of skim milk --
over coffee in the morning,
beer in the evening,
dinner at night.

his monologue of heartbreak
would not end.

the love of his life
had kicked him
to the curb --

a writing table,
a stereo, a coffee maker,
and a set of towels

were all he could
summon the energy to take.

It is three years later;
he has not mended.

He had thought of suicide --
said he looked into buying
a gun,

then told himself:
Ah, the hell with it.
Too much work.

i spent two days
with him.
We warmed
our hands
at the hearth
of his melancholy.
i spoke
when he asked me to.

At the end of our visit,
he hugged me --
we trembled with the
force of the embrace,
ribs touching,
breath held --
a couple of slaps
on the back,
the way men will.

As i drove away,
there was snow in the hills,
fog in the valley.

On the branches of
the hemlock,
drops of indecisive ice
paused in mid-melt
to consider what had passed,
and to refract the
light
of our friendship
back into
the healing heavens.

--Mr. Gobley

Taught by Trees

Cloistered
with my little calumnies,
i am an arch-villain.

My sins
throw the world
from its orbit;
my loose lips
sink ships
laden
with wisdom,
ships bound
for my shores
with a cargo
of glory.

Passing
from cube
to cube,
i become
a cube,
built to contain
all that is not
worth containing,
bent on completing
that which is never
finished.

Then, i go outside.

A winter wind
atomizes the rain,
punishes my eyeballs
for the gift of sight,
hurls coffee cups,
rolls trash can lids.

The detritus
of humanity
is whisked away.

But the evergreens,
bending and sighing,
even in a gale,
clearly love
being trees.

Puddles shiver and dance.
Boughs and bushes
writhe
in ecstasy
at the effortlessness
of the struggle
to exist.

That pure Nature
Of being,
to which
we once subscribed,
is their sap,
their soul.

When,
returning from
the blasted heath,
my cheeks aflame
with cold,
i revisit
my manifold
iniquities,

they are tiny,
brittle,
edible:
seed
for birds of blame
to gather and sow
in other,
darker fields.

--Mr. Gobley

Getting It Right

in the hum and hubbub
of my work
thoughts and prayers
arise
slowly
as if in amber --

they pause

and harden
into moments;
they look at me
until i look back.

Today, a seared and scoured
memory of lost love --
ancient history
for which i
have not
forgiven myself --
arose.

Not like amber, though;
it was regurgitated
at the shore
of my consciousness
and announced by
the crashing wave
that delivered it.

this nettled gasp
of understanding
stuck in my chest:

i had hurt someone
because
i was afraid
of not "getting it right"

and then ashamed
of getting it wrong.

Was i so new to being fallible,
that my shame should
burn this brightly?

Was i protecting
a spiritual no-hitter
into the late innings?

Sadly, no.

My fear
is the swimmer's
solemn dread
of the open ocean,

the pilot's resolve
as his craft rises to meet
the rowdy Spring sky,

and the mountain goat's
grudging respect
for the cliff.

All will eventually fall.

And i,
will i one day,
having fallen from grace
yet again,
learn to
fall with the grace
of forgiveness of self?

It is,
after all,
the only path to
Getting It Right.

--Mr. Gobley

The Edge

Every day we march closer to the edge.

One by one, our uncertain steps, though they may aim elsewhere, take us forward.

We watch those ahead of us in line. Their steps never falter, though we might wish them to.

Then, they drop from view.

And still, we march forward.

As we do so, the scenery changes, slightly.

As we grow closer to the edge, we begin to notice the landscape beyond.

We find that we do not really want to go.

Still we march forward.

Once we are close enough to notice the details of the edge, we begin looking back.

We see the faces behind us, their fear growing with their understanding.

We envy their place in line: they have so much more time.

They envy ours: our suffering and uncertainty will be over sooner.

We begin frantically to distract ourselves with word games, songs, banter, and reminiscence about our favorite commercials.

We are still moving.

Now we are quite close. A roar, like a waterfall, can be heard from beyond the edge.

We have to sing louder, laugh harder, just to keep from sobbing.

Some fall to their knees, and yet still are carried forward.

Some go over in a furious struggle, facing backward, refusing to look, angry at the arrangement.

Others pump their fists, or scream, or make obscene gestures.

The person in front of me bows her head, briefly. She has long, dark, wavy hair. The stray hairs tremble in a breeze from beyond.

She slowly spreads her arms.

I am next.

I look over the edge.

There is a radiant smile awaiting me, on a face I have not seen in decades.

I look back, and blow a kiss to my children.

I look ahead, and let myself fall toward the embrace of all who have awaited me.

--Mr. Gobley

A Note to Karen's Daughter's Friend (a post mysteriously eaten by Blogger on 2/4/06)

You go on forever.

Your breath
Goes all the way back
To the First Breath.

Your heart
Is keeping a beat
That started
Before the Earth
Was cool enough
To stand upon.

Your mind
Literally
Knows no bounds.

And your body
Contains the secrets
And the wisdom
Of the ancients,
And the stories
Of the struggles
Of all
Who brought you
To be.

Do away with this,
And you forfeit
Your chance
To keep the beat
And spread the love
And give the gift
Known only toThe living.

Shall I tell you the secret
Of this gift?

It may be this:

Your pain is a blessing
A sacrament
A hotline to the heavens.

Because your pain is not
Just yours.

The pain you feel
Is the pain of others,
Calling out for your help.

You are sensitive enough
To receive the transmission,
To hear the cries for help.
You have power, you have wisdom--
But you're stuck in your head.

There are people begging for
Your help,
Your gifts,
Your love.

You can understand
Their pain
And heal
Their loneliness.

You are uniquely qualified
To lend aid,
Lavish love,
Offer hope,

And yet:
You are
Totally unable to help
If you are dead.

Keep the beat.
Fan the fire of life.
Warm the cold
And tired souls
That wait
Only on your strength,
Your beauty,
Your wit.

End it,
And your death
Ends love,
Suffocates hope,
In souls
You've not yet
Even met.

When you meet them,
What will you say?

Meet them
Here,
And say:
I love you,
And I am here to help.

End it too soon,
And you will meet them
There.
And all you will be able
To say is:
I am so sorry.

They smile at you now,
These wounded souls,
They see hope in you,
They wait on you.

You are the answer
To their prayers.

Go to them.

Bring them back to life,
And they will
Do the same for you.

--Mr. Gobley

Create

i click an icon that says
Create
and i am faced

with emptiness

i inhale
life

i exhale

my touch
meets your gaze

vast oceans
of white
extend
off screen

i feel your presence
there

and reach toward you
with prayers
life-raft
iambs

never underestimate
or fail
to appreciate

that you too
have a
Create icon
waiting
grinning
praying

for contact
with
you

--Mr. Gobley

Gifts to the Silent Watcher

Indoors,
Alone,
In a great city.

The sounds
of human striving
never cease,
never fail
to penetrate
the sighs
of the radiators
and the morse code
of the water pipes.

there is a tree
that seems,
through the
battered window,
to be bent with age
or beckoning for help.

But,
upon stepping
outside,
i am shocked:
the air is gentle,
the people
subdued,
deferential:
kind.

The trees
are gently pressed
into precise little parks
or fenced sanctuaries --
like glittered squares in
an Advent calendar --
proclaiming
their holiness
to the silent
watcher.

There is
no place
so lonely,
so rushed,
and yet so full
of Being,
ceaselessly unfolding:

Here,
humanity exerts
its restless will,
while making room
for Nature,
which waits,
watches,

And,
to that silent watcher,
smiles and waves.

--Mr. Gobley

In the air

how easily
i fall asleep
in the embrace
of the winged
beast
that takes me
from home.

floating
above quilts
of grain
flecks
of forest
and the scales
of the sea

i yearn
for the arms
of the one i love

and the sheltered
truce
of home,
the only antidote

for loneliness.

still,
i am grateful
for the sensation
of departure

the promise of arrival

the renewal
of my repeated returns
and the rebirth
of gratitude

to live alongside
its soulmate,
wonder.

--Mr. Gobley

In a Foreign City

The imprint of our home
Is never so clear
As when we find
Ourselves in the embrace
Of its cousin.

A foreign city --
With its offices
And shops,
Grinning like
Vaguely familiar ghosts,

Its bright cars
Zipping happily along
Its unfathomable grid --

Refreshes one's faith
in the vastness
And tenacity of life.

On new ground,
One feels all inner compasses
Searching for
True Spiritual North --

But the terrain,
And the water,
And the signs,
And the sights

Lean on different
Landmarks.

When your own inner terrain
Becomes oppressive
In its familiarity,
Cross a border.

Look for someplace
That reminds you of home.

Then let the huge differences
Sink into your soul,
Like a monsoon rain

Into the parched
And pleading
Earth.

--Mr. Gobley

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