Where the time goes

Inside the smallest movement
time lives not, and yet is breathing.
The world, made up of worlds itself,
is a life-death interweaving.

World unknown to its own self,
it unfurls by means of a breath,
to coil again within the world
of whatever self is left.

Our shoulder to the wheel of time,
we labor toward an ending.
But we cannot change the wheel's course,
unerrant and unbending.

A shard that glows will soon grow dark
and drown in the ink of night.
And here, we're taken up by time,
subsumed within its light.

Sloughing off our parchment skin,
our scaffolding of bone,
we see at last what's lit within:
our light, but not our own.

Time goes to the end of all things,
which is where all things begin;
coiling at last upon itself,
it is gone --
and here again.

--Mr. Gobley

The Highest Light

The highest light is the light within.
Descending, we ascend and win
The heavens, though they distant be,
Reposing here 'twixt you and me.

Our coldest season lights the spark
That vanquishes the roiling dark;
Our blindness ebbs toward understanding,
Furnishing the view commanding:

We constitute a constellation--
But bound up in our situation,
We see, but do not comprehend,
And strive, unto the bitter end.

Exhausted by the endless push
We never see the burning bush;
What would be the path we took,
Had we but turned aside to look?

Every tree's already lit,
Awake within, and ponder it.
Look beyond, and look again--
Perhaps you'll understand it then:


Every light is the light within,
And every thought its distant twin;
Immortal is our evanescence,
Our orbit is our very essence.


--Mr. Gobley

In Praise of a Splinter

Between the ridges of a fingerprint,

A microscopic javelin:

You have to hold up the finger

Against a dark background

Even to see it.

And yet, each time you brush it,

The whole body thrums with a

Warning, a plea:

A need.

You ask yourself:

How can something so small

So alter my outlook?

How can the barely visible

Be so unbearably insistent?

Your day is filled with such splinters.

Do you not see how finely woven you are --

How the plucking of one nerve

Awakens you to the vulnerability,

The sensitivity,

The dangerous thrill

Of simply

Being?

My splinter was the shaft

That split open my slumber.

The tiny opening it made

Let a world pour in.

i thank it.

--Mr. Gobley

Prayer After Giving Thanks

One moment of respite
Within the womb of plenty
Is worth a lifetime of gratitude.

Please teach me to give thanks
When I am bereft,
To sing hymns of praise
When I am abandoned,

And to remember the bounty
Of breath
In that instant
When it
Ceases.

--Mr. Gobley

Before the screen

Before the screen there was the page, the scroll, the tablet, the stone.

There was a way of seeing--understanding, envisioning, comprehending-- through reading, first for a select few, then a few more; then everyone who could read had the chance to "revise," remake, the world.

Then the mind's eye became a screen, and the screen was outside the mind, and the screen became the mind's eye.

Then the mind ceased to be a mind.

Then everyone had a screen.

And no one had a mind.

--Mr. Gobley

The First Cup of Memory

The first cup of memory
Fills the throat
With sorrow and expectation

The veins with the fuel of longing
Regret

Anticipation is Time's trollop
But memory is her angel
With the ever-turning sword.

Each present moment
Holds more past-ness;
The past grows more present.

As i look out the window
On the rising heat of the day,
I drink the first cup of memory

And turn toward my desk.

--Mr. Gobley

Departure

Your going away
Was ordained
The moment you were born.

Your return is written
But only in draft form--
Who can say
What we will feel
After all that
Time
Growth
Sorrow?

i find you always
Unexpectedly
In the flotsam of
Domestic duty

You appear
In the guise of
A tube of cream
A shoe tossed
With the flick of a foot
A blouse still exhaling
Your scent --

A list
In your hurried
But competent hand.

When you return
My embrace will suffuse you
With those lost moments

And me with
Your next
Departure.

--Mr. Gobley

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

Past All That

The past is never
Here yet.

It is always arriving
And yet not fully here --
A train forever entering the station
Of consciousness.

The present,
So rarely apprehended
Until it is past,

Is like a doll's house
In its precious mimicry
Of all the memories
On which it's modeled.

i stand at the
Parallax point
Of this moving instant

And gaze back
At the vanishing
And yet moving union
Of the twinned trails
Of my journey.

And so
And ever so
i recede
Into the present

--Mr. Gobley

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