In sleet and rain of Edinburgh
a cathedral rises from the deeps.
The salt of sea and old coal blur
veil her face in grey-cast sheets.

On her western pediment
within tympanum carved of stone
sits Christ triumphant and in judgement
where he calls us all to atone.

I stand before him, my head bowed
as I contemplate our shared guilt,
with mea culpas weighing on my brow
for the follies fallen man has built.

And so we’re burning Eden down
with flaming swords that we still wield
as once vast forests shrink and brown
and fallow lie once verdant fields.

Where trees once stood, smokestacks rear
their heads belching fumes up high
and in the deeps, the oceansphere’s
no more a garden for octopi.

For in this our earthly commonweal
that was a gift that’s given free
we prove that purgatory’s real
because we ourselves have made it be.

A whisper came from the carved face
to walk into this stony womb
where colored light and incense trace
a path to overcome the gloom:

Forgiveness for our many faults
comes when we change our ways.
There in this temple’s holy vault
I vow to fight Eden’s decay.

In Edinburgh I found Eden
in a vision of what can be.
For we are by no means beaten
and we can do it, you and me.

A starless swart of night
has draped its murky veil
above my temple mount —
but the house of holies’
lifting light lingers on.

Its window eye shines bright
to lead upon the trail
that guides me to a fount —
its waters cool and ease
until new break of dawn.

Take what's for granted.                    
Use it with daily comforts                                                
Watch it disappear  
            
Loose something needed.                      
Become ultimately free                                                    
Cherish everything
            
Looking for the gold.                              
Only the silver appears                          
Better anyways

In times long past, the builder made
a forest temple in the shade
of tall oaks, maples, locusts fair,
each carved stone an unspoken prayer.

There amongst the autumn whispertrees,
I open the old temple gate with ease
and hear the trees sing psalms of solace,
to partake in this painted place’s promise.

To tarry here with trees well dressed
is where I my newfound faith confess,
communing with colors in tailored hues
and with the sacred scent of life imbued.

He is like a god to me
    alpha of my pack, my rescuer and my rock:
his breath like beef’s bouquet
    his words like brittle bones breaking in my mouth.

Our touch like summer
    as I rest my head on his strong thigh:
gazing adoration
    staring petition.

I stalk him
    for the crumb that falls from his plate:
and wait patiently
    for scraps of skin from his repast.

When indecision strikes
      to eat or not to eat:
He nobly leads me to the door
      and tethered takes me out.

He leads me through
    musky canine
          saffron sage
              scented pastures:
and corrects me when
    squirrels like sins
          tempt me to stray.

We romp through rugs
    of red and russet
          fallen fronds:
foraging for
    foully fragrant food
          delight of doggy dentes.

I am his humble hound:
he my mighty man.

The flicking fire in the hearth
pops and cracks a wispy smile
while its embers send their warmth
into the stone house for a long while.

The chimney curls with silky smoke
that snugly signals a cozy place.
The walls are paneled with old thick oak
to safely hold us in wood’s embrace.

This warm retreat’s stout red door
is made and unlocked by my inner eye.
Its stone foundation and sturdy floor
are crafted well for brittle times.

Pull up a chair and join me here
in this secret safest place of all —
it’s in each of us, in constance near:
Take some rest in your heart’s great hall.

On a church, Mother Mary gazes up high
with her saving babe on her stone arm.
On her alabaster face: a cryptic smile
that has its own fine chiseled charm.

While I stand in the old town’s cobblestone street,
my mind sees me in a far distant place.
The visions I see speak of defeat,
a void that devours all grace.

I see myself floating in a brittle wood boat
with sails torn to shreds by the storms.
Frantically I toil to stay afloat,
tossed by black waves which ebb and reform.

Her disk halo of gold shines out in the dark,
glinting to those who sail by.
I ask her: tell me what can give me a spark
to let me soar up into the sky.

She offers no answer in so many words
and just smiles on, stonily serene.
In her silence is where her answer is heard,
a quiet reply — I know just what she means.

The rock of her tells me what I must hear:
No need to soar nor fly nor flee.
Let black tides flow past me ‘til they clear.
Like this old pale statue, just simply be.