After everything has been said
that can be said,
Where are the words to create the future?
From what rib shall we be pulled by God
to create something all together new?
Tired of old bones, old stories and pre-prescribed
reconciliation for sins committed before we were
even a twinkling strand of DNA in God’s eye,
There may come an impassable pass.
Have you been there, like I am now?
Big letters announce its workings:
IMPASS: cross at your own risk.
We’ve seen that before. (Sigh)
“How than shall we proceed to spit out
the butt ends of our days and ways?”
T.S. Elliot inquires.
“I want someone who sees the pointlessness
and still keeps their purpose in mind.
Ani DiFranco asserts.
“And I, I took the road less traveled by,
and that has made all the difference”
Robert Frost reminds.
“Anything we love can be saved”
Alice Walker assures us.
“I am not an adventurer by choice but by fate.”
Van Gough tells us.
How did you know? I ask them, not really expecting an answer.
“Be patient towards all that is unsolved in your heart
and try to love the question themselves.”
Rilke, continually, admonishes. I know I know.
“I must lay down where all the ladders start,
in the rag and bone shop of the heart”
Aha! Yates has hit it.
At the pass called IMPASS
I shall lay myself down at the rag and bone shop
of the heart
and pray like crazy
for a ladder. Not an end or beginning.
Not a road. Not a rib.
Not a purpose. Not an ‘anything to save’.
Leading hopefully to God.
Since it is only God who makes such ladders, is
it safe to assume it leads to God?
“This drunkenness began in some other tavern
And whoever brought me here will have to take me home”
Rumi calls, faithfully.
“My soul magnifies the Lord, My spirit rejoices in God my Saviour ” Mary affirms that indeed.
God does look and see and bless. “From henceforth all generations shall call me blessed” She was right.
And so when all the words are gone,
when the Pass that seems
impassable is at your gate, indeed at your very heart…
Pray for the ladder, not made by human hands.
And you will see it there, shimmering in neon starlight.
The one who said: “I have called you friends.”
will reach His ladder towards you wherever you are.
You will know Him by his smile. Plus His nametag,
(not that he needs one), says:
My name is JESUS.
How can I help you?
To the top of the ladder is a hot pink neon sign
you can see it through the heaven-like fog if you look:
It says: OPEN
And it is flashing.
(In other words:
The impassable pass is open but first, climb.)
Dare to accept His hand and ascend it
and it is very likely,
Mary, also bearing a nametag: Blessed Mama
Will serve you a cup of coffee.
The best you have ever tasted.
The Father is sitting at a table nearby, white ponytail,
wearing worn out blue jeans, cowboy boots and
a white tee-shirt saying:
‘LIFE IS GOD.’
He is huddled with a handful of ragged Saints working overtime.
The whole table is glowing. You hope He doesn’t notice you.
Mary fills His cup.
Jesus drinks His cup.
You choke on yours.
Jesus, wearing a long white doctor’s coat, and cowboy boots too,
walks in while you are coughing.
Mary lets you know:
“The man in snakeskin cowboy boots paid for your coffee.
He is my Son”. Then the Father says, without missing a beat:
“Mine too. In whom I am well pleased”.
and goes back to His conversation.
Just then you notice a sign over the register it says: PAID
It is not lost on you – that you have had to be reminded,
“Why do you continue to travel the impassable pass,
without asking for me to show you the way?” Jesus stops
at your table to say. Not unkindly, but not warm and fuzzy either.
Then he moves on to the next table and sits down.
You recognize Van Gogh. Jesus and he greet each other like
familiar friends and begin to converse.
Mary brings out a fresh baked apple pie and serves them both.
And you and I, will marvel that a café like this,
Was OPEN to the likes of us.
And only then, will we wake to find, that truly
the impassable pass, is open. You may look for
road signs, or directions, but there is only one
that will take you where you need to go. It is the Lord,
and it says:
“I am the way”
Shiloh Sophia McCloud
©2009 September 22 8:06pm
Dry Creek Valley, A Room of My Own
Handnote: Today my husband and I have agreed, this is my room. And so we set up a little writing desk right in the middle over the hand woven carpet. It is still Summer in temperature, though Fall ahs come. The pink heat presses me. The red wine relieves me. And the cat meows me. The fan, fans me. And Jesus loves me this I know. And I am thinking of three “m’s”marriage, my mother, and moon. New moon.