Exhibitionist

I never thought of God

as an exhibitionist but

what else can I say

when I am confronted with

the mountains with their heights

the sea in its depths

the sunset, radiant

the pearl encapsulating beauty

the moon permeating my eyes

the flowers in the field erupting

in their riots of color

the porcupine in its waddle

the tomb with its stone

rolled away, empty and

silent in realized glory.

Photograph by Petr Kratochvil via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

Standing in presence

Standing in presence

there is heaviness, abounding;

I turn, slightly, toward

the neon light but turn back,

the reality of what’s before

me overwhelming. To see

the face is fatal, even to see

the back is searing, bleaching

my face, my hair, my soul

as I hide in this cleft. Even

my breath is scorched.

Photograph by Junior Libby via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

Son of Nun

I am Son of Nun, Joshua. I serve

the most high by serving

the servant. It is my call to serve

the servant. Voices awaken me

before the dawn; I do not

understand the cloud, not yet,

although I know its composition,

its essence, its ability to sear

the soul. I stand outside

its envelope; I bow at the tent door,

facing outward, facing away.

It is my service to face away; I am

a spear, a sword, a shield. The cloud

is next to me; I hear the murmuring

of the voice. The cloud is behind me,

embracing the servant. I dare not fix

my gaze upon it,

on its brilliance.

Photograph by Sheila Dane via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

Within the cloud

I walk within as the cloud

descends, cocooning me even

as it strips me naked, bare,

permeating my mind, my heart,

my soul. Only then does the voice

speak. I ask no questions.

The voice continues until

it is finished,

the stream ceasing

until the next time. The cloud lifts.

I walk away, refreshed

and exhausted.

Photograph by Lisa Runnels via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

The tent outside

We watch as he walks softly,

firmly through the rows

of the camp, an old man yet

walking with the stride

of a younger. He turns neither

to the right nor the left, his gaze

fixed on the tent outside,

the one waiting for him. He enters

the tent as the cloud descends,

the sign that we are to bow

at the threshold of our own tents,

knees bent and head touching

the ground. We hear nothing

from the cloud but we know

to wait, wait for the ascent,

the sign that it is done.

He walks back, turning neither

to the right nor the left, his mind

fixed on the tent outside.