I think that there is in the singular splendor of dawn, 

A divine clarity, a view into the living heart of the world 

When one may sense in those sacred moments the presence of that one great life

And know that the million things are the million faces of God

The shifting hues of the great firmament 

The diamond-strung tapestries of the dew-soaked webs of the spiders

The dancing mists alighted by the rays of the great golden fire

The avian symphonies that echo in the emerald wood

The quiet steps of the amber doe in the golden meadow

All things constituting the immense, living body of the world

The sacred flesh



Pantheism Pt II



I suspect that there is in all things the presence of the divine

But that at various times for various reasons it can be easier or more difficult to see

It is clear in the quiet power of the young buck’s soft steps across the open field

In the call of the crows circling overhead, silhouetted by the dying light of evening

In the song of the running river that wades through the gates of cottonwood

And in the deep and mysterious beauty of the forest itself

In the rich amber of the turning maples of autumn,

And the stoic repose of the old evergreens that will weather the winter

Here, ever clearly, is the divinity of all things.


And so I suspect that this divine presence dwells in man as well

And that here too it can be easier and more difficult to see

In fact I feel that it is often most difficult to find that presence in man

Though I have come to believe that this is more to do with the prejudices of thought

And has little to do with the reality of things

For what has poured forth the the shining cities of the world,

But a curious manifestation of the same great life that births the emerald forest?

The glittering glass towers and the ancient earth flow from the same mysterious source

The ceaseless creation and destruction, the endless striving of God



To sit beneath the emerald canopy and the great pillars of this rich earthen world

To hear the lone call of the raven drifting across the clearing from the fog draped forest 

To watch the winds draw the undulating shapes on the surface of the still pond

To feel the cool air in the lungs and admire the swirling shapes of the spent breath

Not far from this place is the human world, our world of dreams

But here, dwelling in the glory of things, beheld so clearly

Here is reality





In the brilliant gold of the autumn evening, the last traces of the dying day

Rake gently over a waterside scene

The blades of grass bow delicately in a quiet breeze

The low sound of rustling grasses fills the air, accompanied,

By the rustling of leaves enlivened for one last dance before death takes them home

The image on the still blue abyss is broken by the footsteps of the heron,

Called from the skies for the good hunting by his suprahuman intelligence

A set of leafless branches rise black against the fading blue of the clear sky

Above the ensemble a trio of crows ride the winds to a distant horizon

I know that all things are God,

The endless turning of things is merely the outward form of the endless striving

The pale sky and the deep earth and all things between them



For this is the way – the gift – of also knowing the nature of the rotten: human, animal, land. Of the need, sometimes, to cleanse, perchance to cull. 


Do not pity the writhing mass

Neither are you to help what should die 

The sprawling depravity

That spreads like a sickness on the face of the earth

Let the hurtling mass dive headlong into the black

Or help it to die faster when you can

Foment chaos and destruction among the sickness

And the earth shall be thankful 




This world we have wrought would perhaps shock even Faust

Trading what is great and beautiful in us and the world for our pyrrhic victories

Losing our place between the great vaulted sky and the deep earth

It was our gift to dwell in the glory of things, as a note in the sacred song of the world

To share in the flesh of the world, as our ancestors before us had done

For we have not always been wretched, and when the night comes for the day of man

We may be able to say that there was some  beauty in us among the calamity

If you wish now for some greatness and beauty you must find that ancient place again

Not in the tortured world of “Man,” but where the cold blood of the old mountain runs

Where the great green pillars that hold the firmament may be found

Following the footsteps of the coyote or the great amber buck

Take the blade to your cherished “humanity,” cut it clean off 

Let your blood soak back into the dark soil, rejoining the beating heart of the world

This is our beauty, our greatness 







The sun rose red like blood, soaking the dawn in rich crimson

The distant mountains were clouded in a thick ashy-gray veil 

Murky silhouettes against the the red sky from spires of smoke adrift in the atmosphere

Flames consuming the forests to the east have built these vast spires of ash and smoke

Adornments atop temples of chaos and destruction 

And I have heard that in California too the fire is swallowing the world

Leaving a trail of charred ruination, black refuse from the guts of the world-eaters

And yet, the indescribable beauty of this sublime terror




No longer to sense the sacred in things

Missing the divinity of the old river following its ancient steps

Missing the dark magic of the deep forest

Missing the ancient powers of the distant mountains

This is our wretchedness

To have grown blind to the staggering beauty of things, the divine glory of the inhuman

Our seeing clouded by our own mirages

So you shall let the mass die, lunging dream-driven back into oblivion

Like a passing flame in the world-fire

And leave behind your humanity, returning to that ancient source


Theology II

You may keep your dead god, that limp corpse strung up on the cross

I will take my living one, a god of earth, fire, water, air, and blood

Whose life is the swirling galaxies, and the pregnant voids between them

Whose life is the burning heart of the stars, and the spinning worlds

Whose life is the eternal cresting and falling of things, endless birth and death

More given to the limitless violence of eternal creation than stagnant grace

But rich in glory, in numinous wonder





And what is meant by the term “God”?

That which is all things, one life of infinite extension

The great body of the world which carves itself into its infinite parts

The unnameable beyond the One or the Many

The towering cedars and quaking ferns of the green forest

The quiet power of the deer and the ferocity of the wolf

The pulse of the old river and the stony bodies of the old mountains

The life that wakes the world in spring and the herald of death when the days grow cold

Even the dreaming and dying people are but a curious extension of that one life

This is what I mean when I speak of “God”

Nothing but the immense, living body of the world, a great elemental god

And this alone, the final, indomitable spirit of the cosmos