Perhaps, like me,
You’ve been
taught that the
Conscious Creativity
that birthed
what We can’t quite
capture or contain
when We say
Love,

That Lover
who warned us
that dividing
the Mind of
Your Beautiful
Soul

into compartments
of Good and Evil
will feel like
Death,

when Your
Adorable Soul
was woven from
Light,
to find Adventures
in the Art of
creating Life

that will never
stop expanding
into Libraries
and Galleries
and Dancehalls
and Theaters
devoted to
Exhibitions
of Beauty

that deny entry
to the Cadres of
uniformed Priests
who have been hired
to place signs
in the aisles
reading
Good or Evil.

Denied entry
because
Exhibitions of Love
have no use
for such signs.

I beg of You
Holy Ones,
take off
Your uniforms and
put on these
robes sewn
from Light.

And, for goodness sake,
let Beauty
burn away
Your Fear.

If you like “I Beg of You Holy Ones,” maybe you’ll like seeing my poetry books, and more poems, at stevegillard.com.

Some spiritual
Wise Guys,
the same religious
Mafiosi who
insisted on
calling the
Burning Love
that blew Itself
into All That Is

“God”

as if such
Incandescence
is of the same
rank and order as
Thor and Zeus and
Aphrodite and
Hades,

those same
Wise Guys
insist
that to be
afraid of
“God”
is the birthplace
of what they call
Wisdom.

If they were within
a heavenly mile of
Wisdom
they would know that

It begins with
Love
that wants to
pull You close and
kiss Your
face

until You breathe
enough of It
that You know

the very idea
there is a
“God”
who wants to
keep You frightened

is the only
Hell
that ever
existed.

If you like “Wise Guys,” maybe you’ll like seeing my poetry books, and more poems, at stevegillard.com.

Sometimes
You behave as if
You’re serving
a life sentence
for the crime of
being You.

No possibility of
parole, and
You’ve made
the rest of us
Your probation officers,

especially
the ones who
imagine
they are
assigned, or
deserve to be,
the assayers
of Your guilt
or innocence,

beginning with
Your parents,
then Your
teachers and
preachers and
bosses and
spouses,

as if they were
appointed by
some celestial
court of
last resort,

when, in fact,

Your Being
is made of
Light,

a Flame
that scorns
the Shame
that wrote Your
sentence

like a
butterfly
scorns
a gnat’s
shadow.

If you like “A Gnat’s Shadow,” maybe you’ll like seeing my poetry books, and more poems, at stevegillard.com.

Smite my
forehead,
I’ve had it all
wrong.

I’ve imagined
a Maker
Whom I
was meant to
search for,

in meditations, or
sacred libraries, or
kneel-in
prayer closets.

As if He, She –
okay, THEY –
intended our
lives to be
one
long
game
of Hide-and-Seek.

I may have
found
something:

Perhaps
the Maker
longs to
look for
Us,

in our
goofy romances,
our
sweaty games,
our
brush-stroked paintings,
our
dervish dances,
our
Marvel movies,
our
beautiful, beautiful
Books.

Perhaps
our Maker
adores Us
so much
They want
nothing more
than to see
What
We can
Make.

If you like “Smite My Forehead,” maybe you’ll like seeing my poetry books, and more poems, at stevegillard.com.

Imagine You’re
the Playwright of
Your Life,

You scripted it
before You ever
came onstage.

Of course
You planned
to play Your
way through
risky
Improvisations,

after all,
who doesn’t love
a Mystery?

Other Players
share Your stage,
there’d be
no Show
without Them,

Some play
Heroes,
Some play
Crooks,

next time –
there’ll be a
next time,
You all love
Theater –

next time
maybe You’ll
play the Crook,
or maybe
You’ll die
in the second act
and bring Your
audience to
tears.

You’ve been told
Your Play
will be reviewed
by a Critic
who thinks
He’s God,

but that’s a Lie
and here’s the Truth:

It’s The One
who leapt up
when You took
your bow,

who set off
a standing ovation,

The One who
can’t wait to
see Your next
Show,
who’s loved
Everything You’ve done.

That’s The One
some call
God.

If you like “Standing Ovation,” maybe you’ll like seeing my poetry books, and more poems, at stevegillard.com.

Are You still looking
for the Specifications
for The Perfect Human?

Still imagining
a distant Deity
with The Specifications
hanging on the Wall
of Their Throne Room,
for comparison
purposes,
when it’s time
to make a record
of Your performance?

Are You still combing
the shelves of the
Self-Help section at
What Have You Done With
Your Self
Bookstore?

Following
@YouCanDoBetter
on Facebook?

Have you crafted
your New Year’s
Resolutions,
copied word-for-word from
The Specifications?

What if
it turns out
there are no
Specifications,

except the ones
formed by
Fearmongers,
written above
the forged signatures
of their
impersonated
Deities?

What if
that photograph
of You
grinning,
after finding
the perfect words
to tattoo on
your inner arm,

what if
that photograph
of You
grinning
has all
The Perfect Specifications
for
You?

If you like “The Specifications of You,” maybe you’ll like seeing my poetry books, and more poems, at stevegillard.com.

There is a stone
upon which
many walls
have been built,

the millstone
around the neck
to which
Jesus referred.

Upon this stone
is inscribed
a Law,
designed to be
a shock collar,

a Law
unequivocal
in its insistence
that every wrong
must be righted
with
Consequences,

a Law
meant to be fueled
by Fear,

and often wrapped
around the
human heart
with the ligatures
at the heart
of religions.

There is another Law
written in
the Foundation of
All That Is,

transcending
walls
and severing
millstones
with Joy that
shatters
Consequences
into dust
beneath the
bare feet
of exuberant escapees
going over
the walls
of Fear,

laughing,
as the Fear fades
into the Light
of the
Law of Love,

which insists that
when it comes
to righting wrongs,

Consequences
are little
matchsticks,

whose only
task is to ignite
the Light of Love,
then fall away
into
ash.

If you like “Matchsticks,” maybe you’ll like seeing my poetry books, and more poems, at stevegillard.com.

Do you understand
how free you are?

How determined
your Maker is
to help you
defend your freedom?

How your Maker
exults in the Way
you do This and
not That?

Adores your quirky
little preferences and
odd choosings and
Weirdo ways?

Before you answer
the doorbell and
invite that one in,
with his reversed
white collar,
clutching his
black leatherbound
goldleaf-lettered
Rule Book,
like it was actually
hand-scribed by
your Maker,

determine in
your heart-of-hearts
that you’ll have some
divinely demented
fun
showing your new pal
how delighted
you are to have
an audience for

your Sermon
on the Saintliness of
Surrendering to
the Holiness of the
Heavenly Humoresque.

If you like “Humoresque,” maybe you’ll like seeing my poetry books, and more poems, at stevegillard.com.

You say
your Life is
an open book,

but,
the question is,
who’s writing it?

Did you imagine
you were meant to
send out invitations,

asking for
submissions to
an anthology,

every chapter
someone else’s version
of your story,
as if their version
must be better than
your own?

Their adventures
more interesting
than your
misadventures?

Their successes
more captivating
than your
did-the-best-you-coulds?

Their hard work
more impressive
than your
slacker escapades?

Did you imagine
you’ll need
an agent
to persuade
a major publisher
to consider your book
worthy of publication?

Sort of like
Jesus making a pitch to
a judgmental God?

I’m thinking of
taking my own
advice:

Write your own book.
Publish it your Self.

If you like “Open Book,” maybe you’ll like seeing my poetry books, and more poems, at stevegillard.com.

I change from my
“Lebowski 2024” t-shirt
into a white shirt and tie,

find my King James Bible
between
“Another Roadside Attraction”
and
“Jitterbug Perfume,”
and
ride my bicycle to
First Church of the Open Bible.

My attempt to be
surreptitious is
betrayed by being
the only one
wearing a tie to
Bible Study.

A friendly voice
calls out:
“We play a little game.
Latecomers must give us
their favorite verse,
from memory.”

I’m ready.

“God is Love,
I John 4:8,”
I yell,
lifting my hands.

From somewhere
near the front
a hand and voice
are raised:

“Fear only God,
who can destroy
both soul and body
in hell,
Matthew 10:28.”

My life has been spent
preparing for this.

I rip my tie
from my neck
and wave it
in triumph.

“There is no fear
in Love,
but perfect Love
casteth out fear,
I John 4:18,”
I shout.

All eyes are on me,
a finger points.

“That’s out of context.”

Without words I turn
and walk.

It’s time to take
my Self out of
this context.

If you like “Out of Context,” maybe you’ll like seeing my poetry books, and more poems, at stevegillard.com.

How far is it from
Where You Are Now to
Where You Imagine
You Should Be, to
Where You
Long To Be?

A Lifetime?
A thousand Lifetimes?

Who do You Imagine
You Will Be
When You Arrive?

What will be
different about You?
Do you have a List?

With deadlines and
check-boxes and
measurements?
Categories and
subcategories?
Indicators of
Transformation?

What if You’re
too late and
your hair has
faded or
fallen out?
Your wrinkles
and creases have
multiplied, and
your girth gone
slack?

Will you have failed?

Or have you been
misinformed
by the Prophets and
Preachers of
If and Maybe,

when in Truth
You Arrived before
You Ever Left.

You’ve only Ever
Arrived.

It’s not a Journey.

It’s an Unveiling.

Someone fitted You
with Blinders
at Birth.

Take them off.
You’re where You
Long To Be.

If you like “The Unveiling,” maybe you’ll like seeing my poetry books, and more poems, at stevegillard.com.

You don’t need
anything.

Nothing.

You are Everything
You need
to Be.

You have been
since before
there was a
Before,

and You will Be
long after
The Hereafter.

Yet,
every single day,
new Lists of
What You Need
show up,
uninvited,

along with
warnings
about failure to

Do Be Do Be Do.

Your Question
should really be –
since You
asked to Play
this Game
exactly as You –

did You arrive here
in need of
repair,
damaged in delivery,

or is this the
Role of a
Lifetime,
from curtain
to curtain?

Every act a
character study
in the alchemy
of compassion,

an invitation to
transform
scene and prop
and dialogue

into grace
that belies
the need
for anything

but amazement
at the
standing ovation
of Love.

If you like “Ovation,” maybe you’ll like seeing my poetry books, and more poems, at stevegillard.com

.

Perhaps,
as a Young One,
you daydreamed of
Art School,

but your Elders
insisted the Way
to The Top
ran through
laboratories or
law school or
calculus or the
supply and demand
of Economics 101.

But daydreams
can be relentless,
grinning at you
from between the pages
of your beach read, or
beckoning to you
from whatever screen
you use to watch
“Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind,”

until they persuade you
to wake up
in The Mystery,

to see you’ve
only ever been
in Art School,

and there isn’t
a birth or
a death,

a love lost
or beauty found
in hopeless heroics,

transcendence
discovered in some
bungled business
of one kind or another,

that isn’t Being
transformed by
your eyes,
seeing through Love’s Lens,

into a Wondering
how it is
that you
found your Way
into Art School
after All.

If you like “Daydreams of Art School,” maybe you’ll like seeing my poetry books, and more poems, at stevegillard.com.

I imagined Prayer
to be asking for gifts,

of rescue, or
relief,
a check in the mail,
a cure,
an answer to a
perilous puzzle,
a locked door
opened by
Magic.

But what if
that hole in
my bank account,
that crack that
hitches my git-along,
that coruscating
conundrum,
that bang-proof
iron gate,

are precious paint?

What if
I should pray for
a dream,

while I’m still
awake,

where my days
are a canvas,
my Imagination
a brush,

and I see how
to spend my days
making Art
with painted
prayers?

If you like “Painted Prayers,” maybe you’ll like seeing my poetry books, and more poems, at stevegillard.com.

You may be an
addict.
I know I am.

Addicted to
keeping score,
even when
I don’t want to.

I’m not just
talking about
counting
chocolate chip
cookies.

Everything.

Have I been
sitting here
too many
minutes?

Is an hour
to wait for
an image
to appear
too long?

I wonder if
a real poet
could get there
in thirty-seven
minutes,

so as not to
steal minutes
a productive
person
could count on
for vacuuming.

Could I up
the output to
three poems
a week?

You may have been
sentenced to
life imprisonment
for your addiction,
by the scorekeeping
judges.

But what if
I told you
I believe
I found
a doorway to
freedom?

It opens
for you
right there
where you sit
on the couch.

Follow the sound
of souls laughing

when they
follow the Light
at the end of
a dark tunnel,

to a place
where
Awareness
stretches forever,
in all directions –
you can’t
count it –

and is handing out
love potions,
custom made
to suit what
you fancy,

and no one
is keeping score.

If you like “Keeping Score,” maybe you’ll like seeing my poetry books, and more poems, at stevegillard.com.

You were taught
that there’s a
Judgment Day,

now every day’s
a judgment day,
and you’re
guilty.

You’ve written
the indictment
a thousand
times:

Too many
Counts
to count,

and you’re
guilty,
at least
you feel
that way.

Every day.

It’s why
you keep a
certain
distance

between
you and
Them,

because a
conversation
seems more
like a
cross-examination,

a close encounter
likely to
become a
jury verdict.

I have
a gift
for you.

I’ve learned
there is no
prosecutor,

no Judge,
no Jury.

Only an
ocean of
adoration.

Dive deep,
let it take
your breath
away.

A single
drop
has enough
creativity
for you to
invent
a thousand
ways

to show us
how to
turn our
guilty pleas

into a
Hallelujah
Chorus

that sings
out,
count-by-count,

“You’re beloved,
it doesn’t
matter.”

If you like “It Doesn’t Matter,” maybe you’ll like seeing my poetry books, and more poems, at stevegillard.com.

It’s only been
ten minutes
since your last
self-examination,

but I guess
you can squeeze
You into your
schedule at
5:30 a.m.
in your
exam room
there on the
left side of
the bed.

Starting at
the top of
your chart:

Your habit of
moving everything
on your “To Do” List
from “Today” to
“Tomorrow”
remains
chronic
and
untreated.

Your diet of
pop tarts and
Dr. Pepper
is in need of
urgent review.

Your productivity
numbers
are still in
single digits.
(See “To Do” List.)

Walking to
the kitchen
to refill your
coffee cup
between chapters
isn’t considered
“Exercise”
until you’re
a few years
older.

We know
you’ll want to
be back in the
exam room
at 5:45,
for another
self-examination,

but perhaps
we can save you
a trip:

The Committee
of Angels
assigned to
attend you

reports that
you are
exactly
who You
meant to be.

You’re going
to live
forever.

If you like “Self-Examination,” maybe you’ll like seeing my poetry books, and more poems, at stevegillard.com.

We don’t even
attempt to hide
our addiction to
Judgment,

our stashes of
assessments and
evaluations and
measurement-by-measurement
comparisons,

our secret
compartments of
critiques and
castigations and
condemnations,

especially the ones
we’ve hoarded
for our Selves,

to be consumed
in secret,
along with a
cocktail
or two of
self-pity, or
renunciation.

If you
grow tired
of captivity
you might
consider
treatment.

It’s offered by
the Love Maker
whose idea
of a good time is

dousing your
judgments
in 100-proof
affection,

setting them
ablaze with
flames of
approval
that consume
your condemnations
with enough
warmth and
light

to keep you
creating
adventures
for your Soul
that will
entertain us
in places
Judgment never
heard of.

If you like “Treatment,” maybe you’ll like seeing my poetry books, and more poems, at stevegillard.com.

If I was
less hampered
by a lackadaisical
gene –
I blame it all
on DNA –
I might
get serious
about tracking
down the
origins of
the ludicrous
notion that
“the fear of
The Lord
is the beginning of
wisdom.”

I might make up
a story about
how it first
appeared
in a comedy club
on the outskirts of
Afterlife City.

Good thing the
adoring
cherishing
embracing
beloving
lets-see-if-we-can-
sweep-them-off-
their-feet-with-a-
flurry-of-celestial-
smooches-
Love-
Consciousness-
we-can’t-find-a-
good-enough-
name-for
has a
sense of humor.

If you like “Seriously?” maybe you’ll like seeing my poetry books, and more poems, at stevegillard.com.

Dear One,
I will no longer
refer to you as
divine.

It’s like calling
a bluebird
blue.

And to say
you’re perfect
is like saying
he was
built to
fly.

Superfluous,
like comparing
his wings to a
butterfly.

To say
you’re adored
by the Love
that
made You

is like
pontificating
on what
is in the
voice of
that eagle
piping to her
beloved.

We lose our
Way with words,
we can’t
get there
from here.

So be grateful
that you already
abide
right
in the heart
of
What Is.

If you like “Bluebird,” maybe you’ll like seeing my poetry books, and more poems, at stevegillard.com.