Hoping to Give Her Hope
I preach to a dog.
First I find a treat
and give it to her.
Then I preach.
She listens well,
without comment,
without judgment.
A perfect audience.
I tell her about our adventures in this mysterious place.
You and me, Lord, galivanting about, enchanting each other.
I tell her about my hopes for knowing You and finding You,
of allowing you to root into my soul all the way to the core.
I tell her about how we talk, Your words of truth and light.
Over and over I repeat Your name, hoping to give her hope.
I tell her about our full-moon times, when I howl in longing
to return to You, in a full and whole heart. She likes that bit.
I mean, who knows?
The soul of a dog
is as precious as mine.
And I want to preach.
Alas, I’m out of treats.
She saunters away,
finally done with me.
And I want to preach.
— DK Jammin’
So This is How it Goes
The trees let go
today, this morning,
after holding tight
through snow dumps
and whipping winds.
It’s completely calm,
and yet I am showered
with fluttering leaves.
A boy hangs on
today, this morning,
clasping his father’s hand,
exploring the hillside.
He’s eleven or twelve,
completely content,
zero teenage aspirations,
attached to his best friend.
So this is how it goes.
It seems simple enough,
though I’m not so sure.
I let things of fading color,
crumpled and crinkly,
float down and away.
I hang onto my Father as
we explore up and beyond.
— DK Jammin’
All the Gifts
Here’s my grandson, his first birthday.
He has no notion of what a toy is,
or what a gift is, for that matter.
Who knows how he’ll ever crawl
his way through all the boxes and bows?
Everything is unwrapped and
baby nirvana falls in front of him –
things to hold and pound and roll.
No idea what they really are or why, but pouncing all over
the dings and barks and flashes and sparkles and blinks
and splats and wiggles in one glorious, giggling mess.
Time for a nap.
It’s too much, almost too much,
all the gifts You give me today.
I look over here, I look over there,
bewildered, amazed, uncertain.
We have so many spinning words:
call it a xylophone or call it grace.
Call it peekaboo and a puzzle or
call it compassion and a mercy.
I barely understand what they mean, but pouncing all over
the help and hope and heavenliness and spiritual cuddles
and flesh-and-blood lovers in one glorious, giggling mess.
Time to wake up.
— DK Jammin’
Bend, Twist, Stretch, and Shake
I’ve never seen it –
the moment the shackles break.
Do you think such a moment really exists?
I’ll tell you what I have seen.
A righteous rant change on a dime
to silent purity. Caught, stopped, and reversed.
True care, true concern,
when questions follow questions
and the thought of time, all time, slips away.
An always-aggressive driver,
refusing to yield to anyone for fifty years,
suddenly, sweetly, pulls over to let a tailgater pass.
Or the offensive smudge
somehow overlooked all week by everyone –
the household halts, comes close, and wipes it clean.
Do the shackles break?
Not that I have seen; however,
I do see them bend, twist, stretch, and shake.
— DK Jammin’
Somersaulting His Joy
Years ago, I went to San Diego
seeking something big,
someone life changing.
The excuse was a workshop –
we wrote poems and shared.
I was admired.
I was still young, 39,
questing for my Jesus,
my Buddha, my Krishna.
Somehow I knew. I knew.
He was near, turning upside down,
somersaulting His joy.
I found nothing but ocean.
People strolling on the beach.
He may have been among them.
Ten more years I kept looking.
The only thing that got my ass
up and out of the house.
False prophets and false starts, for sure.
Then what happened?
(I hope you ask.)
— DK Jammin’
DK Jammin’ (David Kramer) is 75 years old; he has been a human rights lawyer, playwright, psychotherapist, and janitor. Through it all, above and below it all, he has been a spiritual explorer and vagabond. His poems have appeared not only in Synchronized Chaos, but also in Feed the Holy, Soul Poetry Journal, Metapsychosis, Macrame Literary Journal, and Disturb the Universe.