For the Mystically Inclined

For the Mystically Inclined

ISBN: 0-7596-8690-4

In For the Mystically Inclined, Charlie explains some of the journey of "Please Hear What I'm Not Saying" and explains why he decided to let people know who wrote it. The book also includes 384 pages of poems about topics from Christmas to animal friends to gardening to addiction to parenting to partnership to religion/mysticism/Jesus, war/death, and sports.

What Helped Me Not Panic

What helped me not panic
when preparing to face fire from a dragon
was a line from a poem by Rumi
about my life not being my own.
I am not only lived by God
but propelled by ancestors within
and their thousand sustaining winds.
Ah, if we but remember who carries us,
whom we carry within.

November 1991

Would Humans Were Half So Good

When he wants affection,
Periwinkle gets right to the point.
He positions himself just so
that a dangling kindly arm can't help
but scratch around an ear,
fluff the fur on an inviting chest.
Would humans were half so good
at shedding pretense and announcing need.
He's not your aggressive type--
a quite willing subordinate, in fact, to his shepherd sidekick--
but make no mistake Periwinkle takes care of himself
nowhere more than in letting you know
not only that he wants affection
but exactly where.

October 1987


Being tested by a 2-year-old
can grind you down.
When screams shift from rage to pleading,
defenses around a father's heart weaken.
Sobbing plaintive calls to Daddy
cut like knives.
What will this do to her trust in the world
if she calls and her Daddy won't come?
Get hold of yourself, Daddy.
If she gets to blow people away with her storms,
who's to protect her against herself?
What this is about is trust--
that Daddy's word means something,
that it can't be bought off by a storm or a pleading.
Some poems serve as peptalks
to stand up to a test.

February 1987

It Depends on Your Destination

Thanks for the signal, pal.
If you're in for moseying, oblivious one,
how about getting out of the passing lane.
Hey, jerk, don't pull in front of me and then slow down.
Your brights, buster, gimme a break.
Damn it trucker, go around me if you want
but get off my tail.
For God's sake, mister, stay in your lane.
Perfect place, the highway, for those inclined to stuff anger
to let fire flash out.
Perfect place, the highway, for those inclined to spiritual practice
to work towards flashing out the purer fire
of detachment and forgiveness.
Letting rip or releasing grip,
it depends on your destination.

May 1988

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