EDGAR MITCHELL, R.I.P.

                      Now Edgar Mitchell knows the truth at last,
                      Or not, revealed in his epiphany
                      While standing on the Moon, with all the vast-
                      Ness of the circled cosmos clear to see.

                     It might as well have been the mind of God
                     Made manifest and wheeling in his view
                     And he no more a merely mortal clod
                     Now capable of knowing what is True.

                     Then with this visionary insight he
                     Proceeded as a scientist would go
                     Investigating wide and carefully
                     The gnosis that had overwhelmed him so,

                          And out of this, Noetic Science came
                          To verify what mystics all proclaim.

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WISDOMPAGE.COM

                       Copthorne Macdonald was a modest man,
                       Soft spoken and big hearted as men come,
                       Who in the course of his accomplished span
                       Of life grew wise: of life the very sum.

                      And better yet, he left a legacy
                      So others might pursue him on that course
                      Toward wisdom, often thought a mystery
                      And yet of happiness the truest source.

                      A matter of the highest consequence,
                      Pursuing wisdom offers something far
                      Beyond wealth, power, fame and eminence;
                      In all the heavens, it is our brightest star.

                           Though it will take awhile to realize,
                           No time is better spent than growing wise.

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 OUR PRAIRIE HOME COMPANION

                    Dear Garrison, I know for decades now
                    Your Prairie Home Companion has regaled
                    Us with an entertainment only thou
                    Could brew so well, and that has never failed;
                    Yet understandably, you feel it’s time
                    To put the reins in someone else’s hands,
                    Attending then to something more sublime,
                    Some artistry, perhaps, your Muse demands.
                    But what have you to give more precious than
                    The blessings of your vocal artistry,
                    A singer and a story-telling man,
                    Exalting us with wisdom and with glee?
                         With no one else so gifted in your calling,
                         The thought of your departure is appalling.

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SOURCE

                    The miracle, the wonder of all this!
                    Eclipsed by what so often seems mundane
                    And yet is the epitome of bliss,
                    Though oft ignored or treated with disdain.

                    Why do we grow obtusely deaf and blind
                    To what from cosmic particles emerged
                    To be arrayed by some grand cosmic mind
                    While life of every kind on Earth diverged?

                    That mind we know as ours must reflect
                    The essence of what’s evident throughout
                    The universe: our mission’s to connect
                    With this generic Source and quell our doubt:

                        Once widening and deepening our ken,
                        Great secrecies will be illumined then.

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BAMBOO

                              Among the sights along our walks:
                              A creaking stand of bamboo stalks.

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INCIDENT

                      This morning in the yard behind our house,
                      Our Tiggy found the body of a mouse,
                      Sodden from the evening’s spate of showers
                      And lying there no doubt for many hours.

                     Whatever caused this sad fatality—
                     The malice of a cat?—I could not see,
                     And Tiggy too seemed equally bemused;
                     To such calamity she is unused.

                    Of that poor creature I have now disposed,
                    And Tig’s no doubt forgotten what she nosed
                    As she snugs comfortably beside my hip
                    In our warm easy chair.  I take a sip
                    Of mocha coffee drink and chew my pen
                    Praying we see no such sad sights again.

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FATHER BROWN

                   Father Brown is both a priest and sleuth
                   Who’s constantly embroiled in mysteries
                   On whom it falls to ferret out the truth
                   Eluding all police inquiries.
                   Ironically, it takes a devious mind,
                   Perhaps one schooled in the confessional,
                   To know how heinous plots may be divined
                   Better than a law professional.
                   Though always flummoxed by the priest’s success,
                   The Chief Inspector never grants respect
                   To one whose work’s to hear people confess
                   And thereby learns the better to detect
                        The subtle ways that evil works its will,
                        Exposed at last by Brown’s uncanny skill.

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