This is a flow of poems on the Wild Christ
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I surrender to an infinite Christ:
not a local, owned version
but a spontaneous sanity of silence
that makes the Pleiades burn
in utterly pure flame;
who smears the orange,
smoldering chalk of the sun
all over the stones and bodies of the trees;
who rides careening clouds, like gray ponies
prancing down wild rivers of wind;
who changes breezes into His angels
to whisper a spacious laugh of liberty;
who puts a silver moistness in dark valleys,
a seep between mountains
where the wild ones drink;
who cherishes the birds
so passionately from the inside
they have to sing!;
who swells succulent grasses
for the white teeth of cattle;
who breathes life into a sullen bear
and sucks it out again
when those dark, simmering eyes
cease to burn;
who makes pear trees
drip slow, golden bodies
for the juice of the sun;
who slowly seduces water to wine
in every grape of the world
to celebrate a perpetual wedding feast;
who makes the human heart
like a white candle in meditation
and spouts through it words
as sputters of flame in a wind
to sing his own wonder
at the infinite plentitude
of Wisdom's everywhere wise,
spontaneous lush of being.
This is the wild Christ
no one can tame!
This is the new,
unknowable name.


When did we tranquilize God,
and lock that wild one up in religious museums
—caging him in quilted zoos?


There are some women
—rare as blue horses—
who burn with life,
who emit sparks,
whose words ricochet around the room.
You may ask them a simple question
and their spirits quiver, then suddenly expand
far beyond the boundaries of their bodies
like tidal surges,
like thunderous waves of green water and foam,
flushing away all grayness,
washing concrete down drains.


Leap a little, do a bit of an Irish jig,
perhaps every day,
perhaps while standing in line at the Post Office.
No, because you read it from my mind,
do something different, something fresh
on your own:
like singing opera at the gym
during a "serious work out",
or walking down the isles at the supermarket
playing a harmonica, smiling at everyone.
If you are a woman, do something wild
and Lilly-like every day:
like giving a purple or golden scarf
to an old woman in a nursing home
and fashioning flowers into her hair...
or, out-crazying the children,
riding their makeshift pulley out to the stars.
If you are a man, do a prophetical act everyday:
like running out of the office
and digging your hands into the earth,
rubbing it into your face.
Then wash the dirt into the bathroom sink
as you hum sea chanteys
and spit into the waste basket,
rubbing your cheek where a beard should be,
and speaking like a pirate into the mirror,
telling all God's invisible warriors
that you would pour your blood out upon a stone
for one whiff of the fragrance
of a wild woman's spirit,
and that you would just as well grasp wind or fire
as that lady's freedom.


God is waiting for us,
ringing His silver chancel bells of silence,
flashing out His light for us to see:
but we don't see, for to see is to wonder
and we have tragically lost our sense of wonder.
Where is our awe and wonder?
We seek advantage!
What of the unspeakable gift of one word;
the ineffability of song?
Where is the adventure
of every little common deed?


Take time to dream God's dream.
It is not enough to study it,
nor to memorize it.
Take time to see it in your mind's eye.
Dream it a little while.
Lay back your head into the clouds of it.
Can you see glory and beauty everywhere;
every soul wise and radiant with love?
Imagine people so passionately simple,
so alive to spirit and sense
that all they want is time
to taste eternity in everything.
Can you see people naturally putting their hands
on each other for healing and the lame leaping,
the blind seeing?
Imagine all animals loving each other
and wild beasts playing with children.
Can you see the skies opening
with billions of angels everywhere?
Can you see love?
Take time. Shush... Dream it a little while.


Remember my love,
how that when the kingdom first came upon earth
we walked along the lakeshore, speaking beauty,
while angels swirled overhead singing.
Remember how we laid down naked in the meadows
to murmur awhile in love's music
while the angels laughed
and swarmed above us like swallows,
doing swift acrobatics in the luminous air.


Holy creation was in a trance
until we poured our souls to the sky
and down upon stones
to let them sink into earth.
When we became true,
clear thoughts rang out
of our minds like bells
to resonate within
the glassy foundations of God.
And the Lord came, even as His people
had long dreamt it would be!
Then a throng, painted like the birds of Brazil
and clothed in feathers,
danced out of every tree
as clouds shape-shifted into white horses!
And souls melted into a liquid tenderness
and ascended to the blue skies
to ride great energetic winds to the north
and to the south singing prophecies
until from the east golden souls came
and fell upon the western world
as bright, white tears amidst rain.
And the earth drank up our souls at last
into its somber, grieving bosom,
then spilled us out of bright fountainheads
so that we might bound naked
and laughing down to the foam of the sea
to murmur there awhile around barnacles and fish
— until, simmered in the sun,
we arose together naturally, laughing our prayers
all over the skies.
Ah, my love-drunk bride, wasn't it wondrous beyond words
when our free souls first circulated
in the sweet solvent of Earth’s Spirit
as God’s sleeping Soul blushed awake.

Wild Christ Home
Poems © Blake Steele 1993