God Whispers on the Wind
Spiritual Poems of Light, Laughter and Love by Dave Ursillo
I believe that your spirituality deserves to be raw, real, and wildly unrefined.
Not “boxed in” or “closed off.” Never strictly defined by anyone else — never completely “definable” at all, really.
Spirituality is meant to bring some bit of understanding to us that we are all bound to one another — some cognizance to the invisible threads laced between every living thing and even beyond that, to forces far greater than ourselves.
Timeless. Eternal. Permeating and ever-present.
And, I believe that when we default our personal choice and decision-making to “what we’re told to believe” by any strict spiritual or religious ideology, we are unconsciously sacrificing part of our innate and unconquerable inner power:
The God-given ability to see beyond the boundaries, to love across dividing lines, to feel Oneness through the multitudes and to see ourselves in millions of other human lives.
And yet, religion remains a source of raging global conflicts.
War. Death. Debate and divide.
Displacement and segregation.
Political and ideological division, even in the United States.
But we can only begin to heal our world and all its problems by healing ourselves, first — from the inside, out.
That’s why I wrote God Whispers on the Wind, a special collection of 81 empowering poems that will open your eyes and your heart to what we’re connected to around us.
AMONGST THE MAZE
Children playing in a maze
carry cheek-deep smiles like beautiful little beacons
that lead the playful taps of their airy swift feet.
From corner to corner and dead end to another,
brilliant laughter graces the tall corn.
And when they reach the exit not one ever says,
“Where is the prize we have been searching for?”
Because they found it amongst the maze.
YOU DO SOMETHING TRAGIC
You do something tragic when you hold back your love
and the ones you are with cannot breathe in
The True You.
You do something tragic when you close yourself up
and prevent your soul from shining through.
Let me see you!
Oh, you do something so tragic, dearest friend,
when you do not cry your truth
for fear that the world
might judge you.
It is so tragic when you do not bear openly
your love, your beautiful story, your brilliant lessons,
and all your enlightened gifts
on every whim and chance
that you’ve been gifted.
Perhaps the greatest Quiet Tragedy, one that we can so easily avoid,
is when you wait for tomorrow to sew your heart to another’s.
Please, stop this tragedy.
And turn every chance you have
into a Beautiful Little Miracle.
THREE HAPPY BLOODHOUNDS
Three happy bloodhounds
just passed me by.
How did I know they were happy?
You could see smiles written in their eyes.
But I suppose it was their slobbery licks, how generous,
that proved the depths of their joy!
Your eyes lead your deeds; remember that.
Now, don’t run off licking strangers.
No one will believe your alibi:
that some poet made you to do it.
When your heart’s cords are twisted into Sublime Tune,
every sight and sound changes from a mess of chance and commotion
to a most Masterful Symphony.
And everything is just perfect.
Within those few breaths of perfection there is such a gifted peace
(you know, before some jerk ruins it),
and each motion on the street is strummed
into this world’s most Delectable Masterpiece.
Oh, here’s God now,
twisting my arms and legs
to find that harmonious tune so I can join in!
I see a pigeon’s flight turn on edge
before a newly minted wall of brick.
Below her, wild movements of color and flow
grace swaying arms and wind-brushed garb,
so intent on arriving at some destination.
In these winds, flowered dresses sweep the street
and air-drunk hair
flirts with daring closeness,
teasing the passers-by.
Even honks are polite in This Symphony,
like billowing drums setting a heavy pace
to the songs of Soprano Angels.
And the hums of tires sway across this sore pavement
like a worker’s calloused fingers
gently brushing over his lover’s cool nude shoulders.
there is the jerk now.
Good thing my poem is finished.
God is more present in the sinner than the saint;
in the Holy Up-Turner of Altars
than in noble men who pretend not sin,
disguised in jewel and lavish paint.
God resides most full in each of us, and in every barren soul!
Through the sinner does God speak to us,
reminding of what we ought already know.
In dregs, the derelicts, the destitute;
in the emptiness of the prostitute,
God’s heart does sob and toil.
Every true saint among men was a sinner first.
A rebel from rank and file.
But the love they showed to sinners, then,
brought out God in every smile.
The longer you go,
the less you will Know
And so the knot unfurls.
But with that reclaimed thread,
just think of what Brilliant Tapestries
you and God can begin to sew!
THIS DAMP BLACK PILE
Taste your gratefulness!
With that wooden spoon, scoop some dirt
from beneath your swollen feet.
“You mean, this damp black pile?”
Even the richest gifts from God
will sometimes taste
THOSE DARING CATTLE
Here’s to the ones who got away.
Those daring cattle who,
so startled from Our Friend’s shouting call,
fell upon the barbed fence
but stood again,
Dear Sir, I see your gilded robe,
its flowing silks of green and white,
and your hands presented in their divine pose;
laid gently across your belly.
But what you speak cannot fool me.
In your eyes your truth is etched;
a human, a man, a mortal like me.
I know you are a Servant of God
and living your best life, so you say,
to move closer to Him.
But what you speak cannot fool me.
You misunderstand something, Dear Sir:
your measured movement toward the Divine
does not bring you any closer to Him than me,
or the sinner, or the unbeliever, or the scoundrel
whom you are so quick condemn.
So please, Dear Sir, stop lecturing me.
I see to your core, Wanderer.
And forgive me for humbling you,
but your empty commands, your Unholy Threats, strike no fear in me.
I need neither robes of silk, nor your House of Guilt
to tell you that God speaks through each of us.
Even a Somewhat-Polite Dissenter like me.
The world as I once knew it
is really so dead to me.
And sometimes I struggle to travel back there
and do the work charged of me.
For it is a very troubling feeling to sing Songs of Love
to those poor wandering ghosts.
I am but a puddle, God;
splash me where you may.
I give my life to you in this Silk Pocket that I’ve knit.
Sprinkle the crumbs of my silvery soul
upon the path, any path, that You see fit!
I give you my hands, God; the ones You chiseled from the stars.
Take them, Dear Friend,
and with them may you write songs
that make whole suns burn like a million wondrous smiles!
Oh, I’ll give you my heart, too, Dear Maker,
since it has been Yours from the start:
Pull its chords as you will so that my love might be a bit more like Yours.
I am but a puddle, God.
Splash me where you may.