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If you won’t laugh,
you’ll have to leave the playground.

If you won’t work,
you can’t sit at this table.

If you won’t pray,
you’ll have to leave the church.

If you won’t sing,
you’ll have to leave the group

If you won’t dance,
you won’t be invited to the wedding.

If you won’t listen,
you’ll end up with a briefcase of only your ideas.

If you won’t talk,
you’ll have to leave this house.

If you don’t vote,
you’ll have to stop all that complaining.

If you only buy vanilla, chocolate and strawberry,
you’ll never taste chocolate chip ice cream.

If you don’t sacrifice,
you’ll never know.

If you don’t open doors,
you’ll never get out.

If you don’t get into the boat,
you’ll never taste the open sea.

If you are a poor loser,
you can’t play cards around here.

If you don’t lower your nets,
you’ll never make a catch.

If you won’t love,
you’ll never find God.

© Andrew Costello, Listenings, 1980

CANCER

The night was bright
because of the glistening
Passover moon.
I lay there awake
listening to both my
pulse and my watch,
wondering which would
stop first,
knowing that soon
my hour would come,
knowing that my Judas body
had betrayed me,
with cancer kissing
and killing all my insides.
For weeks
I cried with anger
at this creeping way
to die, this agony
in a bed called Gethsemane,
unable to flee the tears
pulsing down the valley
of my ear, this crucifying night,
not even wanting to roll over
and reach for the cup
of water on the table,
unable to escape death,
yet slowly I hear
myself beginning to
utter my first
word, “Father. . . .”



© Andrew Costello, Cries .... But Silent, 1981

DIARY

Before you come down
from the mountain,
write it down fast, clearly, quickly,
before it fades, before it’s too late.

Line up the words
Carve them in stone.
Number them in your journal.
Show them in your face, in your eyes.

Make them last,
these results of your inner mumblings,
these commandments you’ve heard
during long bus rides,
these commandments you’ve discovered
from lonely mistakes, or
from being misquoted, or
from being misunderstood.

Tell everyone that after
all these years of not knowing,
you finally know
that your real goals so far were:

1) to be loved,
2) to be accepted,
3) to know you know you have something to offer,
4) to know they know you have something to offer
5) to know they know you know,
6) to know you’re still learning,
7) to know that each fall teaches if you rise,
8) to know you’re beginning to realize there are others,
9) to know you’re beginning to know there is a God,
10) to know there’s more to know.

But remember,
these ten will be broken,
will be forgotten,
will some day seem adolescent,
but at least you’ve written them down,
you’ve chiseled them in stone.

Remember,
new commandments,
new insights,
will begin to appear
after they have rumbled around in your mind
for a while as you move across the desert.

Remember,
in your next exodus,
on your next mountain,
you might begin to carve,
slowly and quietly
the word ”love”,
but this time on a tree.

© Andrew Costello, 

Cries .... But Silent, 1981

POSSIBILITIES

This planet
is a yellow school bus
climbing the morning hill,
filled with children,
papers and pencils,
possibilities, and then it passes
the senior citizen bus going the other way,
possibilities. . . .

© Andrew Costello, from

  Cries .... But Silent, 1981

DEPTH CHARGE

Somehow, I’m a submarine,
sitting all alone under the sea,
sliding along silently,
hiding deep down beneath the surface,
trying to go unnoticed,
hiding in the deep underwater of life.

Okay, I’m selfish
in this sneaky pattern of mine,
this slowly slipping away
from others – especially when
they swim too close to me,
that is, when I’m in my shallow waters.

And you there, when I’m close to you,
you might think I’m listening to you.
I’m not. I’m silently figuring out
how to slip away – not wanting
to be bothered – wanting to keep moving
to lonelier, deeper, darker waters.

Then surprise! There you are. Next to me.
It’s funny, isn’t it? Both of us doing
this same underwater maneuver down through the years,
and now we have bumped into each other
right here, right now, down deep below,
together in the all alone. Depth charge.

© Andrew Costello

SELF PORTRAIT

(Luke 18: 9-14)

All he ever does is talk,
just talk, talk, talk ...
just, talk, talk, talk about himself.

Honestly, that’s all he ever does.
He keeps on talking about himself.
It’s always, “I .... I .... I ....”

“Well, I did this.”
“Well, I did that.”
“Well, Iiiiiiiii wouldn’t say that.”

And we, the non-I’s, in his eye,
keep asking behind his back:
“Why so many ‘I’s?”

Is he blind in his I?
Doesn’t he ever see us
talking about him?

Or am I the blind one,
laughing inwardly, thanking God,
“He’s the blind one, not I?”

© Andrew Costello

WHAT IT’S

ALL ABOUT

The flowers stood tall and beautiful,
standing together in a vase,
enjoying the compliments of those
entering the room.
Then after a while,
the flowers began to fade.
Petals began falling to the floor.
In fact,
the flowers became quite nervous
till you said to them
from your bed, “All is okay.
I’ve been through this myself.
In fact, this is what it’s all about.”

© Andrew Costello