REALITY THERAPY

Discovering my job
has become more important
than my family .

Panning the whole day
on the way into work,
lining up every minute of it,
only to see the boss
waiting for me
with a piece of paper in his hand
as I walk in the door.

Seeing my son bored
by something that really interests me.

My brother wants to put mom
in a nursing home,
and my sister doesn’t
and I’m caught in the middle,
and I’m the only one who has taken care of mom
for the past four years
since she had her stroke.

Finding out I never really knew
my dad till after he died.

Couldn’t wait till the talk was over to
complain about it,
only to hear that everybody liked it.

Going to bed on the night
after a funeral
with one less person in the house.

Trying to make a right turn
out of my driveway,
but nobody will let me out.

Finally somebody slows down
and waves for me to pull out
into traffic in front of him.

Finding myself a few seconds later
speeding up to stop somebody else
who is trying to make a right turn
out of their driveway
just as I was.

Looking in the mirror to see
if the person in the car behind me
just saw what I did.



© Andrew Costello, Listenings, 1980

PRESENCE

Let’s be honest.
We all know about presence,
whether a person wants to be with us
or whether they feel trapped,
like a prisoner in our presence.

The baby knows.
She knows even when she’s sleeping
whether her parents want her or not.

The old people know.
They know which of their children
are only a phone call
or a visit away.

The team knows whether the cheer leaders
have to cheer or want to cheer.
They know when the crowd
is with them or not.
They know. They can sense it.

The people in the church know
whether the preacher
wants to be in the pulpit or not.

The wife -- the husband -- they both know
whether their marriage
has become a trap -- people living,
people dying in separate prison cells,
or whether their marriage
is an ever expanding universe,
an ever expanding move towards God.

I am.

God is present and we know it.

Presence:
we know these truths about presence
even when we deny them.

And all is touching.
All the cells of the universe
are touching each other,
present to each other,
cheering each other on.

All is present to all.
All is circular.
Everything is present to everything.
Everyone is present to everyone.
Everyone is present to God.

God is present to everyone and everything.
The universe is a sign
of the ever expanding presence of God,
like the baby to the parents.

My life is touching your life
Life is touching life.
Life is touching God.

Yet some people feel trapped.
They feel like they are dying,
in a closed prison cell,
unable to open up to the presence of another person, to the presence of God.

And the truth will set you free.

And all cells will be opened.



© Andrew Costello, Listenings, 1981

I AM HUMAN

I am human -- one of us.

I know when I’m on a bridge
and when I’m crossing a river.

I get nervous when I hear the couple in the next house fight, especially because they have small children.

I get mad at motorcycles when they
roar up my quiet street at midnight.

Sometimes I like rain and sometimes I don’t.

I know when I vote and don’t vote.

I know when I’m eating watermelon or fresh bread.

I don’t know when I’m eating boiled potatoes,
most soups and toast.

I know when someone I love is in the room.

I know when I’m passing a cemetery.

There is something special about horses, especially
when I see a mare and her colt in a green field.

I know when I have a fever or a blister.

When I see a sailboat or a pregnant woman or a church something happens to me.

I get nervous when I see a person in a wheelchair
or when I see an ambulance flashing
or when a tractor trailer truck is too close.

I slow down, no matter what, when I see a police car.

A baby’s fingers always get to me.

I love the ocean.

I feel lonely when I’m in a car alone
and there is a couple close to each other in the car in front of me.

It makes it even worse when certain songs
come over the car radio.

I like it when someone tells me they missed me.

I feel good when I do the same or when I help someone.

Oh yeah, and sometimes I even pray.

© Andrew Costello, Listenings, 1980

PLEASE POST

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