.            .            .so, do you
P               R               A               Y.            .            .
HOW?
Head Bowed
Eyes Closed
Silently
Out Loud
With Music
With People
IN A CLOSET.            .            .
Think on this as Ellen Bass’s Poem tingles you brain cells as it drips into your soul:

PRAY FOR PEACE
Ellen Bass

Pray to whomever you kneel down to:
Jesus nailed to his wooden or plastic cross,
his suffering face bent to kiss you,
Buddha still under the bo tree in scorching heat,
Adonai, Allah. Raise your arms to Mary
that she may lay her palm on our brows,
to Shekhina, Queen of Heaven and Earth,
to Inanna in her stripped descent.

Then pray to the bus driver who takes you to work.
On the bus, pray for everyone riding that bus,
for everyone riding buses all over the world.
Drop some silver and pray.

Waiting in line for the movies, for the ATM,
for your latte and croissant, offer your plea.
Make your eating and drinking a supplication.
Make your slicing of carrots a holy act,
each translucent layer of the onion, a deeper prayer.

To Hawk or Wolf, or the Great Whale, pray.
Bow down to terriers and shepherds and Siamese cats.
Fields of artichokes and elegant strawberries.

Make the brushing of your hair
a prayer, every strand its own voice,
singing in the choir on your head.
As you wash your face, the water slipping
through your fingers, a prayer: Water,
softest thing on earth, gentleness
that wears away rock.

Making love, of course, is already prayer.
Skin, and open mouths worshipping that skin,
the fragile cases we are poured into.

If you’re hungry, pray. If you’re tired.
Pray to Gandhi and Dorothy Day.
Shakespeare. Sappho. Sojourner Truth.

When you walk to your car, to the mailbox,
to the video store, let each step
be a prayer that we all keep our legs,
that we do not blow off anyone else’s legs.
Or crush their skulls.
And if you are riding on a bicycle
or a skateboard, in a wheelchair, each revolution
of the wheels a prayer as the earth revolves:
less harm, less harm, less harm.

And as you work, typing with a new manicure,
a tiny palm tree painted on one pearlescent nail,
or delivering soda or drawing good blood
into rubber-capped vials, twirling pizzas–

With each breath in, take in the faith of those
who have believed when belief seemed foolish,
who persevered. With each breath out, cherish.

Pull weeds for peace, turn over in your sleep for peace,
feed the birds, each shiny seed
that spills onto the earth, another second of peace.
Wash your dishes, call your mother, drink wine.

Shovel leaves or snow or trash from your sidewalk.
Make a path. Fold a photo of a dead child
around your Visa card. Scoop your holy water
from the gutter. Gnaw your crust.
Mumble along like a crazy person, stumbling
your prayer through the streets.

Which bubbled this up inside of me
and now maybe you.          .          .

Bowing the head
gently
not tightly closing the eyes
as if you were greeting sleep
a few breaths away
and not strongly
squinting out the first rays
of a new day
Don’t pray that way
Wide eyed
head held high and firm
Blinkless
Offer up not what a mouth
can whisper
But a heart shouts
Full vibrato
To not make your needs known
But your promises
Powerfully Claimed
Humbly Received
Gratefully accepted
Pray that way
Not with a softend amen
But an exalted hurrah
and don’t blink
for fear of missing
the something
that compares to nothing 
in this world
or the one
seemingly unfolding 
before us all
especially if it’s 
unlabeled
Psssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssst:
WHEN YOU DON’T HAVE A PRAYER
BE
ONE
(The only true prayer you’ll ever really need is the one 
YOU ARE