Where the Heart Aches

I taught my heart to follow the sunset,
for fear that she’d trouble the moon.

I taught my heart to keep her voice silent,
lest she’d sing in the midst of the heavenly tune

No, a broken heart does not fall into pieces,
it melts into melancholic pools of curious color
where lyrics dip the final tips of their brushes,
sad songs too ashamed to reveal who they blame,
the stern faces of parents, cruel lovers, the same
all coalesce in poems painted in the heartfelt rain

I taught my heart to trace the sun with rhythm,
for fear she’d step too far out of grace

I taught my heart to find hope in whispy clouds,
that she’d have places to vanish without a sound

No, a broken heart does not fall into pieces,
it’s philosophy and the heavens that she teaches,
wearing her symmetric and astrological gown
she knows only precisely what she hopes is true
amidst Cheshire grins grinning in upside-down view
hopes dashed against teeth of that wild wicked brew

Where the Heart Aches

I taught my heart to follow the sunset,
for fear that she’d trouble the moon.

I taught my heart to keep her voice silent,
lest she’d sing in the midst of the heavenly tune

No, a broken heart does not fall into pieces,
it melts into melancholic pools of curious color
where lyrics dip the final tips of their brushes,
sad songs too ashamed to reveal who they blame,
the stern faces of parents, cruel lovers, the same
all coalesce in poems painted in the heartfelt rain

I taught my heart to trace the sun with rhythm,
for fear she’d step too far out of grace

I taught my heart to find hope in whispy clouds,
that she’d have places to vanish without a sound

No, a broken heart does not fall into pieces,
it’s philosophy and the heavens that she teaches,
wearing her symmetric and astrological gown
she knows only precisely what she hopes is true
amidst cheshire grins grinning in upside-down view
hopes dashed against teeth of that wild wicked brew

Choice

what is infinitely small is also infinitely large
our desires and our pains are like that;
for they come in and out of focus as we will them to:
becoming greater with our strict attention
becoming smaller with unflinching ignorance.
we always get to choose how big or how large
how much pain and how much pleasure,
and how much both will consume us all.

Reflections

your reflections are carried by rivers of the wild land,
ebbing, flowing, mixing, marrying the stranger shapes;
don’t think that poets cannot know or cannot see you
glowing, dimming, glowing as the sun swirls ‘round

every thought you’ve dreamed walks upon this earth,
your intentional steps holding steadfast to the ground;
don’t think that poets cannot hear your loud plodding
Time’s turbulence does not dance with graceful sound

and yet your songs don’t flutter far enough into Space,
nor do eyes see how far from the Depths you’ve arisen,
for you see only what you want, inside “can’t” and “can”
not seeing who you are, within the rivers of this wild land.

Phaedo: The Swans of Death

It would be impossible to persuade other human beings that my present death sentence is a form of luck if I cannot persuade you two, Simmias and Cebes…yet I am not inferior to the swans in relation to prophecy when they sense that is time for them to die and upon that last hour before their death, they sing most beautifully and with great abundance, rejoicing that they are soon to arrive in the realm of the divine where they may be of service to the divine. Human beings, however, due to their fear of death, lie about the swans, and say that they are singing dirges in pain due to their death; but they do not understand that no bird sings when it is hungry or cold or experiences any kind of pain, not the nightingale; not the swallow; not the hoopoe, the birds they say who sing lamentations for their death. But these do not seem to me to sing lamentations, and neither do the swans, for I believe they are of Apollo, and are prophets and soothsayers who sing of the good things in the realm we cannot see, and they delight in that day of arrival there far more than in their previous time in life. I myself believe that I am a fellow servant with the swans and a priest of the god himself, and that I am not an inferior prophet of our master, nor more melancholy than the swans are when they leave their bodies.

Phaedo, 84e. Translation by Anastasia Harris.

The old gods

They are the stars in the night, sometimes showing up when there are no clouds. No one can touch them. They can’t touch each other. The loneliness is unbearable for them because they want to touch and feel and be inspired. Instead they have to project into a body to do that and pretend how marvelous it is. If they work hard at it they can sometimes see starlight in each other’s eyes and that gives them moments equal in both great joy as they look upon them, and in great sadness as they look away. Still as their body grows older, these stars, they are abandoned by society. The loneliness grows as well as the brightness of their minds and so they cultivate a cloudy hope that they are actually eternity itself who projects a million lights into the sky, an ethereal treasure to make this hell called human society worthy of all their soulful starry nights.

The Old Gods

They are the stars in the night, sometimes showing up when there are no clouds. No one can touch them. They can’t touch each other. The loneliness is unbearable for them because they want to touch and feel and be inspired. Instead they have to project into a body to do that and pretend how marvelous it is. If they work hard at it they can sometimes see starlight in each other’s eyes and that gives them moments equal in both great joy as they look upon them, and in great sadness as they look away. Still as their body grows older, these stars, they are abandoned by society. The loneliness grows as well as the brightness of their minds and so they cultivate a cloudy hope that they are actually eternity itself who projects a million lights into the sky, an ethereal treasure to make this hell called human society worthy of all their soulful starry nights.

The Fate of the Impure Soul

No one would believe the things that she sees at night. For while others struggle to sleep with restless dreams and worries, she sees the spirits who wander about, generating fear and worry in those who would be better off being free to sleep, to heal and dream of the beautiful day that awaits them. But instead, they only feel depletion and rely on coffee or tea to get them by. Some seek out doctors and medications, herbs and various other salves, in hopes to find a better way to find rest. While she is the one who knows, that no drug will free them from the spirits that haunt and feed of whatever light they have left to provide. In order to solve their sleep problem, they would have to arise in the midst of their own darkness, where what haunts them lurks, playing tricks on them in dreams and visions. Souls who have died that refuse to leave the body and so feed off the ones who are still living. For when we sleep, the souls of the dead cling, still wanting to feel, to be, to exist. We do not see them, because we have become blind. We have forgotten the way and path to the underworld, for we have rejected our true purpose as custodians of the lands, the earth and heaven that we have inherited. We have rejected our duty to continue to keep our earth pure, our heart and soul clean, and our intentions in the divine.

One must consider this to be a very weighty and serious matter, this material consciousness of the visible realm: The soul that is attached to its physical manifestation is very weighed down and is dragged back into the visible realm due to fear of the invisible and Hades, as it is said, and being tossed about from tombstone to tombstone and grave to grave, around which are always seen the dark shadows and phantoms of souls, the kind of phantoms that these same attached souls themselves project, the souls that have not cleanly freed themselves the body, but still hold onto the visible realm, through which they still can be seen.

Plato, Phaedo, 81d

ἐμβριθὲς δέ γε, ὦ φίλε, τοῦτο οἴεσθαι χρὴ εἶναι καὶ βαρὺ καὶ γεῶδες καὶ ὁρατόν: ὃ δὴ καὶ ἔχουσα ἡ τοιαύτη ψυχὴ βαρύνεταί τε καὶ ἕλκεται πάλιν εἰς τὸν ὁρατὸν τόπον φόβῳ τοῦ ἀιδοῦς τε καὶ Ἅιδου, ὥσπερ λέγεται, περὶ τὰ [81δ] μνήματά τε καὶ τοὺς τάφους κυλινδουμένη, περὶ ἃ δὴ καὶ ὤφθη ἄττα ψυχῶν σκιοειδῆ φαντάσματα, οἷα παρέχονται αἱ τοιαῦται ψυχαὶ εἴδωλα, αἱ μὴ καθαρῶς ἀπολυθεῖσαι ἀλλὰ τοῦ ὁρατοῦ μετέχουσαι, διὸ καὶ ὁρῶνται.

Plato, Phaedo, 81δ

Erotic

O, how this spring of love resembleth
Th’ uncertain glory of an April day,
Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,
And by and by a cloud takes all away!

Shakespeare, Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act I, scene 3, line 84.

Before Creation, Eros was,
primal Being of Eternal Love,
before the dark and the light,
before there was fight or flight
Love was all there ever was:
always loyal, never gone astray
never rejecting ever accepting,
Eros was free, abundant, whole.
But Eros was, although blissful,
quite alone.

And although this great Being.
was by itself, it finally thought:
I am now two: myself and my thoughts;
my thinking of Love and Love itself.
How much more beautiful it would be
if I could create a master puzzle of Me,
where a trillion thoughts fall as rain
together mixing glimpses of earth,
slivers of sky, nighttime, daytime,
creatures living what they’re thinking,
whether the body is gone or still alive.

the Great Cosmos will it be so named
and all the creatures will adore it
as they live held in thoughts of Mine.
But in order for them to remember
how to live inside my Love’s splendor,
I will give them each two separate hearts:
an invisible heart who sings only in Love
and a visible one, the rhythm of their life.

All will be gifted bright eyes three or more
that they might see Me in every corner,
in every face, in every eye, in every song,
they will be reminded of who they are,
their Love, a tiny light as if before the eye,
that will see them through the darker times,
lest they forget that they are born of Me,
of the Love that only the hidden eye can see.

And so this how we play this cosmic game,
you begin to seek for whom you’re named,
shedding this name crooked, that name false,
abandoning ideas that you once called your faults
until you finally see that you are not created,
that you are neither lower earth nor upper sky,
neither sun nor moon, nor falling star’s lullaby:
that you are not a creature who’s designed to die
but that you are simply only Me and my thoughts.

and so that is the game, the play that is this life,
the theater of Shakespeare was exactly right,
if you run amok in thoughts despairing or of pain
you will repeat that dark fantasy again and again
until you finally see, in joy, relief, and humility,
that those clouds were to challenge Love’s eternity
and all your life here is just Your Love’s playful dream,
your death, an illusion, the Joker in your final scene.