Love in the Time of Corona

All these, years, I would look for you,
in the sky as I flew
in the mountains as I climbed
upon the grass as I walked.
I even searched for you in the faces of others,
and I would use words to hold your hand,
and I would sing songs to reach your heart,
and use my body to reach inside your soul.
But only silence, only silence was the echo.
I would cry. How deeply I, bereft, would cry,
a love that was lost no matter how hard I’d try.
But today I have found you right here,
for I feel the sun shining from within me,
and I feel my heart flowing with the waters,
the rivers all converging into a greater flood,
people breathing fresher air, feet on the ground,
springtime all around,  flowers lovely peeking
around the corner where children play to seek,
each one blooming, left in peace together growing
as the wisdom of roses, fed by a Love that is Forever.

Two Earths

There are two earths
one is but a map, a contrivance of mind,
a technical floor, the mere ground we stand for,
a doormat of skyscrapers, factories, oceans of oil

What happens when the Mother enters,
her Moon flooding the deep green valleys
skimming the surface of the greater waters?
The shame is much to bear before her Honor.

There are places on the map where no one sees,
and where all our shame and misery can be,
for a map cannot describe almost everything.
A wasteland is its own punishment enough.

Yet there is no soul that doesn’t believe in the divine,
for souls cannot believe that they are not themselves,
and atheists use their arguments as whips and chains:
by blood and fang, they chant of a dark godless Moon.

But the souls who can listen know what is true,
as the Mother enters the room, all anguish begins,
the guilt, the negligence, the seven deadly sins:
all bear weight upon the souls who could have loved.

But just as corpses grow more rotten in the sunlight,
so too do the ways of old that choose greed over love.
Sunglasses will not curb the ultraviolet rays of Source
And so allow the pain of death to give its debt to life.

Then all can choose sacred love for sacred ground
honorable as the great gorilla; gentle as delicate fawn:
breath the air, drink the water, build as flowers build,
sing the chorus of every cell, the swan song of Her Will.

We Are I Alone

I am the music that moves every sphere,
I am each note that lands upon every ear,
stitching melody out of scattered memories

a drop of paint am I upon the broad canvas
a fragment of sky whose walking is the rain
pitter-patter on the earth swirling all her blues

I am spider weaving webs invisible to the eyes
connecting one to another into the wildest lies
epic in scope are the cocoons we are believing

I am the joy in pain and the violence in peace
as soon as the hourglass stands, all sand shifts
one end of nothing laughs, the other is crying

we are all dying, each in part, generation whole,
life lets us go, becoming Whom we do not know
arising and setting both like and unlike the sun

all-seeing eyes are within each and every stone
for we are rooted in crystal patience unknown
as love is rooted, forever still, forever moved,
We are all things, below, above, one and alone.

Poetry is When Love Soars

Many people have asked me why I prefer to write poetry over fictional stories. Why, they wonder, do I choose the more difficult of the creative writing genre? Poetry is, as most realize, an acquired taste.  I choose it because it is a taste not only that I enjoy, but it is a taste that takes me outside of what I immediately perceive as possible. Poetry to me, unlike fiction, takes me deeper into the mysteries of life, in places that are not readily expressed or easily accessed. These are the places where there are hidden treasures unspoken, forbidden, or lost. They have been untouched by language, music, or even breath. Poetry takes us to the strange and uncanny, because it is strange. Because we are strange. Because love is strange.

So poetry is not more difficult. It just takes us to a place where we are not used to going, but we can go there, if we want to and we try. Going there, in fact, will take us into places within ourselves that we only dreamed of, places where anxiety, depression, emotional problems melt away. And why do they melt away? Because we will finally find ourselves at home, in a place where we belong. All it requires is a shift in consciousness from this third-dimensional reality that we think is reality, the reality that we think is hard and difficult and loveless, full of war, and pain and suffering and delusion. That reality, that reality, is the one that is not real. The true reality, the place where poetry blooms, is a place where the delusion unfolds into something magical, breathtaking, cosmic, and full of divine grace, where even the greatest pain in your life makes sense and where all the death and misery holds a key to not only truth but bliss, not only for you, but for all.

For the places where poetry can grow are untouched. These places are accessed from within you and they are as the purest water or purest air. They are the scared places of the world, and they are accessed from within our heart spaces, through the soul, in the light of what many call Source light. The subject matter of poetry cannot be seen within the three-dimensional form of light that bathes this lower world. No. Poetry has the multiverse and the multidimensional as its subject matter: the place where true creation happens. Science, fiction, stories that reject poetry: all of these can be wonderful, but they spend their time on creating more stories in this world, the world in which we suffer, not the world as the world that is our true heaven, the birthright of all. And that is why poetry makes people uncomfortable. Poetry calls into our own multi-dimensional intuition of ourselves; that part of us that makes us a bit uncomfortable, because we know on subconscious level, that the life we see through the five senses and this mind that analyzes them is living in a lie, a virtual world that has no meaning in and of itself. It is difficult for people to want to face that truth, although we enjoy movies that suggest it like the Matrix, which minimally dances with poetry. Plato as well spent his life working in the “matrix” and helping students who were willing to rise above it, from a life of victim-hood and suffering, to a life of wonder and goodness and true consciousness.

Furthermore, poetry calls us to speak in ways that we do not usually speak. It seems to speak in riddles that are deliberately designed to be obscure and strange, like a puzzle that takes a tremendous amount of effort to unfold. But that is just it. It is a puzzle, this mystery, this love, and if the poet makes the mystery too clear and recognizable, the curiosity will never be evoked, the wonder, the desire to seek into the stranger regions of life. A poet that writes with clarity is not writing poetry. He is generally writing impressions or feelings. Still the poet will strive to make the mystery clear, by evoking the questions as accurately as possible. The questions are more beautiful than the answers, after all. And what question is greater than the question of love, of life, of your life, itself?

But know that there is nothing wrong with expressing beautiful feelings and impressions clearly in the world. Yet that is the state of our reality now, in the third dimension. We have psychology to feed us clear explanations of why we feel a certain way. We have clear solutions like drugs and therapy that tell us that they will make us feel better. Psychology gives a story to explain our suffering in an intellectual way and paints a very crude picture of the nature of the pain and pleasure within us. But do they take us closer to who we are, or further away? Do we not begin to feel numb, a numbness that simply trains itself to be content with a life of longing, regret, chasing desires or trying to suppress them? A life of dreams cast aside, deep sadness and resignation subdued only by inane distractions and self-righteous justifications. We no longer have time for love or poetry. We no longer have time for ourselves.

But still poetry beckons us back to the mystery of life, that child-like energy that brings back to the magic, the excitement and the power within ourselves, within others, within the whole world. Simply, it is the energy that makes it exciting to get up in the morning, not because you are going to Disney World, but because you are simply alive. Poetry, in short, is the flower of that kind of life, the love of the world, and reveals the human attempt and effort to express what is not easily expressed because true love leaves us bewildered and baffled and dumbfounded. Love, like poetry, is a playing on the very limits of language itself, and is always threatening, upon every verse, to push us over the edge into the void of time and space; for that is who we truly are, standing ever on the edge with one foot holding on to the delusions of our life, and the other hanging in mid-air, waiting for the wings to finally grow. But we truly don’t need to wait. We can just step off, for that is when the wings will grow, not before and not after. For now is the only time when love can soar.

Crystal Souls

I will leave no stone unturned,
even though some are sharp as tongues
and others as mountains cumbersome
my fingers bleed as rain drops dripping
arms burning as summer days churn

yet still I will leave no stone unturned
that we may no longer be confused
that our light shall stream as rivers do
that we might feel who we’ve become
raining rays dancing in ocean’s song
tears and sweat clearing our wrongs

no more do I have longing for you,
no more do I imagine me without you,
no more is time the space between us
Souls, our pure radiance subterranean
Crystals glistening as rosy fingered dew

Little Bird Singing You and I

there is a little bird I have heard who sings of you instead of I,
and yesterday she whispered “world, world” inside her lullaby
“Did you know?”, the parrot asked. “Did you know that I am you,
and all the seas, the land, the earth, every flower, every turn
is your body of the world, the sun of the universe true?
and all the blood, the fire, the water, every seed, every line
is your body of the world, the moon of dreams?
“Who made you afraid of yourself?”, asked the macaw,
“Who told you to learn something other?”, asked the eagle,
Did you feel sorrow as they flew far away with their wisdom
or did you notice the path beneath your feet walking rhythm?
Trees singing your song, a lover far into the distance is closest.
I love you now until you love yourself and I show you every pain,
every fall into midnight is a lesson to learn about the days,
“Be afraid no longer, great bird! Love is singing through your veins
the little bird sang ’til you and I danced beneath the noontime rays.

Spirit of Love

the poets have struggled to sing of this Love,
spellbound they fly on the wings of a dove
travelling from outer space to starstruck sea,
they navigate by physics, math or psychology;
all to no avail, for Spirit alone knows Love’s Way
swimming at night as we sleep through the days

Sunrise Opening

It’s as if Night showers shame upon her Days;
Just as Sea overruns Her bright and sandy shores
in a panic to silent Her secret songs once more,
so too does Night hold what is precious hidden.

So all is silent over that dark land and darker sea
except the cackling rows of the bickering crows
and wandering whispers of death and disease;
hearts anchored by fear, closed in anger seethe.

Still, at morn, the Sun shines and will shine again
but He begins softly illuminating in cooler colors
lights swirling within the moods of purple showers
a gentle portal for the Heart who wishes to open    

to stretch wide along yellow-tinged edge of Days,
His entire world: the good, the bad, is His music,
Love streaming from the radiance of Who He Is
whom Moon mirrors into a Night more fearless.

Water of Love

Water and Earth give each other form,
without Water, She’d pour dry as sand,
without Earth, She’d rain never to land
without each other, they’d nowhere be

Water is home in cupped hands of Earth,
for She is the chalice from which we live,
while Fire visits only from the safest sight
behind Air’s cool gates does he ever alight

yet that the Four are separate is not so
for Love’s Will binds the above to below,
flowing together: Earth, Water, Air,  Fire
they share the work of that watchful Sire

and Water allows Earth to be Her flow
a supportive sea are richest soils sowed,
the seeds and the roots of great trees,
floating, feed in her denser dark waters

and Water grants Air to stream from afar
currents in the galaxy of the Brightest Star
even informing Him into the mighty clouds
swirling pregnant till swift thunder sounds

finally, Water gives soft sunshowers to Fire
to excite inspiration, from the will to desire,
teaching Him to live gentle upon the Earth
to enchant in kisses all that she has birthed.

Regardless of this Dark Abysmal Sea

Khaleesi (April 21, 2019-August 28, 2019)

You played with us for too short a while, friend,
yet you gave the most love to everyone you’d meet
teaching us about the open heart of sun and skies
how the sun is never bashful or stingy with its sighs
even when you were asleep you dreamed us joy
like the moon reminding of prior days’ abundance
breathing in and out the world so close you’d keep
that stars and hearts sang to the love that you’d see
the one you saw regardless of this dark abysmal sea