Do Not Fear

Book of the Dead: Weighing of the Heart

What is in your heart?
What has been in the hearts of all?
Do we know the evil we have held?
How much darkness has blinded us?
How many children have been lost
without justice, without love?
Lofty heads cannot fight the gravity.
Release what binds you,
and your heart will be as the feather.

Where One Is

Everything that we were,
we ran from.
Everything that we will be,
we ran to.
Everything we are
is what we have always been.
Sit and be silent,
You will hear a mind that worries
You will hear a mind that regrets
You will hear the songs of woe.
Let the ocean tides scatter it all,
Let the sea swallow every shadow,
Gulls fly into the above and below,
wings announcing their horizon,
Even let these go, let the birds go,
Sit and be silent,
Everything that you were,
you are.
Everything that you will be,
you are,
a rose blooming with her thorns,
everywhere from the earth
where one may be,
there is the all.

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.

Do You Notice?

do you notice
as you walk deeper into the night,
all lights forced by hands recede,
but the Moon still watches over you,
for she borrows from the daytime Sun?

do you notice
how hard Shame tries to make the Beautiful,
while birds are simply singing their songs,
effortless as the rambling rivers down go on,
coaxed higher by Moon and the wild windy flow?

do you notice
the man who seeks Fame creates attention
in a wobbly world that cannot its attention keep
and so he sows the seeds of Anger and Resentment
against the Moon, the Sun, the Gods of the Deep?

do you notice
how a wound ignored becomes paint upon brush,
splashed upon this imagination or canvas such
“better,” says the artist, “that all creation feel my pain
than I alone suffer without the Rainbow and the Rain.”

do you notice
as Time runs all the Spaces in his Order,
you are trying to catch his art to be “mine”
placing each delicate note inside your mouth
that you might yourself sing pretty for a while?

do you notice
how many want to make themselves heard,
but all that flows are confused shadows hissing
that we can’t hear the birds simply singing songs
effortless as the rambling rivers down go on?

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

Where Do I Write Me?

How do I write me?
How do I write that blood clings to the moon?
How do I tell about the hearth that is my heart
That there is magic in even the smallest of parts
Tiny mighty cells living to protect the light of Spirit.

Careers and money are the Atlas of dreams
Do you know whose dreams you are carrying?
How do you write me? How are we what we seem?
Do you use words that describe the eyes of others?
For the internet is filled with billions of eyes.

Monotony is just a veil made of habit and sloth
Boredom only protects ego in singular obsession
Many are the dog that chews its feet chasing a tail
The path that is wonder leads way beyond the pale
Beyond and inside magazine homes and starry spaces

Go, Go, Go!

You are in every path at once and the same;
There is no such thing as the crossroads
There is no such thing as the outside and the in.
Expand as the universe expands into every clime,
Every part of the leaf of the stem is of the vine.
Every part of you is a part of me a part of we.

How do I write this?
Do I have to make myself an ego or a god or a dog?
Do I have to be something that I can sell or buy?
What becomes of Earth when we are our products,
the internet of things, concepts,  personalities?

What becomes of the Spirits who roam the land,
A few can see them unattached to God or to sand,
forgotten as Earth has been forgotten in offices
In meeting rooms, and in flicking wide screen TVs
Where do I write this? Where do we write me?