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

Soul Messages

the messages you receive from your soul,
are not loud enough to withstand the din of the city,
nor are they from the mouths of friends, co-workers or gurus
they aren’t complex enough to require a manual,
but they aren’t accessible in Wikipedia or the internet;
you cannot click on them or find hyperlinks inside of them,
they only arrive as the fresh water arrives from the heavens,
when it is pure, clean and welcomed by the earth
when you are pure, clean and welcoming to the earth.

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.

The Swan Song of Socrates

Living well means learning how to die, for when we are well prepared, due to proper guidance and education, to leave this body forever, we leave it not with fear or regret, but with wonder within our soul who has finally learned the power of eternal love that holds this cosmos together in this life and all other lives to come.

Anastasia

Excerpt from Plato’s Phaedo, 84e. Translation by Anastasia Harris.

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.

What Shines Upon

“Well then”, Socrates began to ask “is it clear that there all sorts of different (base) forms that a soul can take on in accordance with what he pays attention to?”

“Clearly”, Cebes answered. “How not?”

Plato, Phaedo, 82a

be gentle to your heart with the light of earth,
and do not be too greedy with her bright gifts,
but instead return all of what she gave to you
for regardless of what you do, in a few hours
her great light will run away from you again,
beneath the horizon, behind graying clouds
the train of darkness will ever carry her down
to return, yes, but not how you remember
for she shines only upon what she wants us to

so listen to the wisdom teachers of the ages,
the ones who warned of addictive pleasures
and boring attachments that burden so many;
unlearn the longing despair for fleeting things:
the world is not here to make our souls forever,
for none can make forever what is already forever
but we can learn of beings becoming unbecoming
how they present for curious and fearless minds
as a recreation of eternal light in space and time.
shining only upon what we want us to.

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.

Plato: 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