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.

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 is how we play my 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 Love’s playful dream,
your death, an illusion, a Joker in your final scene.






The River

I watched the River flow, longing for the restful earth,
where fish linger, gifts glistening as mirrors for my eyes
until they swam to the shadow sides of steeper waters
where I found myself asleep drowning inside their deep
to finally emerge with the fish of glistening golden eyes
swimming in that River flowing endless along the skies.

Yes

I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

Walt Whitman, Song of Myself

Every action is an affirmation of that action.
Every step is a Yes to where you are going
and a Yes to what you are leaving behind.

You are always being the creative Yes
With every step you create a sound and a vision
and your words are magical spells that resound.

Your emotions are an affirmation of your emotions.
Your anger is a Yes to anger.
Your kindness becomes a salve for enraged pity

You choose to be in a certain way because you say Yes to it.
You think it is a complaint, but you are just playing a role,
an actor in a stage play, you enjoy the troubled characters.
You sing the songs of tragedy so that you may keep the tragedy,
and you blame others for causing what the song despairs.

There is a light in darkness that you cannot now see,
and so you believe there is no such thing as the light.
for Mickey Mouse didn’t believe anything either,
for Mickey Mouse has no consciousness to believe
and you pretend to be a cartoon character that is drawn,
not a human being who always chooses what is Yes.

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

Nighttime

It is Nighttime who sets all the world to shade
trees become dark as daytime shadows fade,
leaves whispering as spirits pass them through
longing to glisten in early sunlight’s shining dew;
yet they happily settle for the Moon’s misty rain
until rosy watered Dawn arrives yet again.

By Miracle, She Lived

The roots of a tree’s shadows are hard to see because they are dark and hidden and run beneath the leaves. But they are few compared to upon whom they have fallen.

It was the most uncanny of seeds, the one a child found,
the one she planted, raindrops falling upon her ground,
and of course not upon a happy day was this fateful act,
but in pain of heart, was where she sealed this contract,

as the years passed by she could feel it growing inside
one root becoming many running hidden in the twilight
for shadows spindly spiders glisten by winks of the moon
and she’d see them spirited to corners of her every room

great fear of these things she learned to pretend none,
ever excited for sunshine when they’d leave her alone,
day and night, fear and joy formed the cycle of her life,
everywhere she’d look were circles spinning in her sight

for the pain of heart seemed lost to days gone by
and she never considered that this healing was a lie,
and so she gave all her time to tending to what she signed,
forgetting herself, the child, a poem in a lighter rhyme.

instead, spheres of webs twisting from feet to crown,
no cell untouched, no strand ever dared to be unwound,
spider shadows coming and going as she’d always expect,
she called her knowledge wisdom; but the rest was ever suspect

for everywhere she’d go, she’d bring that tiny binding seed,
to give it all water, all food, every sip of air she breathed;
giving so much to it, that you’d wonder how she lived,
a miracle indeed that by the light of God she did.

The Rivers of Lethe (Λήθη)

Truth is not something to find like a treasure in the most distant mountainside. Nor is it something to be found through logical or scientific proof. Truth (αλήθεια – aletheia) is only what must be remembered, that which rises and flows from the darkness of our humanity into the light of our awareness. That is how the truth will set us free.

There are some stories that only the rivers remember. But these are no ordinary surface rivers. These are rivers of the underworld, questionable graces who echo in our blood through all our hearts, ancient terrible songs that we can hear only when we sleep or have a vision in the thinnest part of night, as the earth’s heart beats her subtle drums. It would take the deepest stillness for one to hear them rushing through the day; for during the day we try to be busier than the trees, preoccupied with what we see, our mental games, every question we can chase: whether to buy this or that, whether to forgive this one or not that one, whether to get a new job or go back to the one that’s old. And yet still there are many days when the light shines through our dusty windows, and we remain in place to listen to something bright; and we create the most magnificent poems and songs and laughter, things of wood and clay, things born of our heart no matter how deep or far away, scrumptious feasts, all prepared with a love that always finds its way through the denser parts of earth. These are things that give us hope that there is something worth living for, something valuable in our birth: freedom, joy, mirth.

But still the waters continue their flow, deep below, regardless of our chosen play for the day.

Yes, the rivers still flow through us, and they are no meager rivers, but mighty ones whose tow is more powerful than the tides of the deepest sea. They pull each one of us daily, endlessly like a frightened or angry child that has been forgotten. Each one of us can feel this river through our heart, for it carries the blood of our ancestors and the blood spilled by tyrants; the screams of children and families ripped apart. It carries the cares and the fears, all that has germinated by a love eternally dear, but one that did surface panic by the bloody dove, suspicion and terrified surrender to below from above. We, each of us, still carry those ancient stories of pain within us as we brush our teeth and worry about our jobs; as we lose control of our relationships and fear being alone; as we look at our lives and shutter at the emptiness of our home; for we fear that we are marksmen who ever fail the test. And even where we find our peace, that river rushes through us again, always reminding us that our bliss has an end not later than soon and that life will turn our hopes to rain again, just like the story it is telling us.

Yet while we are young we can resist somewhat and we can ignore, forging ahead, making better than what we feel is down below to dread. Nightmares of drowning are soothed with dreams of flying away.  Illusions keep our feet walking far and astray, though happy in our stride, we are only hiding, weeping on the inside, scrambling for psychology to tell us why we are dying inside. For that is where our apparent strength lies,  in withstanding the brutal flow of the river’s blood arising; but it is a strength that soon will weaken as the body’s heart begins to slow, and as time rolls past our proverbial prime, we will find that we are losing our power over the ancient stories’ flow, for they wish to carry us with them into what they know, their rises and their falls, their philosophies and their destinies are the laws they wish upon us to impose.

Until we finally completely drown, into death we finally fall, into the romance of those ancestors we will fall, doomed to repeat what mother, father, grandfather, grandmother and great-grandparents saw in the stories that only the rivers remember.  And we run the risk, if we do not stop to discern their theatrical songs, their lessons and their rights and wrongs, of allowing them to engulf our children, to pull them into their swift currents, unless we remember to discover, to finally tell them the greatest news, that their stories are now no longer true.