Brief history of religion

When I admire the wonders of a sunset or the beauty of the moon, my soul expands in the worship of the creator.
~ Mahatma Gandhi

i would be as ignorant as the future
that forgives and forgets the past
as sublime as the dawn

that has looked down on towns
as the stars fade and the moon
is plucked by the ocean from the sky
I would be as ignorant as this planet

that dreads not but revolves around itself
these countries of profit and civil
unrest, fighting history, quarrels between gods

invented by men who would wield power
the kind of show that leads to a unified death
flame under flame, flower of the heaven-fold
obeying your will to die for a name

obedient to the scripture where my ancestors died
and i lived, because of cowardice and
because I wanted see another sunset, another dawn.

Tired of Tyranny

From the U.S. point of view, negotiations are, in effect, a way for Israel to continue its policies of systematically taking over whatever it wants in the West Bank, maintaining the brutal siege on Gaza, separating Gaza from the West Bank and, of course, occupying the Syrian Golan heights, all with full U.S. support.
~ Noam Chomsky

Background:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Israeli%E2%80%93Palestinian_conflict

I at last conjure from the uniformity
some virgin vineyard celebration
of unity in diversity, ascending in ecstasy

across words chaotic and free
I peel like an orange sublime necessity
as if you gave me visions
of jackhammering poetry

and textural lobes of light
left for the seeking palms
of goosebumped aspirations

I at last do now know how
to smuggle divinity into this corrupt
world, so fugitive and temporary
where are then, the illuminating clues?

I who, cannot seem to make amends
with the cruelty of man
this egoistic animal building skyscrapers

talking about liberating enemies
when we are all made up of the same code
this childish tendency towards civil war
is the last thumb of snatched security

Israel, why do you still fight?
I cannot make amends with the
mistakes of history that are never healed

these barbaric tribes are now schoolyard
bully nations, proud with patriotism
I thought patriotism died long ago?
our collective blood is only as wise

as our leaders, rulers, militaries
the same patriarchal pre-kingdom castles
men, codenamed greed, envious

of the riches of the elite who control them
I will live at last in my hermit apartment
paying rent to this conscience
of necessity, that this free world
claims friendship among all the enslaved?

Photo Courtesy: http://statecrime.org/online_article/israels-war-crimes-in-gaza/

to my children’s children

The future influences the present just as much as the past.
~ Friedrich Nietzsche

on the plateau of high-summer
we discover true signs of life
in the heart-beat of cicadas

in the sun among your sisters
in the heights of kites and populars
something is left there
among the gazing at the stars

walking the dawns of our
luxuriant wings, the creatures
we are still of stone and sling

still yearning for the green fields
tortured on the wheel of existence
we climb the decades like machines
only to enter another night

another Auschwitz, more human morbidity
but in elegy and idyll, there is
perhaps still some clear presence

of our innate goodness before
we are corrupted by the world
our souls still dreams possible mercies
still hovers and hangs over

elusive faiths, temples of art
myths of empowerment, elitism of free-will
not all of us maybe, certainly

only a lucky few, but that’s enough for me
we will still be measured
by descendants, like relics of ancestors
our mothers sacrificed for us but

rejoiced in life’s offering
the time of wisdom is nigh, our metamorphosis
where then, everyone is along

at the heart of the earth
ready to love the star-mangled hours
without contempt for the ruthlessness
of the universe, or the wickedness of man.

Photo courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Policko-471650926

at the steps of the exultant future

The only difference between the saint and the sinner is that every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.
~ Oscar Wilde

i exile myself in that which can
bear witness to all of humanity
i subdue the myths we tell ourselves

and find a utopia amid the ruins
it’s my occupation to dream
nor does human love achieve it
i’ve brought burial signs for extinctions

and i’ve drawn up the algorithms
these Madrigal apocalypses
the sunflower bends to the west

the rains calm the scarcity of hope
how many lifetimes have i lived through this?
the last play of light fades
on a dry belt of cloud ready to clasp

thunder itself, a fragrance of storms
i always loved the storms, spent hours in them
flooded myself with the hope to witness

cosmic events, rare fall of empires
revolutions of transhumanism
so i chose this moment to be born
here on the banks of futurity

i shall hold buds of nano-geraniums
as if they always existed
as if I am the same as who I once was

it’s the poetry of life that allows
us to love life more than ourselves…

Photography credits attributed to: http://www.deviantart.com/art/raven-is-to-blame-471721702

Variations of a beauty lover

The only thing that can save the world is the reclaiming of the awareness of the world. That’s what poetry does.
~ Allen Ginsberg

I’ve made liquid nicknames for
the incomparable feelings of Earth
the peculiar surrealism of suffering

a dance of cycles and poverty in seasons
and prosperity in that experience of lack?
organic and passionate, thriving
in pure obscurity, that is the dilemma

there is no fame in doing what you love
only the pure satisfaction of being
connected to something larger than yourself

I’ve made friends with stars, books
as if I could plagiarize memories
like some ethical problem of the future
you tell me beauty is copyrighted?

I’ve charted universes in your eyes
thriving with an open soul for higher realms
of wisdom, disguised as a psalmist

I’ve seen the vital sources where destiny
Is drawn like a paradox of passion
I’ve seen the gracious gluttony
where we swallow our fate whole

only to arrive at a kind of handwriting
of who we were meant to be all along….
I’ll just keep living in that funeral free harmony

of inner renaissance, the piecemeal moments
of genius, where I am in perfect peace
with my creativity, fatherless, childless
but free, with a right to personal magic.

Art Credit to: http://www.deviantart.com/art/mermaid-tattoo-469620382

Spectrum Disorder

I have nothing to say, I am saying it, and that is poetry.
~ John Cage

In the penthouse of cool August
the trees have begun to whisper Autumn
the fragrance of anniversaries

an instinct to catapult meaning
into some creative form, some relationship
where the banter of everyday
might be fulfilled in a forfeit of identity

no matter how long the hiatus
these street lamps remember me
but the people I knew are gone

we’ve gone our separate ways
you used to laugh at my love of writing
but I still sweat at the writing desk, love
these clarinet-oxytocin dreams

where I learn to be merciful with myself
my precious psyche deserved better
my rhetoric of sweet-salts left

the flower of my being coming into view
an orchid of failed seductions
a white rose of broken-hearted
love that no longer requires human love

summer was meant for vengeance
and humanity was made for loss
but my timidity is satisfied by
a more divine neurochemical
than sappy serotonin or dull dopamine.

Photography courtesy of: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Fire-471797211

Angelic torso of a poem

I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.
~ Pablo Neruda

I am the lotus on the menu
of soft and moist poems
that flow and swirl around the fireplace
by the window breeze, in rapture

for doctrine-dreams docile to divinity
the boundaries that have none
and peace that is washed on the nape

of your neck, the nouns-cherished like
flower breath, fragrance at your bottom-lip
hope heard like a photobomb
peach lyrics of vocal charm of forever

friends, spirits, pleas of narrative
that cuts to the heart of all experience
festival of physical discovery

in a maze of mantras, verging on light
the language of folds that covets songs
lyrics that is not spelled, silence that is not
empty, leaves in motion like verbal-dance

faith, in an avalanche of anticipation
that’s poetry, clean and with soft foundations
firm at the summit of her storm-blooms

perpetual attributes of sheltered stanzas
sweet as the taste of a lady’s geography
whose distance is as quick as summer
and whose memory lingers like youth

delicious to the mind, that drinks symbols
the hemline of all dress, words, clothes, books
the last formal invitation of literature.