There Would be people who listen

There Would be people who listen

Poetry being internal rambling
Is a lousy form of activism
It doesn’t really change much
In a world where poetry
Doesn’t get read, actions are not words

Though words may be a kind of
Act, a poem doesn’t start
A revolution, isn’t a political

Act of martyrdom
Though a poet is the best imitator
This art being the easiest to dabble in
The hardest to truly reach excellence
And the most lovely to quote

What’s a good quote without
The sense of magic
That concentration and economy

Unique to good verse
Like a short story compacted
Into a few brilliant lines
It’s contemplation of years soaked
In the seconds of our precision

If a spirit would ever want to be precise
I do not know, though the soul
Might want to love intent

Because you’ve got to find the truth
Within you, and penetrate it
Like having a very intuitive pen pal
Very far away, you have to
Summon her, exchange lives with her.

untitled but for poetry’s page

Poetry is its own best audience

Poetry is a daily practice
I don’t consider it particularly artistic
More like the spirit of language
Doing therapy on my brain

This is your brain on poetry
So I’ve transformed down the years
A few thousand poems are like
Little green eyes smiling

Like leaves bursting with wind on a tree
Next to your room, close to your soul
Like the ocean in the background
Holding all myth and legend

And the whispers of love that can
Absorb an entire lifetime
Like the memory of romance when
All romance has died long ago

Poetry is a meditation
Of how indebted we are to nature
And how gratitude never runs out
It only returns again and again

Like clouds of delight
And stars at twilight
Money is a kind of poetry
In the extent it lets you live and do anything

Through for inner freedom
Poetry > money in its simplicity
You can take it anywhere
And it will be guaranteed to still possess you

Embrace you, ravish you with
The adventure of time and delight.

The Sanctuary

it could be said Nature’s feet
are so vast, they stretch
from star to star like pillows of light

in a web of black-hole portals
star-gates as swift as one body
touching itself, a supernova
is her pinching herself

the cosmos as one body
love stretching as far as all life
that this entire earth is but

her field somewhere on her toe
and her view is as vast
as a river of stars, a forest of dark matter
her quantum sanctuary is secret

hidden behind time itself, made holy
by creatures praying and seeking
a cathedral where all souls go

when they kneel to touch her presence?
it could be said nature is open
mutable to turn into whatever form of God
the people require, in their evolution

one day an alien, another day a supercomputer
or myths and prophecies for our ancestors
or a convenient map of history, for scientists.

last pearl of the Rubaiyat

i sent my soul through invisible
spaces that became invisibly near
the One, some letters of the after-life
Heav’n by and by left me pure

to face the obstacles that will soon expire
for mortality is magic shadow
and i am spirit sun-illumined
this i know as well as the lantern-held friend

at midnight, by the master of the show
will i know the alchemy behind time
the stars tell me their secrets
shafts of light build in my memory

of the future, i worship a grand unity
of a theory of everything, not discovered yet
i send my spirit through abstract
spaces that become divinely abstract

my desire are only mystic, women or roses are
no longer important to me, even this craft
of song i must give up soon to solitude’s claim
the thoughtful soul to silence does retire

perhaps to philosophy’s last attempts
i will water my vines, with flowers
of the bird and wings of transparency
for the leaves of life keep falling

one by one, until all that is left
is simplicity, and the One
a book of verses beneath the bough
is the last testament to my own prophecies

that paradise is the bliss of those who meditate
beside me sing with me, of the One
in the wilderness, of that who doesn’t rest
but is behind all acts of creation here or tomorrow

i send my hopes through garden treasures
spaces that become sublime treasures
where my golden grain becomes your food
and you find satiety in a dusty face

who is also the One, the portal, the Sultan
Of your destined hour, where you will go your way.

Sufi art courtesy of: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Sufi-1405-114848225

Rubaiyat courtesy of Omar Khayyam:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Omar_Khayy%C3%A1m

A CURIOUS BEAUTITUDE

Lately I’ve been weight-lifting light
Call it atonement for a lifetime without meditation
For transgression and omission

Of Spiritual exercise
Lately, I’ve been listening
To our expectation for the future’s reverence

But the new world does not wait
Adapt or die, transform or risk losing everything
This is progress, this is

The voices and violins
Of a new generation
Lately I’ve been daydreaming sunrise

A burden of faith, sliding into the Sea
An overture, a requiem to the tragedy
The divine subtraction of time’s brevity

I know it all too well
Call it atonement for a life of leisure
The freestyle freewill to reincarnate

An any point in the linear overflowing
Between music and mathematics
Lately I’ve been bereaved unorthodox

Photo Courtesy of: http://www.deviantart.com/art/–466500259

NEUROPLASTICITY

These metaphors they are not me
These Syllables they are not I
A poor representation of my last wishes
A silly image of my mind’s eye
Language she, is a ponderous house
Of education and culture
Speak loving words to me then!
That has nothing to do with guilt
Or anything of the disorder of the world
Dress her in innocence and heretic
Simplicity, not seeking profit
But only durable as a final
Translation of the spirit
That Reincarnates with every generation
Enlisted in the fantasy of
Immortality, I hear her charitable words
There, as the silver dew of every
New morning, as the sister-star’s breath
Of every new millennia, where
We ask the same questions
Until we forget to ask questions
Or do not care any longer for the replies
Of the feeling of our neuroplasticity.

CARTOGRAPHIES OF LANGUAGE

A sentence begins with a lie
The common language already
Filled with duality, an imperfect means
Of understanding, semi-true literacy
Of our unity, the loneliness of
The liar endures, like false-love

A poem can be torn up
Never read again, but
The innovocation has already been set
Words of anger, cannot be taken back
Words, infiltrate our blood
With cortisol and neurochemicals

A sentence begins with a pause
For the heart’s twisting dials
There is no technology of silence
Only rituals of communication
Etiquette of what was not said –
The blurring terms of our inadequacy

At connecting, our inability to hear
Words in the music of our faces
The blueprint lost of our authentic sameness.

In These Times You Have to be Terribly Careful

As a result of being confirmed
As unable to breathe or think
Confined in the dark, my friends
That is how I know I am dead –
Only occasionally is my heart now moved
By the plight of mortals and

The weight, of their mischievous mortality
They can’t reconcile themselves
To their condition, since their
lives are so full of change
They raise their heads clumsily
Like infants, only to live with a limp

Fearing the inevitable, I was once
Like light, adjusting myself
In the crypt of empty space
As a result of being, after the symphony
As unable to hear the empty music
Confined in the light, my friends

That is how I know I am yet alive –
I will take every occasion thus
To let my heart be moved
By the awkward wonders here,
And the stems of silence like levels
Of the hotel of flesh, where the carpet
Of my biology is somehow too soft.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Petrova-3-412362390

Saucy Seraphs of Death

Death sets a thing to its significance
That was insufficient in life
The eye that hurried through

Goals, perished for its workmanship
We all work in crayon, and wool –
Industrious by passing necessity

As other creatures who have eyes
I see no other way, this world
Profits from the business of death

The distance of youth floods
Departs like the Grace departs
For each beloved hour, each beloved year

Death sets a thing to its significance
There are no tears that measure for the dead
Incognito, dust, how intricate the weeping dust!

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/autumn-rain-404842271

Prayer Untitled

Prayer is the last response
Of presence when life is denied
So to remain quiet

Is sometimes next to God’s ear
Watching and listening
The last apparatus

Of apparent prosperity
For to own is not permanent
Anything can be taken away

A spirit-diamond trance
Can problem solve
The symmetry of misfortune

Prayer is the last response
Of an unconditional force of happiness
Too infinite is consequence

For us to seize destiny by the throat
Prayer is the easiest sport
When our slow capacities deploy

A crude response to vivid nature
So to act is not always wise
Then do we notice things overlooked

Our mind italicized by light
That darkness be prerequisite
To spirit’s final room

As narrow time’s jostle between
What we once called life & death
Bent to water, till we died

Prayer is the last response
When belief no longer regulates
The perception of our undue significance.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Skyfall-403075862

Thou Hast Made Me

Thou hast made me, a holy poet
What is this work, to observe and not despair?
And all these pleasures are mere words
Of yesterday, dim eyes any way
Of visions that run to death, from self to self –

But I rise again, in new forms
With poems that can myself sustain
Like breath and proven art
Thou has made me, a grand imitator
Of names in history, of verse

That contributes repair, spiritual repair
Repair me then, my little words, until
My end doth haste and in terror of feeble flesh
I must part, saying goodbye to all I was –
What is this work, to entertain and listen

Listing all that is below, without knowing
What is above, or how adamant drew my own heart
These are not holy sonnets, but all titles I must resign
Even being published, only a loose
Temple of my spirit divine, ravished in thy sight

For all paths that do converge I have found
Are found in uniting words, language pure
That I might in holy discontent simplify
For all coming ills have been pre-ordained
Though hast me thus, a poet at last
Alive at least in my own idol-making sympathy.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Peace-402773282

Michelangelo’s lost Formula

After trying many years, and then
impoverished, I found the fountain of delight
it is an inner wealth, splendid wife

a seed divine, that glows with inner-harmony
it is the returning Tao, life’s estate
when beauty and love’s metaphors

lay dormant, pregnant, knowing, intrinsic –
Oh my beloved nature’s like that too
after many trying years, and then

my mind fell silent and no longer says
that desire or pain have any place to stay
only a smiling surrender, of the triumphant way.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/The-colors-of-Summer-402054594

Portals of Consciousness

Only themeslves understand themselves
Only him and her, and him and her
And then some, not, wholly unknown
The mystery calms
The perfect understanding of souls

Not in visions pure
But in worldly experience
In poets to come, in mystic orators
Singers of the dawns, musicians of the heart

Only themselves understand themselves
What is she is she, and him is him
And then some, only in love
By grace ascended, athletic in unity

The mystery claims us all
The perfect understanding of souls
If only but to advance for a moment
Before decline, indicative that

The future is listening
In casual looks of children-minds
What are those of the known
But portals to enter the unknown
For him and her, and her and him
Them, us and prophetically all.

June 12th, 2013

Photography Courtesy: http://browse.deviantart.com/art/wisp-of-air-376623054

A Glimpse

A glimpse incessant caught
In specks of divinity
White and driving around sunsets
Naked in the thin air of morning
A glimpse of incandescent snow
The long mile of sailor’s foam
The beach of birthplaces calm
Intergalactic light shrill and warm
A glimpse of matter, speaking little
But telling all, telling more
Seating in himself a God
In an unmarked corner of the soul.

Death IV

From the monarchy of the past
We are chilled for her coming
Death, that spark of our reincarnation

Who sums up our karma in her Will
Beloved are the changes of our fates
That destiny spills with such great beginnings

Our ill health begets for what she came
That many times our body might rise again
For the supersession of breath
*
And a hundred alternate futures
Our mind confronts the murderous men
Who orchestrate wars in her gaze

Death, how she knew me to the bones
Man created this, for his own profit
As women enjoyed giving life in all that they did

But we live on an Earth that serves
The profit of a few, so death offers them
No final freedom either, only the power of knowledge

The fleeting pleasure of a few kingly years
From our station of birth we are built
To confront the meaning of our brief life
In the shinning darkness of a final abyss.

Photo Courtesy: http://browse.deviantart.com/art/Irene-377267462

Dreaming Mercy

These dreams they lied to us
In our youth, but reality was a worse dream
With worse opportunities for growth
We survived without dreaming, finally
Growing old, it was to be
The end of youth, our words of hope
We stored in others
Before a place, as eyes turned away
We dream the most simple things
In our youth, that come like thunder
So much beauty in people and books
That little by little we turn
Our illusions into white blooms that drift
As petals down the river of time
Because dreaming was how we lived
Because dreaming was how we loved
We had artful minds till the day we died
In a way I suppose, we were always young.

After Quakers

I speak of love that comes to mind
A perfect care of community
An Eastern Ballad on the west coast
Of dreams and the New World
I don’t care what happens to my body

It’s my ideals come to life
That matters to me most
The small actions of my friends
And the creativity art of my work
When I die, there will be no ashes

Only the spirit of chance visiting
Satchitananda, surrender and most important
Lovers that cross the new centuries
Of mysticism pressed into new eyes
Where harbors the light of Roses of God

That require no dogma in order to bloom
Nephews of the future, intimate with
The trust of years of happy meditation
Sunlit faces of a supramental optimism.

Photography Credits: http://astridle.deviantart.com/art/Complicity-376210786

Satisfied with the Fortune of Love

In the stillness of the night
I have been the place where
Wisdom stood visiting

Tranquil, serene, as doves in flight
I have cried with my spirit
Invisibly open to the higher laws

In the stillness of the night
I have waited for the soft voice of truth
Deliciously young, formidably ancient

Who am I, Wisdom, and how come
Desires of delight are so temporary?
My spirit envelops my growing heart

The many books of unity are to me living people
I have seen their eyes twinkle with
The special shimmer of traveling souls

We all kiss death rejoicing in the moment
For we know not how long the moment will last
In the stillness of the social day

I was reborn by the voice of human creatures
They welcomed me and I held their hands
Like tracing memories of days that chanted littleness.

Photography Credits: http://browse.deviantart.com/art/Hands-ten-fingers-disabled-III-376150003

Last Unknown Road

This is thy holy hour, O Soul
The flight from endless words
To wordless bliss of aliens
And lessons done with peace

Night, sleep and stars
For your clear midnight
The roads unknown have led here
An impromptu faith of minutes

That led to some crimson divinity
Some heart-beat of God in everything
This is thy holy hour, O Soul
The deepest black of light

The crowd that formed of Beloveds
A unity of generations of people
Like lit moving candles in water
The light that was always the same

From the same star, for the unique evolution
Of all we were and did in these states
In this body of hope, a dim-lit creativity.

Subdued in the Wheat of your Belonging

Before I loved you, Love
Nothing was my own, I had nothing
Now I tunnel the moon in everything
The whole world is mine
I am in love with everyone
As if I forgot the case
Of the majesty of each soul

Before I loved you, Love
Things were not as they seemed
Now I walk the streets with your unity
And I am a better man, my mind
Stretches across the illusion of separation
I am a bit of everyone I contact
They see it in me, I want the warehouse

Of illimitable joys, that speaks
The richness of the human spirit
Those four word idioms that show
My splendour of understanding
Before I loved you, Love
I wasn’t myself, you have returned
Me back to you, and as such

I will always love what love always was
Since before all silence, I came from you
And after all landscapes of Earth
I will still yearn to imitate you.

The Soul

We have a soul sometimes
Nobody’s going to stop it
It cannot be, taken away
It may not be respected
But it’s our call, our spirit

To show or hide away
Day after day
Year after year
We’ve kept it in the fire
Hid it, slept without it, lost it

To a more material fate
The many duties that were
Conditioned on us by our society
But it’s warm, and comes back
It will settle being ignored a while

Before we most willingly go back to it
For we are impoverished without it
We have a soul sometimes
People don’t always reveal it
Sometimes they even mask it

Stifle it, dominate us, rape us
But our soul is our lightning-verse
It’s our quantum magnet
The uphill tasks must listen
Though we so rarely hear

Good sense, or her gentle awakening
Luminous and a runaway
Our soul has lifetimes to glow and grow
Nobody’s going to stop it in the end.

Children from Zones of Paradise

The Stars express around
Our fates like dwindling destiny
The Sun and Moon make their haste
Across our skies of personality

Why would that which is within
Not be without, and visa versa?
Of finer famines, I do not know
Astronomy and esoteric astrology

That points and shows, cosmic datastreams
That life’s nutrition is a matrix of relationships
Aspects, conjunctions, transits
These were the silver chronicles

Of the poor & far, patterns of our hearts
The veins and tissues of our baselines.