Ode to Meditation (The Good Darkness)


102

This is where you are asked
To collection your mind’s fragments
Into a quiet pool around silence
Bit by bit let go of grasping

Thought without possession
Attains quantum emptiness
Perched, and perished, hidden
Beneath Paradise, minutes of fresh prey

Where you will not exist
Darting below Creation’s wheel
A hooded comet, God’s pastime
Where no tongue will tell your secret

And no observer clouds your way
It’s a gift to the ear, to make time stop
Even for an instant, resets the brain
The good darkness, deepen it

A candled moth, without half-light
Nigh journey coming closer to God
No poison of desire, no tumult of attachment
No self, no trace of following

Only the listening beyond time and space
Step beyond, be, become, die
Before Rumi, Attar or Sanai
Erase memory to upload nothing.

This is the poetry


14

This is the poetry of all my years
with the rhythm that drops like water molecules
and the tongue of holy fires
that shoots with the breath that never-stops

This is the poetry designed for rants
that elegantly convey the big-mouth chanting
of an oppression and growth
of a thousand preaching words of subjectivity

This is the poetry of freedom
it gets enchained in singularities
and skips over synchronicity for thrills
of divine flavors past Shakespeare

This is the poetry that dares to search
for new manners of the riddle of words
into the silence of the great canvas
of art always becoming more personal

This is the poetry of body shaking pride
the quick and childishly glib facade
of the imagination stretched as far as a new nation
that connects all philosophers and poets in time

chanting a single written phrase
This is the poetry from the universe of life
the experience that no sociology can comprehend
the dreaded degree of loving necessity

when I talk to myself in poetry I talk
through all the wild poetry of your eyes.

Poetry Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/The-zoo-397858926

Paddling With Breathlessness on Stilts I Write


15

Until now, I knew I possessed nothing
Damned by decrees of my own
Selfishness, I pretended

Behind a circus show of reason
At the Ball of tantalized feeling
But now, I know the way the world ends

Whatever else I might succumb to
It will be the poetry of freedom
Without rhetoric, or tricks of lying

Or slang speech particular to my times
Until now, I hid in incredible musical scales
Behind melodies, beneath the chorus

All poets pick themselves out of rivers
I’m half-deceived, by the lovers who left me
Because I was nothing but a poet

But it’s my first white wave of climbing hope
The last word I say before my doom
Whatever else, poetry is my first freedom

So don’t ridicule me for loving a kind of art
My dream is an impatient cadence pure
That gives me resurrection, when life

Offers me none, these flaming parenthesis
Have become my means of transcending you.