Dying into Descendents


Artist is Naomi, Montreal. http://naomipaints.com/gallery/mosaics/

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Dying into Descendents

Someday, somewhere, in this life

You’ll find yourself hungry

For a freedom from the necessity

Of hope or despair

To be an animal is not

The only way of being

Everything carries you to her

The evolution of your mind

How your soul aches to be

Something else, better

A future of instant information

With senses as great as galaxies

And cells and nodes like planets

And continents, that’s how

The future will feel like

Until then, enjoy your biology

Those small desires and human monotony

You won’ get to keep what you have

Not even who you once were

So borrow and blend until

You and I meet again

As the hymns that fill the worlds

As the lights that are born from stars.

Lullaby of futurities


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Lullaby of futurities

I found reluctant peace
In the entirely beautiful
Memory of the future
It was as if I had been there
My sleeping head thus cried out

Mortal, guilty, embarrassed
To be alive, yet entirely
Giving, like a fever
I was swept with a faith
So radical, so abstract

So universal, I was lost
In the hermit’s ectacy
Of mystic super-sympathy
“the future”, my soul called out
With relief a certain fidelity

This too shall change, how lovely
It was to know that she
Would arrive, as sure as
A growing child’s full
Dawn of intelligence

The spirit in bloom
And the soul’s whispers
The inner beauty like a lullaby
Of whatever must be
To arrive at her wildly entertaining

Vistas of nature’s genius
She, the lovely future
Watched by every human love
With such involuntary glory.

The Spiritual Body of a Poem


62

To write poetry is
To create philosophical memory
To adjust the commentaries

Of all souls, to just one voice
To strip the inequalities
Of existence, of their mass
To write poetry is
To erase the written

Transforming what we have read
Making alphabets contemporary
Fluid, mystical

To write poetry is not just art
It’s neurological reprogramming
A quantum gesture to
The nature of beauty
And Meaning itself

To write poetry is
To return to an absence of meaning
The meddlesome mind forgets

The natural order of nature
To reduce layers of narrative
And return to a total peace
And a grand vision of the universe
As a talking thing, exchanging energy

In a physics of existence
To write poetry is to love the unwritten
Endings that all concur

To identify with the sudden
Rupture of beginnings
From which all thought originates
To write poetry is thus
The silence in between the words

And a solace beyond thought
To free oneself form the memory
That is an impression or a scar

On the mind, blankness is an ideal state
To observe time and space without attachment
To love existence independently
Of the personal conditions of one’s life
On the letters of your poems

I observe a black walking cat
A woman that must question her heart
To find the answers, without
Speaking we are a language
All we feel and do is a kind of vocabulary.

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AGNES CECILE
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59

rising into silence


43

i came upon God accidentally
like learning a new language
upon connection, i came

into the unknown and stayed
without knowing, rising
beyond the science of silence
i did not know where

the door was to leave or enter
this brilliant house
it’s a perfect realm of calm

and a deepest release into solitude
that is a peace, a stunned
and stammering quietude
i was given a narrow way

to enter fields of light
rising beyond all science
i carried my evolution

for inside the confines of experience
until I was dazed and liberated
revealing my own intimacy with God
in splendor of my five senses

my mind found a potter’s home
a carpentry of my soul’s workshop
to work with my hands

for something divine
and know creation intimately
like a poet who never sleeps
holiness is not a place or a person

it is a language, the unity
behind all thought, all will, all hope
this is knowledge, by unknowing

and solace, without fighting
this is a blazing height of all remedies
when knowing and doing is insufficient
and feeling surrenders in the dark

to the most holy Being and freedom
which can only be translated into
ecstatic feeling, that is God to me.

Starlit Hour


93

This is the hour O Soul
Thy free flight into silence
Wordless bliss of non-duality
Apex of Oneness with all forms
This is the day O Soul
To reach into mysticism like never before

Thy inner sight into omniscience
The day erased of personality
The lessons done, the emerging
Identity of loving all equally
This is the week O Soul
Thy quantum array of transparency

Each cell and atom a divine release
Into the energy of uniform unity
This is the year O Soul
To wake the tenderest art
The meditation without goals
And the prayer without rewards

To freedom from attachment strive
Without striving, all is peace
The last surrender of all plans
The internal life of satchitananda’s poise
This is the hour O Soul
To wordless bliss and loving servitude

Identity of oneness always active
This is the Brahma-lifetime O Spirit
The sweet transcendence of non-identity.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/A-day-in-Holland-382303500

Wrap Your Beautiful Robe of Spirit Around You


91

I feel some Beloved presence
Pulling me like a river
To drink the dawn in bliss-recognition
And take in sunset like supper
And drink to the stars
From clear spring waters

I feel some Higher energy
Teaching me to look for signs
To observe the soul’s progress
Even in trickery and hypocrisy
I feel the last truth waking in me
I’ve given my brain to the ‘Divine’

With neurotransmitters of Ananda
I now walk completely naked of identity
So much have I accepted my fate
I study the ways of transcendence
Like an exercise of transformation
I feel some Beloved presence
&
Pulling me like a river
To drink the dawn in peace-existence
And take in dew on my feet for breakfast.

Photography Courtesy: http://browse.deviantart.com/art/Diamonds-381053343

Conspiracy Video:

Uninterrupted Poetry


These poems are lost to me
Like the dead, there is no returning again
To what was, old loves

My mind feels them shouting there
Those who have died to us
Once here, now gone

It is the same with the music of the night
Grief dies to my renewal
I regenerate my lips, my ears, my thirst

Like a mausoleum of longing
I am, without ever being satisfied
I wake up to radiant mornings

Each and every day, jasmine at my feet
And I write poems, like lost waterfalls
Missed sunrises, broken comets

Stars on the tips of forgotten inheritance
These poems are lost to me
Like the emptying fulfillment of breath

Like a kind of solution to what I am
I create a rhetoric of distinguished ambiguity
Legislating my soul to be free

An embroidery without worldly cares
These poems are lost to me
I am not a thief of possession

But rather, a common beggar
With the guarantee of unearthly words.