What BAE really Stands For


(before anyone else) = BAE

mystic_i_by_eirian_stock

Mni Wiconi

Your art is my art
On a sea of dreams
On the petal of a flower
Seen before through many times

History repeats all mystics
Forests rejoice in their coming
Your art is not about how many people
Enjoy your work, it’s about

Your heart on the display of discovery
At the beck and call of
Some secret of your spirit
At the mercy of some

Deeper feeling than you cannot contain
That buds from the silence
And gives in to the melody
Behind the vibration of everything

There’s no trading honesty in this world
Our anxiety and vulnerability show enough
On our skin, we cannot hide it
That’s why, your art is my art

There’s no homepage for holistic healing
It’s born from our journey and communion
With each other, all seekers
I can’t seem to master the art of timing

To be able to find you at the right moment
The years and decades will go by
And I’ll still remember you at twenty-four
The way your hair flew to sunsets

And the moist neediness in your speech
It was in late Autumn when you went west
Where I dug up a piece of your wildlife heart
But you had already flown
Like a swan into the night

And not even my eyes that had bathed in your sunshine
For a spiritual moment could find you
Through that rush of ginger and turmeric after-taste
Like incense, you had escaped all definition
Though the impression struck me as something subtle

The leftover from a life left behind
Of meditation or even caring about chakras
Through still I can say, “your art is my art”

Water of life, tears of loving
To wash the dust of daily living
From our souls, where we were adopted
And where we departed our most beloved ones.

If vision was the art of seeing
The goodness in others that was invisible to others
I imagined you could see right into me
And it didn’t matter you were miles away

Love of beauty was a taste
And the creation of art was a kind
And our art sometimes protected
Sometimes procrastinated with our mistakes
Those were the feelings we treasured the most, in fact
You always had him, before anyone else.

The soul has a time-ridiculing roar


13

The soul is as an unseen Swan
Drifting down the black river
With only stars to stream the light across

And only light to make the river
Seem more bright, a perfect commotion
Of silk, snow, lilies, the flexibility of matter
Creation, the soul feels no bondage
With an armful of white blossoms

I’m sure the soul smiles even when
We appear to be at our worst
Down and out and suffering

As if there were no tomorrow
The soul sways and is partially hidden
It known no dark music, only stretching
Down the river like a waterfall
Discovering something for the

Inner evolution of form and whistling
The background music of everything
Quantum variables speaking new languages

The soul listens for the bulb of love
As rain pelting the tops of trees
And clouds over the river in a season
That is between seasons, for which
There are far too few names

The soul is an onlooker of the most mischievous
Parodies, smiling at the drama of last week
Piloting dreams for learning situations

Laughing at the calendar whose touch
Is bleak weather, irony of shaded routines
Patron, portion, logistic of the mother-instinct
In us all, the soul doesn’t find necessity hard at all
There is no bottom to the soul, it catches us on the other end.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Swan-199231681

Migration in a summer of lovely language


Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Brinkburn-Priory-478920570

9

These words have survived separations
Faces I can no longer remember of loved ones
Poetry has transcended my decades

Spacious and fluent like a last reminder
Of why truth is no longer as important
As beauty, inner beauty of a spiritual quality
Alphabets now shelter this candle
This life that was my hopes and dreams

These most intimate self-deceptions
Wildest faith of wonderful illusions
For a moment still I am there

With moons and roses, aware of nothing
But the shine of creativity on our inner cheek
The mineral blossoms and lotus of our imagination
It’s pure there to write like drunken water
In a light of its own color, reflecting the pauses

Silences, spaces in-between relationships and solitude
That was the best quality of the life I lived.

Nuptial Silence-Transparency


9

My body hears the body of my wife
She is pure spirit where music is real
She is the silence of an idea
That floats, flutters, lands in mind
Nirvana as Samasara, Samsara as Dharma

I draw these letters in to me
Like lost ghosts, left-over dreams
The pollen that blows them into me
I take as my interior flowers
My body feels their fragrance against

My lips and nose, I am their sunlight
Their water below, we are merged
Connected, embracing like a quiet well
The bucket of my vocabulary
Is simple, as a moment with a hummingbird

An exclamation without a nod or a reply
A sweet wind from all compass points
The light and dust when stars have burnt-out
My neurons whisper the poems of the present
Like a tortured river that cannot stop

A floodgate that is always on
A silence that is chiseled by God for God alone
Like an intricate erotic watch of time.

Art courtesy of: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Nuptial-66055316