poetry

The Path of Heart

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It doesn’t have to be Some Big Thing

You do today.

The Inner Judge that Pushes you

Also Leads Astray.

The Thing inside that Punishes

The Thing that ever-states,

“It doesn’t matter what you want,

Just do exactly as I say.”

We all have that Thing inside us

We may call it by different names

But the Harsh Advice it gives us

Always sounds the same.

It Beats Us Up with Expert Reasons

Harvested in self-harm, for

When a child falls or stumbles —

Does it help to also break his arm?

So when this Thing attacks you

It helps to know He’s there

It helps to know His twisted Tricks

It helps to Stay Aware.

When the Punisher has got the whip

And He’s giving you your twenty licks

Look again and understand

The whip itself

Is in your hand.

You can choose to Notice that!

Call on a different inner part:

Let your Warrior take over

And choose the Path of Heart.

The Bullet Rose

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Did you know…

There is a name for a rose that never blooms?

It closes so tightly in on itself that it cannot open.

They call it the Bullet Rose.

It never gets the glorious, torturous Break Down that screams, “Yes! Yes I am alive!”

Instead its petals are like arms crossed defiantly over a chest refusing to let any feeling in.

And isn’t that the Real Tragedy?

Because something happens in the breakdown:

It is the undefinable Mark of Chaos;

A mark that becomes clear-cut only by its utter Confusion where

All

Falls

Apart

Going into total Dissolution;

Caterpillar liquifies

Suffers to become butterfly

And so, too, do I.

I know by now It is coming.

Ah but I fight it, I fear the pain.

“Not again

Not again.”

But yes.

Again.

That is where Acceptance comes in

And having a memory that can hold onto knowing

That the Break is never The End.

We either evolve or regress or worse yet…

Stay fixed;

Hiding too long in one place

We erroneously believe is safe.

Like the poor Bullet Rose

That never gets the Beauty of the Break.

Nor the Resurrection that is only faithful moments

Away.

Rebirth

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I find my own Heart

Waiting

Brave

Beating in warrior rhythms

Slow and steady

Waiting for me to return to it

And I have

The reunion

Is a true

Re-Union

I am solidified

In this liquefied ever-changing Whole

Humbled and Empowered

At the same time.

I no longer question.

Simply, I just

Know.

This Is God

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I am in The Chrysalis

I sit in meditation

How do I begin to tell you what it feels like

To be in the womb of the Great Mother?

How do I begin to describe this warm, pulsating energy

I am dropping down into

As I am lifted up at the same time?

I have never been more sober

Nor felt more high.

I am in a soft Orange-Red place.

I feel myself release into Trusting.

And then I

E X P A N D, oscillating out into Everything

And there is no more “I.”

How do I tell you I have actually

Experienced being One with the whole

Universe?

That “being one” is not an idea

But a sacred Act of Allowing

Allowing yourself to Feel so completely

That you lose yourself.

Only…it is not scary at all.

Not like I imagined.

My sweet ego thought about the end of my life and pleaded,

“But, there’s no one like me! I don’t want to die! I like who I am.”

Now I Know

Beyond a shadow of a doubt

Death is nothing to fear.

 

Mysterium

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White light vibrating energy moving through me

In waves and spades

As sunshine parades through my soul

It may be

That I may be whole.

I followed It last night

I didn’t fight

I drew instead so It revealed

Who It was, in symbols

My respect, my surrender

My willingness to give in!

And say, “I don’t know …

But show me.”

And, oh, It showed me in those symbols

As cymbals played in my head

And every other kind of instrument;

In Aliveness gyrating in my skin

Could not even consider sleep

Nor did I need a place to rest my head

“Awake! Awake! Awake!” It said,

“It’s time to Live and grow in ways

You can’t imagine

Yet.

I come to tell you that you have reached the place —

The very one —

That reaches still another one.”

And I felt no regret at this!

But only gentle tenderness

Feathers whisking up my skin

As if to say “Alive again!”

The night before, something died.

Now something New

Begins…

 

Inception

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They all talk about that historic plane

That flew through the eye of the hurricane;

The brave pilot who faced that massive twister

Air and debris spinning like the Inception top

Crazily —

Teetering —

On the brink of sanity;

Or, perhaps…

Gone right on past?

It’s hard to tell at The Edge like that.

Either way, I have to say —

I ain’t no eye of the hurricane.

I am, instead, the air and debris –

The stuff that makes up that Wild Thing.

Spinning-spinning-screaming-spinning

(Perhaps too occupied with”winning?”)

The ego fights so I go on spinning…

Round and round and round I go…

So close to the center

(So very far though!)

And I long to be the historic plane;

The brave pilot who pierced the peaceful center;

For I have long known the dangerous Exit

But tell me, pray, tell me:

Where do I enter?

The Choice

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Drunk on love feelings, oxytocin, and wine

They stumble, giddy, out into the dark night street

An “oops” wine stain on a white shirt followed by a giggle

As he offers “let me get that for you”

And his hand brushes her breast

A blush lighter than the wine spreads across her cheeks

Soul-gazing stares and “no one gets me like you do” thoughts

And the mutually used — over-used word — said to friends

“It’s like…we have this connection..”

The long make-out sessions where “we can’t have sex yet” she whispers

“Trust issues”

He’s okay with it

A gentleman can handle the Blue Frustration

And she sees this

So then, one day, they do.

About 3 months in – maybe 6 (if they’re lucky)

The buzz wears off and he starts to think “she seems pretty needy, emotional, complex…”

And she starts to think “he is closed-off, overly practical and frankly, kind of boring…”

They each long for that Original Night that seemed to last forever

Where everything just clicked,

Fell away…

And they saw only the Good Soul Essence

But it is a different night.

No more fantasy

No more drunken romantic-movie-like illusions about Princes or Goddesses.

They stand facing one another

Truly naked for the first time

Each one must decide

If they want to love a human being

Or an ideal

If they want the thing they say they want:

Actual True Love.

Gift of The Madwoman

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She is buzzing, buzzing, out-of-control

The dream-car screeches as she blasts rock n’ roll

Taking sharp turns at kill-me-please speeds

Some small, unheard voice inside of her pleads —

But the driver is sober.

Ha!

She’s just fucked in her mind —

A pissed-off Beehive –

Roiling inside.

A clueless kid prods it with a long wooden stick

As if length gave him safety.

Oh, what a cruel trick.

Angering, angering…

On the verge of attack.

This horned mass of stingers —

No protection from that.

(The mere thought of it makes the Madwoman laugh.)

Revenge bubbles imminent,

The Beehive? It cracks.

Out comes the raging, buzz-buzzing mass.

She can’t see the road now –

Blacked out and Blind.

The child drops the stick —

He’s been stung from behind.

Swarmed like a piece of ripe, bloody meat,

The child who Tricked

Now becomes Treat.

The driver, she crashes —

Is thrown to the street,

Head cracks like the beehive

Death her final defeat?

As her life filters out of her…

The child —

He breathes.

For once she is dead

The bees turn and they leave.

But the gift of the Madwoman

Burns bright and alive:

For the Ignorant Child

Has now become

Wise.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Shovel Man

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He is The Shovel Man.

The one who goes out on icy evenings

Lifting up the heavy, brown dirt with his metal instrument,

Loading it onto Whatever Might Be Growing There.

Killing it swiftly.

Wiping it out.

“You do not deserve to live. You do not deserve to live. You do not…”

He heaves His Instrument up and down again

Masturbating mechanically.

Robotically.

No humanity left; which is sad –

Because he had some once.

Motivated now by Survival Instinct gone horribly awry.

“I must go on. Only I. Only I. Only I.”

And this is how The Shovel Man spends his days:

He wakes.

He looks.

No. He watches.

Any seedling that pops up;

Any bud that dares rear it’s tiny head;

Any expression of anything at all –

He snuffs out.

He is part God, part Man and all Fear.

And he no longer notices that with each pile of dirt

Upon each baby feeling

He murders, also,

Himself.

 

 

 

From The Other Side…

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I keep seeing these “Live in the Light”

“Let’s Get Back to the Garden of Eden”

“Love is the only thing there is”

Posts.

This One-sided way of living in the world

Is Everywhere.

And I get it. I do.

Very few want to Face Our Stuff.

But here’s the thing about the Shadow:

Ignore It and It will choose you.

When will we understand that Life is Whole?

If we “Live only in the Light”, do we not Cast Out all the beauty in Darkness?:

The rich, fertile soil from which emerges the Commanding Rose?

The comforting depth of the shielded womb?

A pitch black midnight sky paired with the kind of breeze that empowers the Soul?

The emotional suffering which can lead us to Rebirth while alive?

And if we cast out All Those Things which Grow – which begin! – in Darkness…

Do we not also cast out Light?

“Getting back to the Garden of Eden” is a wish to go back to

Ignorance.

The Apple of Knowledge never eaten, the “Paradise” of Unconsciousness.

Our desire for unconsciousness can be seen in all of our shadow behaviors –

Overeating, over-drinking, smoking, cheating…

The spiritual addiction of “Chasing the Light” –

By Refusing Shadow…we create more of it.

It seems to me we must live fully in All that is

NOW.

Yes, revel in Life! In Joy! In Beauty!

But do not forget where these are born.

And as the heart may soar with Happiness, so must we also

Dig our hands through the dirt and pain and gunk of life

Drawing up the dark, moist clay

That makes Creation

Possible.