Body, speech and mind

No man is worthy of
such refined treasures!
don't keep them to your self
but let them have wings;
broken hearts fly this way.

Let no thief take your Heart,
hiding it in his pocket book,
when its only desire,
is to merge in seas and mists.

You are a Mystic Bird,
frail and hungry for the sky
your feet are on shifting
grounds, dancing beautifully.

Your mind is an instrument of Love
Crazy, piercing like a knife,
yet full of fresh wisdom,
as stars are to sky.

When your Hymn
breaks to Loves
passionate crescendo
and you awake sweating,
lust abated,

there will be your answer,
to heaven or hell…

You are easily lost,
Love is like that!
beyond the confines of our,
body, speech and mind’s.

I am easily found,
love is like that!
open arms,
open mind,
open heart…

That's why we Love
having each other
around!

The happenstance of meaning

The happenstance of meaning,
in a hodgepodge of words.
unskilled in writing;
deception...

Skillful means and voracity,
inherent meaning allured.
writing is playful;
conception...

One is Joy,
another addiction.

From word
to
meaning.
From pen
to
inkling!

Like me,
like my
inflated sense
of word.

Flags waving,
Look at me,
and my group
we are WRITEoUS!
We are what we
Write.

Write flowers
and streams
and
windy chimes.

Face facts,
Words escape
meaning
with cowardly
defences like
paragraphs
and
syntactical
alliances.

Prepositions
pasteurized,
so that whimsy
and
freedoms are
battered,
suffering
split infinitives.

Similes with
spiritual
accents
and
distinctive
adaptations of
cunning.

Read deLiberatingly!
Fight the
oppressor, as
the maker of
Meaning,
is
You!

sen·ryu: this longing heart

sen·ryu : a 3-line unrhymed Japanese poem structurally similar to haiku but treating human nature usually in an ironic or satiric vein.

Pattern:
Three line poem with a 5-7-5 syllable pattern that does not rhyme.

Oh this longing heart,
dreams of flying in freedom,
always falls in love!

Language and Meaning

Language is a bridge, connecting; Poetry is the stream below, meandering, murmuring, reflecting many Suns; meaning!

Love Up!

Man is what he loves.

If he loves a stone he is a stone;

If he loves a man he is a man;

If he loves God--I dare not say more,

for if I said that he would then be God,

ye might stone me!

-- St. Augustine


We become what we Love so Love Up!

Psychomachia; heroic journey

Embracing the moment, kindly with ease;
Within the voracity of that little bliss,
All is convergence without separation,
Hearts beat, memories disintegrate.

When you emerge from that anomaly,
Searing, aching, retrograde passion,
The fullness of meaning in longing,
Souls drink from this sweet forever.

Consider the world turning, ellipses.
Whirling realized organic orb, feeling!
Formed from attractions to a Star,
Dreams; heroic, reaching, infinite, far!

That is the journey of every particle,
Made whole by willing mass surrender,
Waiting on the edge of gravities reason,
Is the Sun, your Soul, evolving further…

Between each breath

Sweet Soul lingering upon a Heart beat,
This effulgence precipitating within.
Like a frail butterfly alighting so briefly,
Intelligent hunting eyes often miss!

A Rose glitters jewels of sparkly dewdrops,
Richness gathered where Hearts connect.
Enraptured by this soft meaninglessness,
An intelligent probing mind would miss!

Between each breath my Heart is longing,
Comes a second wind of fresh new Grace,
This probing and hunting mind remembers,
I do not exist when in that place.

Let me speak in silence

After gripping studied meaning,
let loose the Heart,
this seeker of light,
come of longing in the night



Let me speak in silence,
the feat of the pause,
potential in space,
the first cause!
Words of reason; pictures.
Sentence syntax; logic.
Language a bridge,
Poetry the river meandering,
reflecting many Suns.

Picture the sigh,
or the fluttering Heart.
fragile perception,
in between,
darkness and dream,
where the seeming,
oft is master of
reality and silence
the gift of Peace.

dumb, feeling heart

... how does one share through words the fragile percepts, that lingering 'kiss' of Peace, that comes of sweet effulgence in the Heart? ... this roiling bliss, this synaethasian inebriated surrender of a Soul reeling from drinking that ambrosia; sweet nectar of Divinity!

feeling Heart,
dumb,
idiot,
Fool of God,
giver,
lover,
staring at forever!
grinning,
empty,
free of meaning!

Cosmic time

In the light of Cosmic time, both great and small are extinguished in that infinity, yet it remains important that we create, explore and evolve with the courage of a Loving Heart.

Comparing ourselves, or anyone else, with others, only makes for vanity or bitterness. Always there will be greater or lesser than ourselves. (paraphrasing Max Ehrmann's "Desiderata" here)

Yet greatness in another, brings us all up; no one is left behind. When a Writer or a Poet lifts the veil, revealing reality, we are all made more by this feat! Nature always sends us Visionaries, Poets, Mystics, agents of change; mutations. They take us to the next evolutionary level.

The Heart does not differentiate,
it beats in the rhythm of the sea;
the head makes the distinction,
that you are not really me!

an ever prayer

While meditating,
time expanded,
disappearing into
a forever present.

While contemplating,
Beauty appeared,
revealing perfection
empty of meaning.

This ever prayer;
remembering always;
swimming in Divinity,
drowning in Peace …

In time and space

Meditation expands time;
there is no time,
like the present!

Contemplation folds space,
revealing beauty,
in everything.

Prayer in time and space,
is constantly remembering,
how sweet it all is ...

Mystic hunting eyes

Sin; missing the mark,
like an arrow gone askew.
No bullseye!

Mystics must have hunters eyes,
for bagging their Snark.
They must wrap them
in many Mansions,
for Lotus Blossom slaughter.

Synaesthesiac

frequency

frequently loves to
take the Heart dancing.

this sweet dyslexia,

may be resolved,
or separated;
by sense.

No place is alone

on that beach
walking nakedly across the sand,
walking stick in hand,
bathing in a stream,
removing the salt and sweat,
with the Sun in my eyes,
in the Clayoquot Sound.

walking with,
that stick with bells,
and a found Eagle feather,
feet to burning sand.
startled by dogs
lupin procession,
I watched, waiting to run!
They were three,
and white, watching me;
the Sun in their eyes.

Alone in this place,
no place is alone,
with dogs, sand and sea.

Dream up!

a bottom with the promise of a top,
likely to come up,
Dream up, dream up
Topsy turvy,
Flip flop,
Bottom to Top, bottoms up
Dream up, dream up!

Like you ...

Like you, wingless,
what I would be,
if limited by a feeling
I could not follow,
my most secret of dreams.

Like you, languished,
hole where whole should be;
Eager to fill it with
studied meaning and
reason's industry.

Like you, gnawing,
what sense would Love be
grasping little fears,
made of empty mimics and
stolen dreams.

Like you, wrapped
with stars and dust.
Longing like gravity;
aching for the light
we call Love!

Like you, surrendered
Hastened to a sigh,
where tears linger
and something sweet,
inside, waiting there.

constantly remember

writing is a way to constantly remember, that in capturing this moment, we realize the Beauty that is always there ...

by the time you read this, the ripples of my imagination will have merged with your eyes as pixels on the net ... peeling through the layers of impressions, old and new, until we speak from naked Hearts; merged within the carved words here are my memories, my perceptions interpreted. Regurgitated, spent. Spilled reveries emerging in time!

By the time I have carved my words to hold the image of my realization, you will have to be a breaker of moulds, an iconoclast, to release it; otherwise it is religion with its dead forms and rituals ...

Jesus, Buddha, Arhats and Bodhisattvas were all Poets; they changed Hearts! There words were 'alive' with realization. Written down, they became forms and rituals by the third generation! Kind of like Myth, i.e., the Map and not the territory!

Poets infuse their words with 'bellavita' or Spirit or whatever term you want to use here... Nature always sends us Visionaries, Poets, agents of change; mutations!

The 'language of the Birds', also known as the 'Green Language', is the language of the Heart; spoken, sung, spontaneously and in tune with the 'Eternal Present' ... it is the Lover/Beloved dancing between the Sun and the Moon; it is the ocean waves caressing the sand on the beach where these writings were written; now washed away... revealing potential

Sufi Mystics dance in awe,
Hearts in a forever Bliss;
Direct reality!
Connected!
Whirling feet, Realized!

Reflection

If reading Poetry is like watching crystals grow, writing Poetry is like crystallizing realizations in time; either way there are a lot of reflections!

He reveals hidden meaning,
in capturing the moment!
A lover from within,
sharing this light, his second sight
from the longing of his night!

the role of the Poet ...

A Poet is a way of being plain and simple, in tune with Nature; one who 'speaks' with the Heart. Where his words are imbued with potential; acting as agents of change. He is a Mystic, making language a catalyst of creation. Singing a prayer with Heartfelt words, igniting Grace to action.

A Poet shows us the magical all that is; where Beauty echoes through all things, like Natures laughter in a flower. A Mystic in a communion with the 'Eternal Present' where no past ever compelled, nor future beckoned! They teach that we are each a miracle; a song of Love, where sorrow and joy, laughter and tears, are lyrics and notes in a symphony of Creation ...

We are 'meaning makers', and choose thusly what is of value in our lives. We are 'Magicians' and can compel even 'creation' to move by our 'will'. But the 'Mystic' is plain and simple; Beauty and Truth are an organic 'Alchemical' treatise written on his 'Heart' with an 'elixir' of prayers revealing the 'Bliss' of reality! The true 'Gold'.

the Poetry of small miracles

Poetry often reflects the 'small' miracles in our everyday struggle. Like most Art it is subjective and produces few Saints. However having a 'Myth' is like having a 'Map'! We can share these 'stories' of our 'Map Quest', our experiences, and somehow in the sharing we are renewed!

There are Poets that can and do 'create' 'memes' of our time; who tap into the Zeitgeist of our present and make our struggle somehow more familiar and endurable. 'It is like this ... stories around the fire, a trick of the light'

Objective Art? What would that look like? What 'measure' shall we use to gauge its voracity and purport? Would everyone 'gather' the same important 'meaning' and evolve with the same eternal Vision?

God has no religion, and religions have no God! Art has no 'meaning', where meaning is without Art! Art/Artist is always creating itself! I see a Mobius M.C. Escher drawing here.

The Heart does not differentiate, it beats in the rhythm of the sea; the head makes the distinction that you are not really me!

Sun in your eyes

made everyday,
pausing at dawn,
or sudden vistas,
pulsing inner sight.

made everyday,
Sun in your eyes,
with a memory,
longing from the night.

made every day,
lingering dreams,
from shadow places,
changing in the light!

made every day,
luminous worlds,
birthed reflections,
darkness as its might!

Dreams like Poetry

Dreams are like Poetry;
Some are wishes, some are fears,
While but a few are prophecy!
Some are laughter, some are tears,
While some are mere philosophy!

Some writers write to be mean and right,
Others to be liked, feel they belong;
Then there is the Shiva-Grace; a destroyer,
a creator, a Diva of change!
An urge of Nature in lyrical song!

She is Mystic, language her crucible
igniting Grace to action.
no past compels, nor future beckons!
Her dream of light, this second sight
that comes of longing in the night!

Bukowski et alia

Why do drunks endear us
With there odes to death?
Shining on feelings consumed
Grinning, smoke hanging breath
Like Superbolides hurling to earth.

Acceptable suicides these, the frail
With a dearth of near misses,
An intimacy with somnolent musings,
From which they regal you stories
and picture poems sincerely.

Mortal fools that look beneath,
Seeing relief in passion numbed;
instead of television bathed!
Living mostly at being a bum,
as the only useful hiding place.

They teeter on the edge of our
meaninglessness and fear, looking
Into the dark places with
inebriated equanimity's
and noctilucent hang overs.

Shining twice as bright,
After a half gone case of beer!
Switching between ranting reality
Or critical ribald rhymes;
We still feel them Dear!