Songs of a Soul Journey: poetry

Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts

Monday, April 3, 2023

Of Palms and Palimpsests

To dream is not an evasion,
nor a waste of time or energy,
even if dreams fly
beyond the arc
of human consciousness.

To dream is to be in continual free-fall
to the unexpected, unanticipated next;
dreaming requires no notion or plan
—all is suspense, all is in suspension,
a readiness in unreadiness
or the scratching of a quill
over the sheet of foolscap—
archaic,
but only in the sense
that one might lack the ink
or the penmanship
in the non-present now.

There, we might glance
at our lively page
to find nothing written there, at all;
but the paper has been folded and eared,
screwed up and tossed,
retrieved and smoothed,
folded neatly, then unfolded,
creased in differing directions,
only to be undone back to flat,
worn, now and limp,
lacking enough integrity, perhaps,
for aerodynamic flight.

And all for a lack of direction,
a longing for flight
fighting reticence to height,
so that the dipped reed might record
a thought or trace a silhouette
—or otherwise leave a mark,
even if a splotchy blot

—Ultimately, the run-on sentence
is the avoidance of endings,
especially for those who
can’t figure out how to make a start,
or maybe it is all continuous starting,
without end,
Amen.

While wrapped in these ponderings,
in this landscape of dreaming,
there approached a form
drawing slowly up from a distance,
and soon there appeared a man,
riding an onager.

His gaze was steady and warm,
laugh-lines were in evidence,
and he greeted me like a friend.

Seeing the creased and blank sheet,
he said,

We embody the world we see,

an unfathomable array of beauty
punctuated by experiential pain.

Life is good, so we are taught,
and we can find ourselves

in this goodness as existential truth

even when the willow bends to breaking.

Don’t leave the canvas blank, my friend,
make your mark.

Don’t be afraid to create yourself,
be in the being;
as you have folded
and unfolded,
so all your markings
continue to amend and change.

Simultaneously, we each
know and do not know
where we are and why;
doing is all,
we invent as we go.

The words we utter,
and later record,
live on, even down to the dust
that is carried on the wind;
don’t die with your song trapped inside
—sing out, in full voice.

I’m making my mark, see?
he said,
touching his forehead, his lips, his heart,
don’t hesitate to make yours,
even if you don’t understand the significance
—the run-on sentence is the doing,
not the avoidance;
you can write and overwrite,
paint over and write some more—
it’s all continuous starting,
continuous writing,
without end,
Amen.

He reached out and took my hand,
and held it for a moment, smiling,
before letting go,
but, as an after-thought,
reached out and touched my forehead.

Then, handing me a palm frond,
while good naturedly
slapping the onager’s flank,
forward and off on their page they went.

Looking down,
I saw that my page was full,
and that words were even running,
puddling in the creases,
accumulating in pools,
to run off the page
across the wadi,
or fly off the page,
up into the sky.

Both knowing and not knowing,
continuously starting,
we run, we fly, and we sing
without end,

Amen

Thursday, November 24, 2022

For, a Thanksgiving meditation

For

the birds that nest in the trees and in the reeds,

the flowering plants and fish that sustain them,

the great, diverse system of living beings;

the depth of roots in the seeded earth,

providing shade and shelter, food and fuel;

light, shadow and darkness,

an unending cycle of renewal from everything,
from waking to rest;

land, with all its contours and environments,

that supports each footfall, each seed, every root and liquid source;

water, from which all life emerges and returns as a blessing;

people, of every uniqueness, who discover in themselves roles to fill,

who grow & nurture, think & create, who care & give & build,

contributing to the rich song, music and dance of existence;

deeply thought ideas,
drafted over such seas of experience as joy, love, pain or hardship,

intended to pave a better way, or at least make the attempt;

circles we move in,

of family, friends and colleagues,

shaping and sharing community through arts and cultures,

people who challenge and improve by being healthy exemplars;

those no longer with us, who lived, loved, served, nurtured

even especially people we don’t know,

the empty chairs that trigger unforced tears & a heartache of memories;

all who stand for something, stand up for someone,

all for one, few, or many — and one for all;

being for is a sort of goodness;

it might be the only goodness there is

in this world where some people profit

by inviting anger, strife and antagonism to the table,

where the constant tug is either passively or aggressively against;

I pray for all in need, for all who love, for all who sorrow,

and for all who stake their lives on being
for something, anything, someone, goodness;

for all that is for

—for all that and more,

I give thanks.

Monday, June 20, 2022

Solstice

The shortest night

eases into the longest day;

the light can barely contain itself,

and the land heaves a sigh

of something quite pent up—

the interior landscape

exhales heat and humidity.

The birds take to song early,

take to flight soon after,

until the beating of wings

awakens the whole world

with inescapable rhythms.

Every stone, every branch,

even the driest blade of grass,

all awaken, as if from a long sleep,

and a longer dreaming.

Waves of warmth rise

in circular patterns off the ground,

as do the pollinators,

flitting from blossom to blossom,

as if self-aware of greater liberties

to propel themselves upward,

despite the heavy weight

of their cargos.

Everything rises on tiptoe,

as if weightless,

expectant,

waiting

for the next coming,

Next,

only round the corner, now,

is all poised to bloom

and bear fruit,

for, verily,

Life is the only choice

on this event horizon.

Sunday, March 20, 2022

How to Shift the Universe

The omnīzon is the great bloom of events,
rather like an explosion of wildflowers
in the springtime of the year.

The trajectory of each subject coincides
with the trajectory of every object
arising from evolving space-time.

All that is real and true is here,
including all the secrets of nature
into which God has retreated, not withdrawn.

The intention of each wave and particle
is equally met by energy
from this sacred well of infinity.

Thoughts blossom, nestled within other thoughts,
billowing in all directions like bubbles and balloons,
some of which pop, while the others float onward.

Superseded thoughts remain threads of the fabric,
for nothing is gained, neither is it lost,
but that it might be found useful, sometime.

Words emerge along the fabric of thought;
shall they be seamed into action,
or shall they be knit as speculative plan?

What shall signify as intent is linear,
but the word as she is spoken and sung
is the event that makes worlds and music.

Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?
the query rings from the corporate stages
of the multidimensional concert hall.

This interruption, in future interrogatory mode,
signals present pressing need of other,
a cry from the unincorporated that cannot be ignored.

On the answer to this question
all future laws, prophets, devices and worlds depend;
the omnīzon and infinite space between await your reply.

For example, when I said, Here I am; send me,
the universe shifted, and when I ventured to ask, For how long?
came the reply: Until each now passes into each next, forever.

Note: I created the term omnīzon about 30 years ago, when I was toying with writing a science fiction journey novel loosely modeled on Teresa of Avila's Interior Castle and the chakra system. My manuscript is incomplete and unpublished, but the term I created lives on with me. What does it mean? The event of the cosmos happens in all directions simultaneously, and there are systems within systems within systems, as well as systems that impinge on other systems to draw or create energy. Every moment, however that is measured, is a new creation, the shifted/altered/re-formed universe. In science fiction, there is the important notion of responsibility for changes made to the space time continuum. If only every sentient being would live up to this responsibility!

Image credit:

Gordon Onslow-Ford

Constellations in Hand, 1961

Parle's paint and aqua polymer on canvas;
permanent collection of SFMOMA

Saturday, March 12, 2022

All The Infinite Space Between

Because there otherwise might be silence,
the stones cry out,
mind you on your way!

Freedom is economy,
rather than autonomy;
choice is not license,
but responsibility.

This walk,
through the valley of the shadow,
is about all our meetings with other
so as to see divinity—and also self
—reflected, as in a pool of infinite love.

Would it be a surprise
to know each being
is responsible even for the air
—which seems free for all to abuse—
and all the infinite space between?
How best to use it?

The veil over perception parts
with the realization that
agency is the abeyance of will
to meet subjective moment
objectively.

Otherwise, how is the cultivation of Eden possible?

Sunday, October 3, 2021

Colibri Animato

for the Feast of St. Francis

3 October 2021
- my 60^th birthday

There is a language we share:
the air that together we breathe,
beneath the open sky!

Who could have known that would be enough
to bridge such an enormous gap?

But even the diary from one year ago
does attest:

“Rounding the corner,
and there you are!

-- We share this life,
though one is fractional
to the other

-- We share this home;
though our dwellings differ,
we are only liminally separate
-- In truth, we are together."

Of another shared aspect,
--that of torpor--
our intersectional relationship
reaches the overarching conclusion:

Choose life!

For, suspended animation is merely life incremental,

slowed to the blessing of the molto adagio,
where the dream that animates us bids us all to live

to each newly dawning day,
slowing each passing moment of awareness
so that we may all be the moment together, and in time.

For how long, my friend,
shall we bless one another’s company,
in the newly dawning om of day?

You greet me by landing on the tomato cage,

despite that fruit being no longer in due season.

Only in the most foreshortened sense of being
can my three-score years coincide with your own

-- yet will I delight in your special greeting,
in the beauteous now that we have,
in the blessing to have been truly seen
and to also have truly seen,
in the mutuality of seeing and acknowledging,
of knowing,
and of caring,
and seeking to live cooperative within that notice--

yea, let this, what we have, be our deepening moment
for as long as providence may bless us both
with such patience and perspicacity,
with such sacred and familial union,

as is that rounding of the corner,
to be with you,
where you are with me
and we are joyously
together.

Monday, May 24, 2021

Pentecost 2021

From Passover and Crucifixion
to Passover and Crucifixion,
the people had been closed off,
locked away from one another
by decree by fear, and by death
wrought by a raging pestilence.

But today, such decrees were lifted,
and all gathered together;
no matter their language or culture;
they gathered in one space,
to be of one mind,
in gratitude.

Into that singular mental space,
from all and in all directions,
a purifying wind blew,
and a refiner’s fire
filled the collective soul.

All at once, the people began to speak,
some in languages they’d never studied;
everyone heard and was heard,

everyone understood and was understood,
everyone one in being with one.

Everyone one of heart, exult
in all of one for one
and dwell now in hope,
no longer abandoned to Gehenna;
we who have seen death
have also seen life,
and we have chosen life.

What now shall we do?
The people asked, as one voice.

And the answer came to all:
Be penitent for all past double-standards,
serve the divine by serving your neighbor;
believe that all are equal to love divine,
and live to that truth.

If you do this, you will have welcomed
Olam Haba, and shall be embraced therein.

In gladness and singleness of heart,
All breathed as one and, as one, sighed:
Amen.

Wednesday, December 2, 2020

Advent Austerity

That which we seek may not show forth today
—perhaps this is a hidden blessing.

Moon and stars light the night skies,
making way for bright sun / cold morning.

Masked faces pass one another silently,
like quiet and distant ghosts.

Solitary cyclists ply their courses,
weaving between pedestrians with care.

Fisherfolk, in shorebird form,
bide their time, lying in wait for canny nourishment.

People prepare humble meals at home,
created with simple ingredients to hand.

Come nightfall, all creatures
retire to their respective nesting places.

Thoughtful quiet descends.

There is a measure of,
if not peace,
acquiescent composure.

The tension between oppression and freedom
is bridged by self-control,
wherein this condition apart
is allowed to uphold fragile integral nature,
very like the deliverance depicted in any miracle play.

If we were not so self-conscious
within our self-regulated austerity,
we might yet hear the song
of the hummingbird's dream,
might feel the earth’s hum in our bones,
might awaken to the nascent answer
of the riddle of our existence,
then tattoo it, as a reminder,
on our opened-ever-outward palms,
ready to accept and to give blessing,

as the journey rolls on.

photo by Rick Lewis for Bay Nature magazine, April - June 2016

Sunday, October 11, 2020

Of Time Before Time After

A flutter of wings at my ear,
a pointed gaze of greeting
— all at once, a welling memory,
a time of knowing soul before words,
a completely other kind of knowing,
offering clarity to this experience
only from within sleep and dreams.

The amplitude of such interiority,
speaking as if from shadowed recesses,
is perhaps all that remains of that time,
all this time after time,
time filled with learned speech,
this a wholly different way
to perceive and filter experience.

The hummingbird,
having partaken of the offered nectar,
turns to me once more, as if to say,
“Yes, friend; we were there together,
remember?”

Such deep remembrance
renders planned trajectories irrelevant
to what is possible
when you look up,
reach out,
let loose and—
like the beautiful bird
—fly.

***

Memory is an astonishing attribute of mind and consciousness.

This bit of writing is an attempt – in so many ways unsuccessful – to indicate an aspect of mind that I remember vaguely from my pre-verbal self in infancy. This memory is triggered every so often; last evening, what triggered it was reading this very brief passage from a lecture given in February of 1982 by Michel Foucault (published, with many other lectures delivered at Collège de France, under the title “The Hermeneutics of the Subject”):

What is it to be free? asks Seneca. And he answers: To be free is effugere servitutem.

I followed the footnote to see the more complete quote from Seneca’s Natural Questions: liber autem est qui servitutem sui (to be free is to no longer be slave to self).

And, somehow, that moment is when a recollection came of this moment I would experience before sleep, in the age of my infancy. What I remember is the sense that it seemed not so long a time before when understanding was easier because I was unencumbered, that is not enclosed, in the awkwardness of an untrained body. I can remember being put to bed, and being sleepy, and questions forming in my mind that were not tied, really, to language, as we who have words understand and experience language. My questions were about my daily experiences, about the things I did not understand. These would roll forward like an ebbing tide. Answers would flow back. The answers came in a form I cannot express; they were lengthy, precise, all at once simple and complex. Such answers would calm me and allow me to relax into sleep, but they were real answers that informed me; I recall that each night, the questions were always different, the answers were always new—like an onboard learning system, if you will.

Once I had attained language skills, this pre-language fell away—and I can viscerally recall feeling it recede, feeling it slip away, as it was no longer needed. Now that I had words, I could speak them to people, and get answers in that way. I can remember still reaching in my mind for that other kind of knowing, always on the way to sleep, and sometimes would still get responses.

I cannot remember anything describable about this pre-verbal knowing, except that it was, and that I remember it because I experienced it, and the memory remains a part of my consciousness. In these moments when I remember it, I sometimes wonder if it remains a latent aspect within, and if perhaps I will encounter it again, in my latter days.

Sunday, September 27, 2020

Morning Meeting

for my friend K.N.M.

Standing in the cool morning air,
in consideration of self and solitude,
a sudden joyous flutter distracts;
another self’s beating wings brush by,
for there will be sweet nectar
to imbibe in the bye and bye,
but first, a turn and a level gaze.

So pointed a greeting,
subject to subject
—for we are each subjects
within a realm, a paradise,
sharing a language of wonder
whose name we cannot know,
but by all reckoning must be Life.

This shared gaze opens a window,
through which the bumblebee flies,
casting us only a sidelong glance;
engagement would only tarry
the work of bud embracing
on which all creation depends,
so to our tête-à-tête we are left.

This wordless meeting draws me
to recall a nearly forgotten music,

a tune perhaps heard by us both,
even if only in such waves and echoes
as still radiate from the first such encounter,
which might well live on in fluid eddies
as the song of eternal return.

This mutual gaze cannot last,

for this, our singular moment, it must end;
this language we live
cannot abide the invariable:
all moments must transcend,
capitulating to the music and meter of next,
to the changing changeable.

We know one another only by sight,
and to that degree, perhaps not at all,
but the blessing that we have delighted,
to look and to see, with equal curiosity,
sharing the light of the same sun,
must have changed us, in ways we’ll surely discover
within the cocoons of our solitary dreaming.

Sunday, May 31, 2020

Covid Pentacost

Grief walks the streets, masked.
Isolation is summer’s undesired shield
from the hum of bees,
of birdsongs,
of joy.

Help me—oh mama!
I cannot breathe!
Bye-bye!

Injustice walks the streets, armed.
Legal structures and strictures shield
ideologies of subjugation;
they rule with impunity,
sparking outrage.

Help me—oh mama!
I cannot breathe!
Bye-bye!

A virus propelled by breath runs unabated.
Much needed conversation is stifled
—not to mention song,
medicine the spirit
longs to feel.

Help me—oh mama!
I cannot breathe!
Bye-bye!

Gather, all ye in the village squares,
mourn that capture by all such restraints
as leads to the stifling of breath,
sending, untimely, more men of color
to meet Jesus in Paradise.

Help me—oh mama!
I cannot breathe!
Bye-bye!

Fire beetles, light the night,
signal the elusive dove to morning flight,
and when comes here the sun,
rain upon us a fire for righteousness.

Transform these hearts of stone
into the living hearts of compassion;
Make us to speak only justice,
to understand the language of love and no other.

Let not the riotous soul go unheard,
that stands by with help for all humanity;
strengthen us to bring comfort and blessing
to every neighbor, in these times of trial. Selah!

We live in dangerous times. People who should be leaders are fomenting unrest for political gain. Innocent people are caught in the crossfire. Some sworn members of that profession intended to “protect and serve” abuse their power.

I am reminded of Ezekiel, Chapter 7, a description known as “The End Has Come.” At the very end is this line:

“I will deal with them according to their conduct,
and by their own standards will I judge them.”

As bleak as this seems, there is much to hope for. There are good and compassionate and loving people in every place.

Martin Luther King, Jr. said:

“Man must evolve for all human conflict a method which rejects revenge, aggression and retaliation. The foundation of such a method is love.”

Love truly is the answer, and the only one.