Bonnie’s Day Off

On his way out the door Bonnie kisses Clyde goodbye and says in her quiet voice, y’know, that voice, “Hey Honey, pick up some money at the bank on your way home, will ya?”

OK, not poetry. But it is amusing and has a rhyme… honey/money, which reminds me… Please check out my donation/tip page on your way through.

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It is not that the dead are dead

It is not that the dead are dead, however having seen the lie in it, we live. If not for the dying of the dead, I don’t know, you may have missed the death in it. We live. We are not the dead, that is to say, having seen the lie instead, there it is. We live. It is not that the dead are not dead nor that the dead are not dying. We live. We have not died, that is to say, the dead do not know and have not seen the lie that is or is not there. We live. And having seen and played both sides of it, that is to say the lie of it, we have never died and never will. We live.

Come What May

.

Holding, come what may, each other
until unseen time folds us under.

And if, and though by plan or chance, we pass
from out this life into another, yet another—
Two parts within this Great Adventure,

For us, for now, an hour more, a day, a breath,
no matter, come what may.

 

This poem is also set to music by British singer/songwriter Nic Evennett whose musical, magical artistry can be found HERE.

Published in: “Poems for Relationships” 2017: “3201 e’s” 2018

Love Infinitum

It was the early afternoon of Infinity when we met.
I had called into being the forever of time
to anticipate your arrival in finite rhythms—
Knowing they must be the whitest of lies.

The preparation, the perception, the recognition,
the intertwining and engagement of spaces,
their separations—all in the span of hello
and the impossibility of absolute goodbyes.

 

Published as “Afternoon” in: “Letter to the White Imbongi” 2013: “Poems for Relationships” 2017: “3201 e’s” 2018

qui vive

unseen, sans wings
alone above an unknown wind

unsung, no throat swells
no tongue conveys, nor eyes contain

no flesh burns here
no doubt, no alibi

suns race silent far below
planets swing, comets chase

    qui vive? la liberté!
    qui vive? freedom!

 

Qui vive means, loosely, “Who goes there?” a sentry’s challenge. Sans means “without,” an old word stolen from the French centuries ago.

Published in: “3201 e’s” 2018

Boy runner

Approaching Siddhartha where he sat a
boy examined him politely (this-that?)
Siddhartha spoke and there the unnamed boy
who sitting a while with him that day thought
and over the days ahead returned and
leaving only for food, drink and service
that Siddhartha would not be distracted
from his goal until upon returning
he saw him glowing in the morning light
and so began to dance with him beneath
the tree. A leaf was shed, was gathered then
and the boy, who while tucking it away,
Siddhartha asked if he would run for him
to village, crossroads, field, grove, wherever
Siddhartha wished to speak. And so he ran,
and soon arriving, announcing thus his
coming, holding high the leaf he carried
and which had never died, living, always
green, until Lord Buddha left his body.

 

Published in: “3201 e’s” 2018

Finding Buddha

And if I split myself and stand
At every corner of said universe
On any selfsame summer day
With any selfsame afternoon rain
Will this, though thought, slip
Where densities of interest fail
(Or by failures to perceive)

This leaf-boy-runner
Eight portions of beingness
The full and fill of prime creation

(Perhaps where life has paused
Or slowed enough to perceive
At any speed

The speed of perception
The true speed of light
The wavelengths of laughter
And of any thing
)

While density shifts
Where inertia has failed

(The density of my interest
The shift of my affinity
)

There is no doubt
It has velocity
It gives back light
It bends the universe
It has location
From which expands
All space
Not already filled
With the logic of otherness
And even there it bends— It wills

As (my breadth of vision)
A torrent
An avalanche
A fissure in nothingness
A co-creation of All
This theatre
Our audience
Of stelae
Beacons of lostness
In search of wavelengths
Of affinity
Where you might
Where I have
The curves beneath our frequencies
The pitch and roll of their design
Their width

(We have
Each other
)

In all that vastness
An ordinary leaf
From this
For that
(I am)

The breathless
Runner

 

Published in: “3201 e’s” 2018 as “And if I split myself”

Lotus Song

Om-mani birds
hold back the night
Om mani padme hum

Old nun bee Padme-hum
she waggles to the lotus song
Om mani padme hum

Om Metteyya
Om Maitreya
Om mani padme hum

 

There is a Buddhist mantra, a kind of meditative and spiritually meaningful chant: This quintessential utterance, Om mani padme hum, is considered to encapsulate all of the wisdom of Buddhism. Om is a sacred sound expressing holiness. Mani means jewel, Padme is the lotus flower, and Hum represents the spirit of enlightenment.

In this poem the first two words, “Om mani,” are used for the name of a sacred bird. The last two words of the mantra, “Padme hum,” are taken to name a monastic bee.

And waggle, a curious word to use here, is the actual technical term used in describing the dance of the bee upon returning to the hive to communicate the path to the source of pollen; Spiritually, the road to enlightenment.

Metteyya and Maitreya have the same meaning, essentially “friend” in two languages (Metteyya in Pali, the ancient language spoken by Lord Buddha, and Maitreya in Sanskrit). They refer to the prophesy that an enlightened being will come to complete the work begun by Lord Buddha.

At the turning, soon the lifting, of the night

I dreamed an opened book of prayer
On a table by a window
Pages turning by a window’s ledge at night
There, God in darkness, knowing, seeing
And where a thief had hidden, kneeling
As pages flutter with the curtain in the night

Pages lifting, lifting, turning
While God looking, quiet, waiting
For His thief in contemplation
Of the faith he had not kept
There, in the shadows of the curtain
At the turning, soon the lifting, of the night

 

Published in: “3201 e’s” 2018

Draw

.
Draw
a circle.
Draw a line,
through its middle,
in your mind. Within that
circle, on that line, draw yet
another circle there, just as the 1st;
you choose the size and where upon the line
it falls. And in the spaces left unclaimed, on either
side, if there is room, draw yet another circle there. And
others still until the line is full. This string of worlds, sized large
or small or mixed, is ready now. The secret of this Tao is
held within. The universe, the path you choose; the
distance ’round each world alone, when added
to the others, is equal to the measure of the
first. You drew the circle. Drew the
line. Drew the others. Chose
their size. The secret
of this Tao is held
within
.

 

I discovered many years ago that if you draw a circle and then, like a string of pearls, draw a series of circles enough to fill the diameter of the first circle that the sum of the circumferences of the lesser circles is equal to the circumference of the great circle no matter how many circles you draw and of any varied size. If you draw just 2 circles within and trace a line around them like a sine wave you get the basic on the yin-yang which, if you measure the perimeter of each piece (yin or yang) the number once again is equal to the circumference of the great circle. A meditation on this bit of mathematics reveals more than one spiritual truth. At least it has for me.

Published in “Between Music and Dance” 2013 as “Tao”

Two poets danced

Two poets danced in a blossom wood
One with petals and the other with God
Where are, one asked, the flowers of yore?

Two poets turned in a stormy wood
One felt wind and the other, God
Whence, one asked, do these wild winds roar?

Two poets leaned in a wintry wood
One through snow and the other with God
What more, one asked, must we endure?

Two poets came upon a midnight wood
One turned back and the other toward God
Both paths, God said, lead to my door.

.  

Published in Ancient Paths Literary Magazine, June 19, 2020.

White Seabirds Wheeling

Shoulders rolling, rising
as icebergs from their glacier calf to sea—
as men, we fend the rimless wilds

With force, flung, withheld,
intelligence, ancestral songs of origin,
of prophesy, returning avatars

Overhead
white seabirds
wheeling

 

I guess you’re on your own with this poem. I can tell you where it begins. The scene is set in ancient times, and as near as I remember— a northern, coastal region following the spring equinox. A few of us had embarked upon a quest to find The One. “The One” was not what we called such a Being but it serves to communicate and a given name does not matter for the purpose of this note. Most of Earth have heard it anyway in one incarnation or another.

Calf: The offspring of various large mammals, such as cows (cattle), elephants and whales. Also (as it is used here), a piece of an iceberg or a glacier that breaks away or the action of this happening.

Fend: (figurative) To defend or attack with skill, make one’s way.

Avatar: The manifestation of a deity or released soul in bodily form.

Published in: “3201 e’s” 2018

Letter to the White Imbongi

These are the thoughts of the Locust thrum—

From the ripple, the thought is the Rock is God
From the Rock, the Earth
From the Earth, Sun-Moon
From They the thought is the Milky Spiral
The spiral known as the Eye of God
And from the Eye all space is His
Gift of glorious and of noble heights
And from the Eye all space is Hers

These are the thoughts of the Locust thrum—

Praise them then— the Locust mind, the flights of Stone
All Earths, their Suns and every Moon
Praise Galaxies
Praise Space— Her heights!

And these are the thoughts of the Locust thrum
These are the thoughts of the Locust

Imbongi, in South African tradition, is the name/title of a poet. I imagine a great imbongi with poet friends who relay information from afar—In particular, this letter about thoughts that the writer supposes have come from a distant cloud of locusts.

Come! Create with me!

Come!
Create with me!

(Create Create Create!)
You see—We are already friends

Remind me then of my abilities
Increase our creation of futures (full)

(We pretend we do not know
That “when” is just a little lie we play with)

Remind me to rise at will
And to intend decision

I brim with joy at your separateness
Your joy with mine. With others too, full joy

Remind me of the play and of the game
(The little lies of lose and had)

The glory and the vision
Of “What if”

Reacquaint me with cognition
Remind me to re-cognite

The instant already-ness of being
(For BE we are decision)

What will we decide that we have already
What will we decide

Come!
Create with me!

 

Depths of Green

Depths of green—from canopy to forest floor
In streams of raucous livingness
And there, and where about, a sanctuary
Falls in heaps, in stone walls run aground.

And with, nearby, afar, by ins and outs
Through every place (perceived)
Wherever listened for—vibration.

A single voice in Pali—a single voice
Leaping, leading, dancing, sweeping.

Hello. You greet me.

 

Published in: “3201 e’s” 2018

The Golden Age

From beneath the bottom of the bottomless abyss, below even that, to the firm cliff’s edge above where light shines without shadow, so the Basic Books soar above the darkness, the lostness and the nightmares of yore.

From beneath the bottom of the bottomless abyss, below even that, to the firm cliff’s edge above where light shines without shadow.  Further, to the waving flags at the peaks of the highest mountain tops and the voices of those who have climbed cheering and calling from above, so rise the Lectures with their Basic Books.

From beneath the bottom of the bottomless abyss, below even that, to the firm cliff’s edge above where light shines without shadow.  Further, to the waving flags at the peaks of Highest Mountain and the voices of those who have climbed cheering and calling from above. Still further and unbelievably beyond, where infinity begins to stretch into constellations of your own creation, where hyperbole will remain forever an understatement, so ascends a New and Golden Age—The words, the voice and the visions of Ron.

 

Ron is L. Ron Hubbard.. The Basic Books and Lectures are a part of L. Ron Hubbard’s record of research and discovery in Scientology.

Incandescent

I have fallen while the stars of endless
endless sucking skies have sucked me down.

Here, I have lain broken on the burning lawns of Hell—
fingers, arms, soul stretched to the point of no return
to catch a wind that sings and does not sigh
with the souls of a million million soulless men. 

I have slept and dreamt of rising.
Dreamt the cool nakedness of space
beyond the shell of light that sucks me down.

And I have spent my fists with the soulless men
against the blackened skies of Earth and the blazing
incandescent trails of souls arriving—
falling no farther.

To dream this night of rising
and the cool nakedness of space
once more.

 

Published in “souls arriving,” 2007: in “Between Music and Dance,” 2013: “Letter to the White Imbongi,” 2013. “3201 e’s,” 2018.

 

Northern Christmas Night

The road that lies below lies deep and still.
No moon to light the snow.  The sky is clear.
Alone, heads back and arm in arm— We’re here!
In disbelief— We hardly breathe— But here!

So spills the light of Heaven into sight—
Illumined, rising, falling, shifting grace.
Upon the starry sweep of Christmas night,
In ribbon-folds of light and dark it sways

Above the shepherd pine and hemlock choir.
There—  This night!  The sky!  The lights!
The stars!  The fire!
Above!  Across!  Dear God—

.

I recall having seen the northern lights only twice in this lifetime.  The last was while driving east on an early winter evening.  I turned my head to look north where the mountains above Vancouver are lit along the ski run down Grouse.  There, and above darker more distant silhouettes, the northern lights hung in unexpected splendor.

Published in Ancient Paths Literary Magazine, December 26, 2020.

The Mathematics of the Shattered Soul

The mathematics of the shattered soul:
False theorems born of arithmetic (adj.) chance
Associations purged of higher goals
Dreams of psych (and pharma) courtesans

Whilst mystery lies in algebraic shoals
False purposed ranks of prophets blindly dance
And madmen peddle poisons from their towers
Thus Man is kept in ignorance of Man

 

Published “Between Music and Dance” 2013: “3201 e’s” 2018

Space

Stumbling, tumbling, jumbling space
Riffles and ripples in ecstatic grace
Yet barely persists
To mark where we’ve been

(We leaping!
We laughing
We lunging unseen!)

And roosters behind us
Galactacious spray
That glistens and glitters
The whole Milky Way!

 

Roosters means the action of forming a rooster-tail like the spray of water behind a speed boat. Galactacious is a made up word from Galaxy.

Published in: “souls arriving” 2006: “Between Music and Dance,” 2013, “Letter to the White Imbongi” 2013.

If (when)

If, for example, we die (and I’ve heard otherwise).
Not if but when, I’ve heard.
I would argue (suggest)
There is no truer when than now.
We live unless (until) we say we die.

And only then if I agree
And we agree
And others too
And once agreed
Must not be spoken of
(Which, all said, appears
To be the dyingness).

Contrariwise,
Living, living now, and thus—
If (when) we’ll agree amongst ourselves—
L’chaim!

 

L’chaim! (pronounced luh-khah-yim) a Hebrew toast. Literally— To life!

Published in: “3201 e’s” 2018

I am Freedom

I am the fulcrum, the base and the lever.
I am the space and the form and the game.

I am the maker, the vessel, the dreamer,
the teller, the namer— though naming, un-named.

I am the vision, the vista, the seer.
I am the lintel, the door and the frame.

I am the lock, the key and the knocker,
the handle, the pause and the knocker again.

I am the palm and the fist and the shoulder.
I am the sole and the road and the stride.

I am the still—all that echo, and echoes.
I am freedom,     my counsel,     my guide.

 

Published in: “souls arriving,” 2007: “Between Music and Dance,” 2013.

 

Cataclysm

they fucked us back / we fucked them down / on in the air / in on the ground / millennia / millennia / we carry on

from thundercloud / we fleet as rain / clapping corrugated tin / rising from the sea again / rising silently again

under dark assembled things / assembling / assembling / broken straws / severed wings / in all the ground a war of things / too late / we carry on

 

Published in: “3201 e’s” as original f-bomb version in lieu of “fought” 2018

à l’envers

I rise from my body
My fall à l’envers
Through cold brilliant sunlight
And thinness of air

Past floating ions
Into almost bare space
And I shift my gaze back
And I wish for your face

I’ll one day return
With the wind in my hair
Some bright afternoon
And all devil-may-care

With that kiss I’m left owing
Until it is paid
With our love I left holding
When I fell away

 

Á l’envers is French for upside down or wrong way to. It is pronounced a bit like “ah lon vair”. The s is silent.

Postulate: Ideal Org — A poem.

Whatever else this Earth has been
Wherefrom we step, torchlights streaming
Into the dark and storm of night

We are Cause
We are Decision
We are Scientologists

Postulate:
We are Creators, Builders, Keepers
Of Ideal Orgs—Sanctuaries of Hope
And Light and Beauty
Wisdom and Prophecy

As order goes in
Order becomes the way

Postulate:
Ideal Orgs abound and with them
The ringing of the Bells of Freedom
Mark the passings of the night
Calling in the dawn and each new day
Of this New and Golden Age

Advancing futures
Cleared beings
Groups, cities
States, continents 
And hemispheres

This Earth—

Wherefrom we welcome
All shoulders to the wheel
New strength with ours
Pan-determined, undeterred

And so the wheel turns
And with the wheel the universe turns
And the universe bends its knee

Postulate:
Eight shining cords
Eight streaming cords of livingness
Aligning to one common purpose

For we are Cause
We are Decision
We are Scientologists

And this—Whatever else this Earth has been
Whatever else this Earth will be—
THIS IS THE POSTULATE

 

  • Ideal Org: Ideal is something considered to be perfect or most suitable. Org is short for organization and is the word used in Scientology for its churches. Thus an Ideal Org is one that embodies the applied religious philosophy of Scientology.

.

.

Christians Everywhere Sing Joyful

Prayer and Glory! [a single voice, calling] .

Jesus! [more voices, tumultuous, joyful] .

Leading each of us to heaven
He with neither sin nor hating
Christians everywhere sing joyful
Loving each of God’s creations
Praise Him! Praise Him! Every nation!
Praise the King this Christmas morning!
Prayer and Glory!
Christ, Our Savior, Christmas born! .

Christians everywhere sing joyful!
Prophesy has come to pass
Jesus, sent for our salvation
God, Our Father, gathers us
Praise Him! Praise Him! Every nation!
Praise the King this Christmas morning!
Prayer and Glory!
Christ, Our Savior, Christmas born!

 

Hello Ron!

Hello, Ron!
We’re here!
We’ve come to join you!

We’ve held your lines
Upheld your dream for All—
And now our hope, our dream—
The goal of Total Freedom!

And in your quest beyond the sky
Beyond the stars that trim the night
We’ve come—All for All

To thank you
To help
To join you on the Road to Total Freedom!

Hello, Ron!
Here we are!

 

Ron is L. Ron Hubbard, Founder of the Scientology Religion.
Published in: “souls arriving,” 2007.