Afternoon

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.

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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 goodbye.

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qui vive

unseen, sans wings
alone above an unknown wind

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

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no flesh burns here
no doubt, no alibi

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suns race silent far below
planets swing, comets chase

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qui vive? la liberté
qui vive? freedom

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Qui vive means, loosely, Who goes there? A sentry’s challenge.

Sans means without. An old word stolen from the French centuries ago.

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.

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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)

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

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

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

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While density shifts
Where inertia has failed

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

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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

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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

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(We have
Each other
)

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

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The breathless
Runner

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Lotus Song

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

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

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Om Metteyya
Om Maitreya
Om mani padme hum

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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. There are many shades of interpretation and significance but this is the simplicity of it.

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 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

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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

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Two poets danced

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

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

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

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

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White Seabirds Wheeling

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

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

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Overhead
white seabirds
wheeling

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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, 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.

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
.

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Letter to the White Imbongi

These are the thoughts of the Locust thrum—

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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

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These are the thoughts of the Locust thrum—

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

These are the thoughts of the Locust thrum
That which is done. That which is done

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Imbongi, in South African tradition, is the name/title of a poet.

I imagine a great imbongi with imbongi friends who relay information from afar—In particular, this letter is about thoughts that the writer supposes have come from a distant cloud of locusts.

Come! Create with me!

Come!
Create with me!

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

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

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(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

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

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

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The glory and the vision
Of “What if”

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Reacquaint me with cognition
Remind me to re-cognite

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

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

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Come!
Create with me!

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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.

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

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

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Hello. You greet me.

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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.

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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.

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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 The Golden Age of Knowledge—The words, the voice and the visions of Ron.

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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.

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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.

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

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

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

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Northern 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!

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

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

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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.

Space

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

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(We leaping!
We laughing
We lunging unseen!)

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

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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.

I am Freedom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Cataclysm

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

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

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

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à l’envers

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

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

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

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

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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.

Hello Ron!

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

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We’ve held your lines
Upheld your dream for All—
Now our hope, our dream—
The Goal of Total Freedom!

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

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

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Love,
Thank you!

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Ron is L. Ron Hubbard, Founder of the Scientology Religion