These poems are about almost anything but a spiritual aspect is their primary importance. Some poems are about relationships from a spiritual perspective. Some are about religions I’ve spent time with and have kept alive in my life. And if ever we’ve met they’d be about us.
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.
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.
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”
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.
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
. 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”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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!