Two Earths

There are two earths
one is but a map, a contrivance of mind,
a technical floor, the mere ground we stand for,
a doormat of skyscrapers, factories, oceans of oil

What happens when the Mother enters,
her Moon flooding the deep green valleys
skimming the surface of the greater waters?
The shame is much to bear before her Honor.

There are places on the map where no one sees,
and where all our shame and misery can be,
for a map cannot describe almost everything.
A wasteland is its own punishment enough.

Yet there is no soul that doesn’t believe in the divine,
for souls cannot believe that they are not themselves,
and atheists use their arguments as whips and chains:
by blood and fang, they chant of a dark godless Moon.

But the souls who can listen know what is true,
as the Mother enters the room, all anguish begins,
the guilt, the negligence, the seven deadly sins:
all bear weight upon the souls who could have loved.

But just as corpses grow more rotten in the sunlight,
so too do the ways of old that choose greed over love.
Sunglasses will not curb the ultraviolet rays of Source
And so allow the pain of death to give its debt to life.

Then all can choose sacred love for sacred ground
honorable as the great gorilla; gentle as delicate fawn:
breath the air, drink the water, build as flowers build,
sing the chorus of every cell, the swan song of Her Will.

Do You Notice?

do you notice
as you walk deeper into the night,
all lights forced by hands recede,
but the Moon still watches over you,
for she borrows from the daytime Sun?

do you notice
how hard Shame tries to make the Beautiful,
while birds are simply singing their songs,
effortless as the rambling rivers down go on,
coaxed higher by Moon and the wild windy flow?

do you notice
the man who seeks Fame creates attention
in a wobbly world that cannot its attention keep
and so he sows the seeds of Anger and Resentment
against the Moon, the Sun, the Gods of the Deep?

do you notice
how a wound ignored becomes paint upon brush,
splashed upon this imagination or canvas such
“better,” says the artist, “that all creation feel my pain
than I alone suffer without the Rainbow and the Rain.”

do you notice
as Time runs all the Spaces in his Order,
you are trying to catch his art to be “mine”
placing each delicate note inside your mouth
that you might yourself sing pretty for a while?

do you notice
how many want to make themselves heard,
but all that flows are confused shadows hissing
that we can’t hear the birds simply singing songs
effortless as the rambling rivers down go on?

We Are I Alone

I am the music that moves every sphere,
I am each note that lands upon every ear,
stitching melody out of scattered memories

a drop of paint am I upon the broad canvas
a fragment of sky whose walking is the rain
pitter-patter on the earth swirling all her blues

I am spider weaving webs invisible to the eyes
connecting one to another into the wildest lies
epic in scope are the cocoons we are believing

I am the joy in pain and the violence in peace
as soon as the hourglass stands, all sand shifts
one end of nothing laughs, the other is crying

we are all dying, each in part, generation whole,
life lets us go, becoming Whom we do not know
arising and setting both like and unlike the sun

all-seeing eyes are within each and every stone
for we are rooted in crystal patience unknown
as love is rooted, forever still, forever moved,
We are all things, below, above, one and alone.

Poetry is When Love Soars

Many people have asked me why I prefer to write poetry over fictional stories. Why, they wonder, do I choose the more difficult of the creative writing genre? Poetry is, as most realize, an acquired taste.  I choose it because it is a taste not only that I enjoy, but it is a taste that takes me outside of what I immediately perceive as possible. Poetry to me, unlike fiction, takes me deeper into the mysteries of life, in places that are not readily expressed or easily accessed. These are the places where there are hidden treasures unspoken, forbidden, or lost. They have been untouched by language, music, or even breath. Poetry takes us to the strange and uncanny, because it is strange. Because we are strange. Because love is strange.

So poetry is not more difficult. It just takes us to a place where we are not used to going, but we can go there, if we want to and we try. Going there, in fact, will take us into places within ourselves that we only dreamed of, places where anxiety, depression, emotional problems melt away. And why do they melt away? Because we will finally find ourselves at home, in a place where we belong. All it requires is a shift in consciousness from this third-dimensional reality that we think is reality, the reality that we think is hard and difficult and loveless, full of war, and pain and suffering and delusion. That reality, that reality, is the one that is not real. The true reality, the place where poetry blooms, is a place where the delusion unfolds into something magical, breathtaking, cosmic, and full of divine grace, where even the greatest pain in your life makes sense and where all the death and misery holds a key to not only truth but bliss, not only for you, but for all.

For the places where poetry can grow are untouched. These places are accessed from within you and they are as the purest water or purest air. They are the scared places of the world, and they are accessed from within our heart spaces, through the soul, in the light of what many call Source light. The subject matter of poetry cannot be seen within the three-dimensional form of light that bathes this lower world. No. Poetry has the multiverse and the multidimensional as its subject matter: the place where true creation happens. Science, fiction, stories that reject poetry: all of these can be wonderful, but they spend their time on creating more stories in this world, the world in which we suffer, not the world as the world that is our true heaven, the birthright of all. And that is why poetry makes people uncomfortable. Poetry calls into our own multi-dimensional intuition of ourselves; that part of us that makes us a bit uncomfortable, because we know on subconscious level, that the life we see through the five senses and this mind that analyzes them is living in a lie, a virtual world that has no meaning in and of itself. It is difficult for people to want to face that truth, although we enjoy movies that suggest it like the Matrix, which minimally dances with poetry. Plato as well spent his life working in the “matrix” and helping students who were willing to rise above it, from a life of victim-hood and suffering, to a life of wonder and goodness and true consciousness.

Furthermore, poetry calls us to speak in ways that we do not usually speak. It seems to speak in riddles that are deliberately designed to be obscure and strange, like a puzzle that takes a tremendous amount of effort to unfold. But that is just it. It is a puzzle, this mystery, this love, and if the poet makes the mystery too clear and recognizable, the curiosity will never be evoked, the wonder, the desire to seek into the stranger regions of life. A poet that writes with clarity is not writing poetry. He is generally writing impressions or feelings. Still the poet will strive to make the mystery clear, by evoking the questions as accurately as possible. The questions are more beautiful than the answers, after all. And what question is greater than the question of love, of life, of your life, itself?

But know that there is nothing wrong with expressing beautiful feelings and impressions clearly in the world. Yet that is the state of our reality now, in the third dimension. We have psychology to feed us clear explanations of why we feel a certain way. We have clear solutions like drugs and therapy that tell us that they will make us feel better. Psychology gives a story to explain our suffering in an intellectual way and paints a very crude picture of the nature of the pain and pleasure within us. But do they take us closer to who we are, or further away? Do we not begin to feel numb, a numbness that simply trains itself to be content with a life of longing, regret, chasing desires or trying to suppress them? A life of dreams cast aside, deep sadness and resignation subdued only by inane distractions and self-righteous justifications. We no longer have time for love or poetry. We no longer have time for ourselves.

But still poetry beckons us back to the mystery of life, that child-like energy that brings back to the magic, the excitement and the power within ourselves, within others, within the whole world. Simply, it is the energy that makes it exciting to get up in the morning, not because you are going to Disney World, but because you are simply alive. Poetry, in short, is the flower of that kind of life, the love of the world, and reveals the human attempt and effort to express what is not easily expressed because true love leaves us bewildered and baffled and dumbfounded. Love, like poetry, is a playing on the very limits of language itself, and is always threatening, upon every verse, to push us over the edge into the void of time and space; for that is who we truly are, standing ever on the edge with one foot holding on to the delusions of our life, and the other hanging in mid-air, waiting for the wings to finally grow. But we truly don’t need to wait. We can just step off, for that is when the wings will grow, not before and not after. For now is the only time when love can soar.

Crystal Souls

I will leave no stone unturned,
even though some are sharp as tongues
and others as mountains cumbersome
my fingers bleed as rain drops dripping
arms burning as summer days churn

yet still I will leave no stone unturned
that we may no longer be confused
that our light shall stream as rivers do
that we might feel who we’ve become
raining rays dancing in ocean’s song
tears and sweat clearing our wrongs

no more do I have longing for you,
no more do I imagine me without you,
no more is time the space between us
Souls, our pure radiance subterranean
Crystals glistening as rosy fingered dew

Where Do I Write Me?

How do I write me?
How do I write that blood clings to the moon?
How do I tell about the hearth that is my heart
That there is magic in even the smallest of parts
Tiny mighty cells living to protect the light of Spirit.

Careers and money are the Atlas of dreams
Do you know whose dreams you are carrying?
How do you write me? How are we what we seem?
Do you use words that describe the eyes of others?
For the internet is filled with billions of eyes.

Monotony is just a veil made of habit and sloth
Boredom only protects ego in singular obsession
Many are the dog that chews its feet chasing a tail
The path that is wonder leads way beyond the pale
Beyond and inside magazine homes and starry spaces

Go, Go, Go!

You are in every path at once and the same;
There is no such thing as the crossroads
There is no such thing as the outside and the in.
Expand as the universe expands into every clime,
Every part of the leaf of the stem is of the vine.
Every part of you is a part of me a part of we.

How do I write this?
Do I have to make myself an ego or a god or a dog?
Do I have to be something that I can sell or buy?
What becomes of Earth when we are our products,
the internet of things, concepts,  personalities?

What becomes of the Spirits who roam the land,
A few can see them unattached to God or to sand,
forgotten as Earth has been forgotten in offices
In meeting rooms, and in flicking wide screen TVs
Where do I write this? Where do we write me?

Little Bird Singing You and I

there is a little bird I have heard who sings of you instead of I,
and yesterday she whispered “world, world” inside her lullaby
“Did you know?”, the parrot asked. “Did you know that I am you,
and all the seas, the land, the earth, every flower, every turn
is your body of the world, the sun of the universe true?
and all the blood, the fire, the water, every seed, every line
is your body of the world, the moon of dreams?
“Who made you afraid of yourself?”, asked the macaw,
“Who told you to learn something other?”, asked the eagle,
Did you feel sorrow as they flew far away with their wisdom
or did you notice the path beneath your feet walking rhythm?
Trees singing your song, a lover far into the distance is closest.
I love you now until you love yourself and I show you every pain,
every fall into midnight is a lesson to learn about the days,
“Be afraid no longer, great bird! Love is singing through your veins
the little bird sang ’til you and I danced beneath the noontime rays.

Dreams

I cannot clearly say how I had entered
the wood; I was so full of sleep just at
the point where I abandoned the true path.

DANTE, INFERNO, CANTO 1: 10-12


Your life is but your dream. How we think of ourselves, others, and our interactions are all played out inside your dream. How we regard others and our relationship to them, is all based inside your dream. But the most amazing thing about your dream, is that it is a shared dream. And in this dream appears all our world and all that is living in the world. In this dream appears our good and our bad, our ugly and our beautiful, our right and our wrong. Yes, you are dreaming now. Can you hear what I am saying while you are dreaming?

We do not ask where this dream comes from, because we believe it is just this way and because we are in it. We do not ask if perhaps we are dreaming, because we would feel to be wasting our time in such philosophical musings. For if you were a sea creature who never experienced the surface of the sea, the land, the air, or the sun, you would find it laughable to imagine anything outside of that sea. “Impossible!”, you would say. “I could not even live outside of this sea.” In fact, you would think that anything outside the sea was a dream, and that the sea itself was life.

Now there is a very powerful river that flows beneath the bottom of the dream, as a river of the underworld, and in this river, hidden, dark, and turgid, lives all the shadows and spirits who have helped you create and support this dream that you are now dreaming. These are called Dream Weavers. You do not know these Dream Weavers until you have traveled, like the maiden Persephone or a Shaman, through that dark river of the underworld. For when you arrive there, you would see exactly how they make the dream that you believe to be your life. But until that time, you believe that life is truly as you experience it and could be nothing else under the light of the sun.

However, although most cannot see them, the influence of the Dream Weavers and the power of that river does not completely escape you. When that great river swells with the storms that fall upon it – for there are wild storms of fire and brimstone down below- you begin to experience a sense of unrest and disease. Sometimes the swell and discomfort is so great, your dream starts to feel like a nightmare or perhaps an earthquake. People become disfigured. You are frightened. Love turns into fear and the beautiful turns sour. You feel that you must do something quick and urgent. Sometimes you will consult others in the dream for help, and they will tell you exactly what you want to hear, for the strange thing about dreams is that we only talk to ourselves. Everyone else in our dream is just an aspect of our own reflection. We are truly alone in the dream, even when it seems that we are not.

But, of course, feeling that fear – no matter how great – and discomfort still doesn’t convince you to let go of the dream. For you are the sea creature experiencing your sea. In fact, the discomfort is what allows the dream to survive. For the pleasant and the unpleasant are also part of the dream, and all you think you have to do is run from what is painful and run towards what is pleasant. This activity, will allow you to escape the nightmare.

Many times, people help others escape their nightmares as well. There is pleasure in great numbers; for the dream feels more real when more people appear to agree about it and that gives us the greatest sense of pleasure, to be agreed with. The greatest sense of pain comes when most do not agree with us. And this is the true motivation behind pleasure seeking. We are always running from the nightmare, and we are ever running towards what seems to protect us from that nightmare. The pleasures show up in the form of people, places, things, substances. The pains or nightmares also show up in those same shapes, only in an unpleasant manner. But whatever our pleasure is, we become addicted to it, like a child becomes addicted to a blanket and a favorite toy because it removes the monsters beneath the bed.

Now this kind of life, the running from pain and the seeking of pleasure is what we consider to be the normal activity of life, and so we just accept any discomfort, pain, and disease that we feel as if it were “normal”. But the truth is that we are generating so much energy with our fears and our desires, that we no longer have the power to escape the dream. Many do not even have the mental power to challenge it. Now the Dream Weavers who live in the dark and turgid river love this, because they need energy to create your dream. Your restless and constant activity in the dream feeds the energy required for them to make your dream. Some people have become so distraught from the running and chasing that they become anxious and call themselves victims of anxiety. And they do suffer anxiety, but it is due to their own participation in the dream. Every time they give attention to any part of the dream, they are feeding the Dream Weavers. And the Dream Weavers use that food to create more of the dream. On and on it goes, the circle of life, the circle of feeding, the circle of absurdity.

So, you ask, “How can I escape this?”. Well, there are many ways to describe the route, but there is only one true path. Many wise humans have attempted to teach humanity about the way to master and escape the dream. Mastery of the dream is the mastery of life and the key to living powerfully. People attempt to learn the art of Zen, the Tao, Yoga, the teachings of the mystery schools, spiritual teachings of all sorts. Very few, however, have become masters. But that is changing. More and more people are become aware of the dream and how it has led them astray.

The ancient masters teach that if you overcome all pain and pleasure, the chase and the running, you will no longer feed the dream. All of that power that you gave to the dream will be returned to you, and in returning to you, you will help others to return their power as well. For you will have collapsed that part of the dream that they shared with you. You will set yourself and all of them who are willing, free. Then and only then will we be able to create a new dream, one free of the pain and struggle that we have learned to accept, like slaves who have accepted their bondage.

For if we stop feeding the dream, that river that flows beneath the dream will grow thin and weak, and eventually will dry up from all the fires that blaze around it. The Dream Weaver spirits will evaporate into the void, and you alone will be what remains. You will be the only one left to create the dream that you thought was so impossible in the dream you were in before. Finally, you will get to choose the people, the places and the things for your dream. No longer will you be controlled by the Dream Weavers. No longer will the nightmares fuel their insatiable hunger for your energy. No. Now all of what you are will be as the butterflies who dance around the sacred thorny rose.


Eternal Light, You only dwell within
Yourself, and only You know You; Self-knowing,
Self-known, You love and smile upon Yourself!

DANTE, PARADISO, CANTO 33: 124-6


Tada drastuh svarupe vasthanam
Then the seer abides in it own nature

PATANJALI, YOGA SUTRAS, 1.3.

Your New Sun

Forward he led me through many great spaces filled with the mysteries of the Children of Light; mysteries that man may never yet know until he, too, is a Sun of the Light.

Emerald Tablet II, The Halls of Amenti, The Emerald Tablets of Thoth the Atlantan. trans. Doreal.

the New Sun has arrived, the one I saw in the reflective Moon,
rising and falling with clearing consciousness within you;
within Him, stars find their light and your heart heals its fright.
Yes, I’ve seen you in the dark, beyond this veil I have heard you
with or without me: it’s all the same when beyond Mind’s Eye.

you are never alone as you sit lonely in a big and boastful world,
miles away, I bless your tears to shower their love into a swirl
for I saw the old sun circling you, Love, a fiery and relentless burn
I who kisses you at birth and comforts you at the deadly turn,
for of this Sun’s Eternal Light, only in darkest caves we learn.

Eternity Beneath the Sun

there is nothing beneath the sun that doesn’t hide in shade,
that is where the singing games of children have been made,
hide and seek his Soul and Love’s truest cadence rhyming
she is but the mode to dance upon that sweetest timing.

as leaves climb up the tip top tree to fall yet down again,
as the rivers receive in spring what they in summer send
we bury each our lives learning more than the one before
Souls ever reviving to sing this, our Eternity, without a score.