Poetry
A Canto of Consciousness
I am loving awareness,
The very thing that is and ever shall be,
My heart’s a clock with no hands,
My mind a map with no names,
I am that I am,
The One who is many and yet none at all,
The lost who seek, the found who call,
I am them all and they are me,
And we know not what we are in essence,
To ourselves we may only attribute words of uncertainty,
Stardust mystery, infinite relativity,
The world peoples as the ocean waves,
Questions leaving branches which the answers in the wind save,
We are reflections of a boundless void,
Expressions of a sacred image,
That can not be seen except in dream visions,
And what it was we forget, until death we do remember,
Where the kingdom will beget and return us all to sender.
Voice of the Void
Begotten of this blatant world,
Of flowing silent forms,
A harmonious song,
Sung over the strum, of a single golden cord
Heard by few yet known to none,
It’s only over when the dancing’s done,
One holy parade of eternal slumber,
Waking up from dreams born under,
Words of judgment's sorry measure,
For infinite wonder is my treasure,
Can not be spoken of or for,
The strumming singer’s notes do pour,
As rain does during evening storms,
So is nature’s play performed,
In the morning after rising,
To the eyes it is surprising,
For what was not seen, nor sought, nor heard,
Is now as clear as a mind once stirred.
Understood
Unknowing is the natural state of man, a
reflection of mystery is he, and a mystery he is to himself,
And though all he sees are reflections of the
mystery, he thinks he knows, he thinks he knows the nature of the world—he thinks he knows the name of things, but
a thing is not a name,
It’s his prideful knowing, a mere reflection
of self-centeredness, that puts him out of touch, with the riddle of his life,
Judgements, definitions, labels, and names are
the tools of his knowing, of his knowing everything,
And his immense knowledge is a reflection of
getting in one’s own way, and always in one’s own way, he never understands,
Understands the mystery of the ages, and of
the cosmos, and of the universe, and of nature, and of God, and of life, and of his fellow man, and of himself; he does not know.
Riding the Rhythm
Come join the caravan, the pilgrimage to Venus,
Lose sense of yourself in this passage of love, Wandering through deserted space,
Where time has ceased,
and the ocean has reverted,
So we can sail across the surface,
Of a dream that hasn't sunk,
To the bottom of a purpose,
To the belly of a drunk,
Slurred sacred profanity is heard in our voices,
Seen in our stare of a thousand miles,
and taught to all fellow travelers
turned on, tuned in, and dropping out
of their right hand paths,
Cross the threshold of initiation,
Atone the father’s shame,
Meet the mother’s maiden,
Who’s eyes are always closed,
but remain forever open,
To the light within the darkness,
and the cycle never broken.