Bridge

A country pasture, mid-winter:
stone bridge spans trickling stream.
Imperious crow caws atop a leafless lime;
lifeless machinery slowly corrodes,
tucked between hedgerow and cluttered
farm debris. Nature rests, undisturbed.
Standing on the bridge, an angel,
singing, fiery arms aloft, palms raised.
Its voice, unheard by earthbound ears,
vibrates the cosmos. The brown grass
greens; a tree bursts into blossom
without explanation. The crow leaps,
seeks a new perch. The stream dances,
ebullient. The seraph serenades the
landscape, lost in a moment of awe.

Entrails

Mysterious visions in woods of flesh:
entrails trailing from an open grave.
Hear the song of a humble child,
“Beauty to beauty and love to love”
a discourse performed for those involved:
a heavy-set man brings the key of his will.
No sister has wonder, sick of her happiness,
gorged on laughter for the hope she has heard.
Vegetal forms exist from beginnings,
the time to bite them has suddenly come:
delivered to power as sacred texts,
supposed to be cooked but eaten raw.
The word that resonates must contain
masculine, feminine, consonant, vowel;
the soul that contemplates mustn’t restrain
from swinging the axe to disembowel.

 

 

Reading: Rubem A Alves
The Poet, The Warrior, The Prophet

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18874.The_Poet_the_Warrior_the_Prophet

 

Void

Up at the reservoir:
rippling reflections
darker than nighttime,
deeper than space.
The key word is spoken
the void has been opened
the joy of nostalgia
the tears of embrace.

 

 

Reading: Rubem A Alves
The Poet, The Warrior, The Prophet

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18874.The_Poet_the_Warrior_the_Prophet

Searching Tree

Maps do not show
the drifting location
of the searching tree,
whose delicate leaves
and supple twigs
penetrate
the jagged cliffs
and loamy soils
of distant lands;
and whose vigorous roots
strive ever skyward,
to commune
with the clouds.

While sages and gurus
explore in vain for
its unknown whereabouts
and cherished fruit,
children can frequently
be observed
clambering down
its ancient trunk,
their nimble fingers
picking at slivers
of bark to chew,
knowing the sweetness
of its fissured husk.

Insects, too, bore
deep within
its woody core:
change into larvae,
then shrink into eggs,
until eventually
their matter merges
with the bole,
a final communion
of mitochondria
and chloroplasts,
as the tree grows
ever downward.

 

Reading: Rubem A Alves
The Poet, The Warrior, The Prophet
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18874.The_Poet_the_Warrior_the_Prophet

Corner

Let’s meet at the corner of
Hilton and China,
let’s open our eyes to what’s
deeper than skin,
let’s open our hearts to a
love that’s integral,
no delusional fancy,
just what’s within.

Let’s wake from our dreams of
us-and-them conflict,
let’s see every citizen
dazzling and true,
let’s live in the beauty of
ultimate poverty
where no one is separate
and all are in you.

Rules

I learned the rules well by playing the game,
committing my flesh to both pleasure and shame,
entirely immersed in the actions of living,
fully committed to selflessly giving
in order to know myself one with the others
engaged in the contest – my beautiful brothers –
superseding procedures through participation,
avoiding the decoy of self-preservation,
knowing the oneness of comrades together,
bonds formed of loving through fair and foul weather,
absorbing the rules by wholly enacting them,
bending and breaking and aptly adapting them.

Point

What’s the point in loving a painting
in order to look good to friends?
What’s the point in loving the means
if we haven’t considered the ends?

What’s the point in loving a being
who tells us that love is our meaning
if we can’t be bothered to love those
around us, simply because of their leaning?

Transition

Day after day, time after time,
losing my shit and losing my mind,
finding myself doing all of the stuff
I swore not to do, no matter how tough
conditions became, or how bad I felt,
I guess you can’t see the hand you’ll be dealt,
I guess you can’t see a great deal, to be fair,
happy back then with a song and a prayer,
spiritual games to stroke my own ego,
paying no mind to the fact that my credo
only made sense if taken in context,
black and white thinking wrapped up in a concept,
tried and tested by a billion people,
yet lacking substance, naively deceitful,
only fit for the first half of life,
to build a container to keep me alive,
but never to fill it with anything real –
a process that takes a completely new deal,
a different approach based on deeper reflection,
embracing my shadow and all imperfection,
not just the shiny or lovable features
but the whole of myself, and all of god’s creatures.

Shower Dance

His love/hate shower dance
is a complex sacrament,
intended to invoke
the most deeply buried feelings
from the nooks and crannies
of his soul.
Starting close to the floor,
rocking and weaving,
he calls forth the
cringing core degradation
of longstanding shame;
tensing his torso
and curling his limbs,
before handing off
to unbridled elation,
adrenaline rushing and
fuelling his leaps,
embracing the high,
fists raised and clenched;
then gripped tighter still,
nails digging skin
as the caustic horror
of all past rejection
floods into fullness.
His body convulses
with each perceived
kick in the guts;
head bashing tiles,
spine scraping grout,
he welcomes the torment
before turning and spinning
into one final movement:
arms waving wildly with
jubilant energy,
hips swaying rhythmically,
feet skidding perilously,
as he seizes the wholeness:
complete self-acceptance.
The ritual is over;
his heartbeat decelerates,
his inner man cleansed.

Moment

In the moment
each gesture corresponds
to the expansion of the universe,
the dance of solar flares,
the turning of the earth,
the diving of the manatee,
the whirling of rotifers,
the buzzing of electrons.
How deep does this go,
this rabbit hole of oneness,
this dreadful connectedness
to all that exists?
I pinch myself to determine
that I am indeed awake,
and drown in the screams
of a trillion creatures.