These poems fall into a category that salutes the gift of life and consciousness. If it is true that we are ‘here’ to experience – to expand the Creator’s creations – then tapping into those aspects that we can access via our creating out of all possibilities those manifest things, events, emotions, thoughts – the creations of consciousness – means we are ‘doing our job!”
The Joys of a Moment
The droplets of life Are held in a crashing, Tumultuous Sea – Riding the tides, Their ebbs And their flows. Sad it is That what was once Washed upon the shore Is gone – Except that we know They were here. They have existed; They have made their indelible And distinguishing marks. Life is richer for the cycle -- The chance. May we never lose Awe of what transpires.
Remember All the times; All the places; All the people; All the events.
Remember The specialness of our planet; The sweetness of air and water; The magic of a smile; The lift of sound, of color, of light – The way a baby ‘knows.’
Remember The thrill of sensual And sexual attraction: The letting go of orgasm; The loving of a partner: Giving and receiving. Remember The getting caught up in a game; The forgetting of time; The Being In the Here and Now. Remember The beginning and the end; And the beginning – again; And the trip to the edge And beyond.
The Day The Rainbows Came
Here’s a triptych of Rainbows – catch ‘em! They ‘played’ in and around my trailer home at the Omega Institute.
It was Sunday morning: Father’s Day – I ‘slept in:’ 6:40 A.M. The sun hit the crystal Hanging at the upper window Of my trailer at Omega – Rainbows appeared everywhere; The first time I had seen them In the 75 days I’ve been here. “Hey, y’all, Welcome. Yes, this is a place For you to dwell.” And how they arranged themselves . . . Everywhere and all around. A twist on the crystal’s ribbon And multi-hued angels Were flying everywhere. It was Sunday morning; I returned later – The rainbows were waiting. All the ‘stuff’ out there: The brushings poor ego Has to take; The “I don’t know why’s,” The “me,” “me,” “me’s.” Maybe I can climb Into the crystal (continued) And shoot out Into Rainbow World. Hurry, though, The sun is moving, My rainbows are almost . . . Gone. It was Sunday morning, A little later. The space was empty – The rainbows gone. Can I visit Rainbow Space again? Is it in my heart? Can I climb into Rainbow World And spin in and out of the crystal? Sunday morning: Rainbows . . . Life, love, experiences. Ah! If you are patient, The Rainbows Will come.
A rainbow, Crystal focused, Moves across my wall. It is long; It is warm; It is magic; It is a gift. I am transported To times We shared rainbows On your wall. Think of me And “we” When you see rainbows. My love throbs With the pulse. Oh . . . To share Rainbows With you.
Rainbows Form on my walls. They float in air And light on the ceiling. Sunlight, Captured by cut glass; Focused in spots, Bringing a smile. Look directly into the prism: The world explodes! I remember the light You brought into my life – The full spectrum of feeling; Of being alive. I call the rainbows Thee! Look Directly into the prism – What do you see? Each morning, The rainbows come. They are part of my life: The sun, the light broken. Rainbows; Memories; Laughter. Love. Hello, you.
If I had to pick one piece of advice I would give – one thing that I have learned:
from the good and bad ‘stuff’that I have directly experienced
from the training I received as an Empowerment Facilitator
from all the studies I have done through the years I have been privileged to enjoy on this planet, and
from the wisdom that so many of those who have shared their wisdom in so many ways,
What I come up with is the great gift there is to be able to “let go.”
This involves ‘letting go’ of all that holds you from moving on in life; from forgiving yourself and others; from being in the Here and Now; from conquering the fear involved in change – in coming up with what you really want to put into the space that is created when you let go.
Perhaps the most significant thing I have read comes from Carlos Castanada in describing his walk along the mountains in Northern Mexico with his mentor, don Juan:
“The twilight is the crack between the worlds.” don Juan says. “It is the door to the unknown.” He then points with a sweeping movement of his hand to the mesa where you are standing. “This is the plateau in front of that door.” He then points to the northern edge of the mesa. “There is the door. Beyond, there is an abyss and beyond that abyss is the unknown.”
You stand transfixed, looking across the mesa at the edge. “You will now be like dust on the road,” don Juan tells you. “Perhaps it will get in your eyes again, someday.” Don Juan then steps back into the darkness that has descended.
You feel very alone. It is unbelievably quiet. All you hear is the beating of your heart. Suddenly – a strange urge, an irresistible force, seizes you. You run to the northern edge of the mesa. You see darkness ahead. You jump off the edge. You are alone.
At some time in each of our lives as we travel our path, we come to an edge, a challenge, a decision-point. What do we do? Some decide not to take the challenge and fall back to the road they have been on. Some jump and perhaps crash. Some jump, survive, and resolve never to do that again. Some jump, survive and can’t wait to do it again.
So: tomorrow’s task is to plunge into the unknown by yourself. Sit there and turn off your internal dialogue. Go to the edge and jump into the abyss. You may gather the power needed to unfold the wings of your perception and fly to that infinitude. Create.
So, walk to the Edge, spread your wings, fly off to that infinitude
Letting go – Is a place; Is a time; Is a space. Letting go – Sometimes a pain; Sometimes numbness; Sometimes gain. Letting go – Of the memories that are bad; Of the arguments we had; Of times that were sad. I let go of those things; Of those times; Of the zings. Instead, I choose not to ever lose; And I will retain those things where we gain. Smiles and laughter; Creation and elation; Security and maturity; With these make a nation. Letting go isn’t easy; And, yet, we know It’s the path to take – And, yet, we know It’s the path to take – From the learning We grow. So – let go . . . Of what fails thee; Focus on What enthralls thee. There is a beginning To each end; Letting go Can be your best friend.
The Untangle Machine
At first glance, It seems there is no way The morass Can be ordered. Step back. How does an untangle machine work? Find the beginning (Or the end) – Of the tangled thing, Be it a space station Or a piece of string. Then . . . be focused; Be meticulous; Be ordered. Wear the Buddha Head, The Royal Robe; Assume the mantle Of the Creator. And, then . . . Listen. Hear those who are restorers; Hear how it all matters. So . . . Step back; And Begin.
Just a Tag End
Where Is endless time’s Beginning ravel? Can I find Just a little end To hold a moment To see what is gone; What is here; What is to come? How often Will I slide Under and around To come again To face the same frustration?
Under and around, Over and through, To come again To face the same frustration. Just a tag end For clinging, Just a tag end To begin to right This imbalance.
Curled up, around Pulling so close To make outside In. How can you know? And you do
Time is split; Each meeting Becomes a new dawn . . . Rising tentatively. Heat and light Begin again, and . . . The sun really doesn’t rise. We turn, Making the warmth rise, The smiles flow – Creating an aurora Of peace and bountiful silence. Time Pushes and pulls. It is forever. Can we lay with it? Let it flow all around; Keep it close’ Celebrate together, As all are joined By the fleecy edges Of breeze-blown fluff.
Thunder and lightning: The gathered energy Of the infernal machines Carry the bright, speckled eddies
To quiet pools at sky river’s side To wait forever Until . . . We turn, Making the warmth rise, The smiles flow. The aurora of peach And bountiful silence Flow on fleecy edges To silence The infernal machines forever Until . . .
Lost & Found
One can get lost On the River of Time, Navigating the Past, Questioning things That don’t rhyme. One can get lost In the Forest of Time, Never looking up To the light Of the sublime.
One can get lost In the vastness of sky, Exploring nether reaches, Always questioning: Why? One can get lost In the bowels of the earth, While the weight of the world Obfuscates all of our mirth. One finds one’s self In the Here and Now; Relax, Enjoy it, You know how.
Butterflies are perhaps my favorite flying things. Their colorings and shapes so attract my eye and my imagination – they are such a fabulous example of transformation. In special times in my life, butterflies seemed to ‘show up’ – certifying that at least at that time that what was going on, what I was seeking, was there and was blessed. Mariposa is the Spanish name for butterflies.
Winged friend: Mariposa; You flew circles While I waited for love to arrive.
You incarnated in each place – Cupid-playing While bathing in the vibes Of love’s unfolding.
Winged friend: Mariposa; You were there, Trailing twinkles and love dust Wherever we looked. Dear Mariposa, Winged friend – Love’s messenger – Come fly On the bosom of enchantment. You have earned A place in our hearts.
Early orange glow, Whose source is hidden Just beyond the end of the street: Down Or is it up, Or just plain out?
Thinking about finding The pre-dawn chill, And by bright caress Producing (pollution-fee) Warmth. Would it be the same Without: street, buildings, Trees, lights, cars, dogs . . . People? These make a funnel for my eyes, And inject a spring to step; A life to mind; A turn at each corner Of my mouth . . . UP
The glow is cool, The color illusive. Words here serve Only as picks To memory’s eye – And, as a lid opener On capped feeling Of early orange glow.
Whither? The mountains rise up on all sides; The valleys pierce the peaks To sky’s falling off. Paths run off everywhere Through the wood; While white-streaked streams Rush off this way and that. What to follow? Which to conquer? Why follow? Why seek to conquer? Why choose at all … Just because they are there? Because it is Our God-given mission? Because heritage calls? Meanwhile psyche pushes -- And that nagging knot Incessantly pulses. Love Whispers, beckons, Flashes its signals; And that hook – That handle inside Which is for reaching for And pulling upon Exists. By reaching out And opening up; By giving, and giving, And giving . . . The choice is made; The road is covered; (continued) Mountains are bridged; And valleys flown. I flow out to all, Cover each crevasse, Walk each path Its full length Until . . . It begins again. Remember Be It is all an experience. And so we live.
Strewn weed and pebbles, Fascinating hordes Of shell shapes, Washed upon a shore, Driven by yesterday’s winds; Shaded and baked, Stepped upon and flung up; Caressed and admired. Some kept for only a moment – Others perhaps for a lifetime; Alone or crowded together – According to the whims and wiles Of today’s fashions: The gathering group Of babble-tongued hue. Together and indistinguishable – Is there a goal? Survive for now – For this life -- The current ‘eternity.’
Shine bright in light; Move in the still struggle To the top – Efforting to be admired And picked. So many pebbles; So many straws; Too many decisions About which shells to pick. Destiny to be broken Into myriad pieces; To lie a hundredfold
Beneath the glistening surface Of the Eternal Sea, Waiting for the next Eternity. In the while, Seek to glisten Just a bit more; Strive to be taken up And cared for.
In cool, ice-strewn waters, White-flecked with the floe Of our humanity, Float our souls. Iceberg camouflaged With volcanic hearts; The tips only show Of mammoth Being – Stretching into unfathomed depths Of unsounded potential. The sun curtsies To sister power: Light and heat shared. What shoals to traverse; What temptation to resist – To lay quiescent Within the weed-laden tip, Hidden in backwater, Stagnating and barnacle baiting. Far horizons glimmer, Sing and call honeyed songs of promise; Of fulfillment, of worth. How far the voyage? Which way the course? How true is the company that points? From whence the power And drive to traverse? Each soul in its casing Works a wide swath, As it attracts and grows Within the Sea. Veneer-stripped rumblings Approach critical mass; Explosion and power To feed the souls – Both beneath and above, To glorify And fulfill the Mission To go, open and burst forth. The life of a soul.
Floating On The Sea
(Aboard the SS Nieuw Amsterdam on the way to Europe - 1963)
What you push down Rises up; Time and space are the vital dimensions. Round about, all buzzes: Burgeoning banalities boom; Cacophonic calls crack; Delirium dementia droons . . . Bottoming. As one seeks a sounding, Surroundings close in with a surge; Pushing; And as we bottom, We rise. The loftiness becomes exhilarating, Fluffy white, Myriad shades of blue, The air filled with salt spray, As gulls cry and soar. The mind is restarted, Kindling the fire Of the soul’s burner; Stimulating a panoply Of raw, half-baked, and full loaves – Conceptualizations to feed the path To conscious realizations. What, then, Are the vital dimensions?
What Could You Be?
Try this formula: Humankind in some Not too distant future Is to humankind today As humankind today Is to caveman and cavewoman. [past <present> future] Our skills, senses, thoughts, capacities (so advanced today when looking back) Are but primitive waking To the offspring Of our offspring. Perhaps, This is why We negatively hold and categorize So many tastes, smells, sounds, Sights and touches. Our senses get lost To the media gods And electronic devices, And to all the other companions In no-think-land
Why do we outlaw Mind-expanding substances But legalize depressants? Why is the creative thinking And experimenting soul ‘crazy,’ While “normal” is The lowest common denominator? Do we fear the creative voice we hear? Shouldn’t we be evolving To be more of ‘our’selves? Can we let go of the image And fill the space created With the visions We get to allow? We incarcerate the true self. We analyze until we paralyze – All in the name of law, Of progress, of normalcy. Let us remove the barriers; Let us move the line; And move the line: Tolerate Cogitate Investigate.
I am more than “me,” You . . . You Think of what YOU can be!