There remains, then, some poems that seem to want to be included in this work. I did eliminate a fair number from the original book that I felt no longer worthy of seeing the light of a book or website [not that there aren’t a number of other ‘survivors’ who should have probably suffered the same fate]. Anyway, some of these are fun and span many years.
They say If I look into the Sun, It will hurt and I may be blinded. But . . . What an attraction! Early morning, When light Scrapes its fingernails On night’s shell, and Shades of rose And milky caramel Wipe away night’s Pin-streaked brilliance. Behind my eyes Beats a pulse – A crazy throb . . . An opening To what could be Is rent into my perception: I can; I really can . . . (I think) Look Into that Sun.
Merry- Go- Round. White-maned horse Ridden up and down. We sit, Holding onto the life In our hands And under our seat – Riding it, all round. Music and bells, Raucous noises, Merry’s own Tower of Babel Fills the ears, Rising and falling With our ups and downs. Wind flows as pace quickens, Around again – and again. The blurry whirl, Scenes and faces Once thought known – Stretching and bending To drive senses inward, Screams in delight, In fright for our plight. So close on the right, There you sit Glowing bright. Merry-go-round – I reach in the whirl Before it slows; Can I grab That illusive pearl: The golden ring For which I reach out To see if I can Get from life Another whirl. Another fling, Another chance, Go- Round, Be-Merry.
So On your horse As you fly Reach and seize Whatever dream You want to try.
The 'F' Train
NYC’s subway system is an interesting puzzle. I think I never mastered the map or what line would take me where. Once I got which train would take me from here to there, it was hold on for the trip and pray this really was the train – there were ‘locals’ (stop at every station) and ‘expresses’ (usually flying by your stop). The manners (or lack thereof) for getting on and off and for travelling in the cars always left me curious. And then, compared to other cities (e.g. Tokyo), there was and is a whole new story. Here comes your train, get in.
Crowded spaces, Empty faces, Masked together, Talk is about the weather, Souls all alone – Where is home? Turns in circles, Issuing chortles Hither and fro, Coming and go, Any destination Throughout the nation . . . Where is home? Out in the field, Joy-forcing we wield, Romp and play, Stretching night into day; Forget the trend, ‘Til crashing it ends. Where is home? Descend into the hole, Steel-hardened moles, Rush to ennui, Cry: Notice Me! Doors open – (continued) Release: Cares never surcease. Where is home? She enters . . . Enticing; The day is now splicing – Each on a side Of the pole Seeking to become Just one whole. Now, cover that pout – Her stop . . . She is out. Where is home? Day’s end, And, again, we wend Through the masses, All classes, Each seeking to lay, To rest For the next day. Where is home? So in the underground holes, Holding onto the poles, Is it O.K. to try To catch someone’s eye? To say to a new friend, I hope your day’s end Will get you to peace And the joy of your home.
There are so many places, Infinite spaces Nooks and crannies – Spots to be. Each is a setting, Time used for letting Me to be with you, Sharing life’s hues. Our mortal anchors; Our daily hankers; Tie us too tightly To well-defined spots. It is our task To free ourselves up, So we can drink again From Universe’s cup. That sip will open our sight To being all and nothing, Expanding to light. I have caught that feeling, I am ready to go reeling, Head over heels, To forever and NOW. Patience be with me, Each day and each night, For that mortal vessel Anchored so tight, That spirit of light As weightless it flies, Cavorting, intertwining, Filling my sight. I sit and I ponder, Sending Spirit over yonder, Knowing it may never return. Perhaps, that’s the end The goal that we tend, So devotedly desired. It is scary, Delightful, Weird, crazy absurd. Mind wanders, Deep thoughts Do I ponder, Looking out the window Of Mill Hill Road.
I like to read the last page or pages of most any book recommended or that I pick up. And, it often drives friends crazy when I do so. “you will find out the butler did it!” or “you need to go through the whole argument to understand the conclusion.” O.K. So, I am writing a novel: “The Ultimate Author.” I want to bring to a wider public (or better understand for myself) the world of Life Between Lives that Michael Newton, Ph.D. and those he has trained how they have unveiled and continue to unveil through the use of deep hypnosis to get their subjects back through past lives to understand where they go and what happens when they die.
One would think that this field would be of GREAT interest. And, it seems all the work done (perhaps thousands of people who all seem to come up with the same ‘stories’) should get more play, more publicity, more examination.
Anyway, the end of my novel – when and if it ever gets done -- is a scene where the two main characters are having a deep conversation and the jist comes down to: “O.K. we agree that all this ‘stuff,’ all our experiences, the Universe, consciousness, EVERYTHING, everything in the end is all a dream. So . . . the ultimate question then is: . . . whose dream is it?- Yours or Mine?
A glow From the void That is every thing And no thing. It wooshes through space And consumes LIGHT, WARMTH, FORM, SUSTENANCE, STIMULATION, BEGINNING, END, SMOOTH ARCS AND ARCHES Calling, singing, entwining. I am light, Almost weightless; Buoyed by a laugh; Encaptured, enraptured, Yet free To whatever BE. The glow has ignited; Membranes are excited; You can feel – Without touching – Reach out from within. Soaring on currents Of our own creation, Propelled by juices Of our own elation; Crashing the cloud tops Of dewy-spun threads; Lying in splender On nature’s mossy beds. Time is on vacation, NOW becomes ALWAYS, Partaking of NEVER – Brain melds into head. Real becomes fairy; Mountains are for leaping; Truth is our plaything; Impossible – merely a word. Whose dream Is this dreaming? Whose pawns are we? Who is it scheming? Is it a game Of hide and seek? So I fly o’er the mountains, Soar through the valleys To unite my Being With that glorious Golden glow. I am touched By its presence, Filled by its essence – Renewed, directed; I know . . . and I grow.
Still On Course
Early in the beginning of this ‘book’ there is a poem: “On Course.”
Having now gone through these pages, these thoughts, these attempts to share ideas, visions, descriptive words, my optimistic self – the part that knows it is ONE with all else and is busy experiencing so that it may enrich its return to The Eternal Sea – that droplet still feels [and here I get lost as to what is the ‘right’ word – how does a holographic piece of the Whole react – what would be the right term?
THINK, BELIEVE, FEEL, DEVINE, CHANNEL, INTUITE, - WHAT? Anyway, join me in this discourse about being On Course:
In this I call my life, Nothing ever went wrong; Each heart lived to love, Each voice gave song. I still believe that We are ‘here,’ Spread out, Smooth, not knurled, Spirit’s manifestation Experiencing the material world. A part of the Creator, A chip off the sublime, We are energy existing In space and in time. In this I call my life, Nothing ever went wrong; My soul lived to give, My brain made its song. Each time I awakened From the eternal soup, I went off a-questing And returned to regroup.
Unconsciousness creates our reality, Consciousness bears her fruit It is for us only To conceive As we would suit. The new quantum physics Teaches how we exist, More studies will show us (If we persist) That souls and energy Have a synergy, So very clever That we exist . . . Forever! So, in this I call my life Nothing ever goes wrong, Each spirit lives to unite, Each voice to give song. Let us ‘sing’ together!