A Flight of Wings

In a flight of wings
My spirit is borne to realms
Far away
And unknown
To earthly things
As I breathe
In the fields
Where trees rejoice
And all that is therein
Heaven
As near as thought
In its rustle
And whirring of ecstatic rapture
To he who holds the keys
Of empty death
And the lantern of the light within
That has crossed over stones and hollow ways
Past that valley free of fear

Eden

I walk among the tall grasses
Swaying in the wind
Knowing that I am the same as they 
Aflame in glory
Every blade and atom
Heaven now
This immortal moment
My temple
In the ecstasy of being
Everything that I see
And hear: The stars,
The flowers, and the seas
With the cricket’s waning song
To be one with all that is
Radiant of the light – that is myself
As iridescent shafts
Stream through the trees
Revealing the beauty of awe
Pure in crystal infinities
As creativity dances in the bliss of life
Whispering in the leaves that all is one spirit

Ye Must Be Reborn

Would words alone suffice for a rebirth
Or would perhaps the death
Of all that is known
Be the worthy and true death
For a True Rebirth
A rebirth worthy of an Awareness
Beyond imagination
The death of all
That was held dear:
The death of your God,
The death of the world, the death
Of the ones you love,
And the death
Of your very person.
Death that not only leaves a Void,
But where you find
That you are the Void
And the Absolute
Of All That Is.
You are everything that is,
And nothing at once.
You always have been,
Before the birth of this universe
In a great forgetting.
Can one even imagine the pain
Of such Awareness where
There is nothing to believe in?
“You” are simply ~
That Which Is.
You are that which does not change.
And instantly, you Know
That you are Immortal
And this moment is eternity.
This is what it means
To be Reborn.
This is why it is easier
To go through the eye of a needle.
This is why the awakened
Renounce the world, its noise,
Its hollow desires, and dreams.
The awakened realize
That All Is One Presence.
One Presence
Where there is no ‘other’.
There is not even the awakened,
For there is no one to wake up.
The mind of the ego
Sees so little
And it alone is the reason
For suffering,
But this world is a curriculum,
All will eventually awaken.
May you be reborn if you are ready.
May you make silent
So that you may hear.
May you be blessed with the eternal Awareness
Of the One Presence that you are.

Evening Glory

The gold swirls of medallions                                                                                                                         Sway as they hang down
In a crashing symphony of sound
As the long legs                                                                                                                                                Of the strange creatures pass by
Stepping like a dream
Moving with thin-limbed silhouettes
Too quickly to be seen
In the sun-red fields, unless close
Away from the protection                                                                                                                                   Of wrought iron elegance
As serenity rises higher than the eye
Creating a melange of the moment
Into an evening glory of awe
Perhaps seraphs of some mindless diversion
Captivating the unknown as they search their way home
[ Surrealism ]

Beautiful Sky Picture

 

Not by the force of long attention
But a too quick tenderness
The beautiful sky picture that is so orange
Is like a fairy-tale cloud 
Mimicking a mushroom 
Though not motionless
As the calligraphy 
Written upon its background
By the wings of birds
Is now frozen in place
As though a mysterious code
Of something more than beauty itself
That I should know
As I look for the white-edged patterns
Of the sea-foam at my feet
For reassurance
In the aqua-crystalline waves
Though the orange-light
Now capturing
Even their smooth rhythmic undulations
As I think of majesty
That can be so ennobled
Without being terrifying to the spirit
As the sublime rises 
Above fear
That passion that turns on pain
Overwhelmed by transcendence
Now knowing the nature
Of the orange-glow
That is vaporizing the sunset before me
As I surrender to a last thought
That perhaps my shadow will be left upon the sand
But no one will be left to remember it

The Allegory of Myth

And the Light came unto Prometheus
Asking
Prometheus,
Why do you cry?
And Prometheus replied,
Can you not see that I am chained to this stone,
Where a raptor-bird comes each day to punish me
By eating of my insides
That are regrown again each day
For all eternity?
Bring me Medusa
That I may be turned into stone
So that this agony ends
And the Light asked
How did you come to this?
Whereupon, Prometheus told of how he stole fire
From his god so that all may have it
And the Light said
I will bring you Medusa as you request
But when Prometheus saw Medusa
He did not turn to stone
And he then asked the Light
Why do I not turn into stone?
And the Light responded,
How can you be other than the same illusion?
Prometheus replied,
You speak in riddles
When I know the raptor-bird’s pain to be real
How can you set me free of this?
And the Light responded,
I of myself cannot do that
But you can
You always could
Medusa is only a symbol of the mind’s illusions
That indeed turn man to stone
As each serpent from her hair is but thought itself
Thinking what it believes is real
Just as you thought some god put you here
And that you deserve punishment for seeking the flame
That you are
For the iron that binds you to this stone is not your true self
And is only in your mind
Yet real to you because your faith makes it so
Prometheus became quiet for a moment
And then asked,
If I am not Prometheus
Then who am I ?
The Light said to him,
There never was a Prometheus
He is but a dream you have created
In a great forgetting of where you come from
And the bird that eats of you is the suffering
Of each dream that becomes another lifetime
Now you are upon this rock so that you will remember
What you are
And what am I asked Prometheus?
You that has seen me has seen yourself
The Living Light that is immortal this very moment
Inside of you
You may stay here if you wish
Or cast loose the chains
Of the false-mind that binds you
And that thinks itself apart from me
But I can’t, spoke Prometheus
You are not real
And with that
The Light went away

 

After London

A woman could just as well
   have been sliding
   naked
Over the invisible moon
Hidden by
   the legendary pea-soup fog
So famous
for its tuberculosis
A time when poets
    wrote on water
As I slowly walk
    from St. Paul’s missing eye
To the Westminster South Bank
Noticing
   how blue
   the leafless trees are
Against the dark
    serpentine Thames
Where so many thoughts
    must have rested
on the benches
Dreaming the nymphs
    of yesterdays
   and tomorrows
In mid-summer eves of loneliness
   beyond the pubs
   and mythic sun
But that was long before I ever was
Now to be the last
   to see what’s left
Wondering what all
   must have looked like
   and been
Before the vines
   on the crumbling buildings
and statues
Like the one with a man standing proudly on top

Traveler of the Inner Sky

Traveler of the Inner Sky,
nothing higher
is outside of within
no longer to be but human dust
bound to eternities 
of wandering dreams
and intoxicated thought
that veil of death
unaware of it’s prison-like sleep
or That which moves not – 
the unchangeable One
immortal awareness 
that sees the whirring
of passing worlds
and knows the light 
that sacred objects touch not
beauty worthy
of the greatest truth
where the foot no longer
leaves a print
as wind-borne hair flows 
in other realms
astral, emotional, mental,
and Buddhic
planes like branches to the tree within
except heavenly planes
too ecstatic to bear
sculpting away all needless things
while whispering always
eternal joy

By the Light that Knows Me

I was a child of in-between
Taken by the wind
Of another way
That said it would save me
From myself
Or hide me from sight
To be forgotten
Like a picture
Hiding a stain on a wall
Another’s eyes
Made callous by status
And the false beliefs
Of a poorer heart
Where I would be
No more than a shadow
In the depths
Of suffering
For another to measure
That is the worst thing
In the world
When you are kept
From knowing
What you really are
But now I know
Of That which I am
For I never was
Born of this world
Where spirit no longer
Knows itself
As I hear the song 
Of myself being sung
By the light that knows me as its own