I have lost my bearings upon the sea,
I am carried out by salty lee.
I have no map to chart my way,
No moon, no stars, the winds at bay.
I try and try to find the course,
But find my map is old and worn.
So now I pass by shore and port,
And find no h[e]aven ~ and sail alone.
Reefs hidden, murmur in shallows,
So I make my offering ~ hard and cold.
But with warm and loving heart,
I will anchor here.
Soul at rest, home for now.
Written for birthday bliss 2012
Did I expect you to come like lightning rays
When thunder rolls across the darkening sky?
Did I expect you to come like the imperceptible fall of padded cat’s feet
On dry leaves of late summer?
And how did I expect you to go?
Quietly like snow falling in my hair?
Did I expect you to go like a mad hatter
Wild hands tearing at the air?
I could never have known.
Roots of conscious thought,
Give rise to the world
And all its beauty.
Earth – valley, and mountain,
Water fresh and salty,
Giver of life as we know it.
Moon and sun – bestowers of light,
Fractals of color,
Rising and setting,
Masters of birth and death.
Night sky – infinite, expanding blackness,
Reflector of cosmos,
Inner and outer reaches,
Constellations of imaginings.
If I were to make god, he would be terrifying, his eyes would be red and glowing like embers.
If I were to make god, his hands would be claws, his hair would be flowing out behind him against a rabid wind, his feet would be cloven, his teeth would be sharp and pointed and he would go after evil and evil doers in every corner of the universe.
If I were to make god, he would not be tolerant, would not be full of love and compassion or be patient with evil. No, not for a moment.
If I were to make god, he would tear faces, arms and legs off, he would create havoc, he would scare even the most callous of men.
If I were to make god, and he was all seeing, all knowing, all present, all powerful, he would not allow for children to be pent up in closets, shaken, slapped, burned, nor dogs to be on chains, people to be starving, and our species to be so hateful.
If I were to make god, he would be too busy cleaning out the temples, the churches, the synagogues to have time to count every hair on every person’s head.
If I were to make god, he would to be too busy getting rid of the money changers, the whoremongers, the warmongers to see every bird that fell from the sky.
If I were to make god, then you would know what love is.
My heart broke the night you left your fingerprints on the small of my back.
I knew it would end, but it felt so good I couldn’t help it;
I could only run into your embrace.
The day you said, “I love someone else the way that you love me “,
I knew then as I know now that you were lying.
You could not stay away. You still do not stay away.
Though I cannot see you, you are here and still,
I feel your fingerprints on the small of my back.
The lotus flower blooms
With feet in the mud.
And holds it all in
Soft blush bloom
With roots in the mud.
I am under no illusion that my hour or two of imperfect meditation each day does anything to change the circumstances that confront us every moment of our lives.
We are inundated by news of the rapidly deteriorating environment, corrupt politics, the economics of war, the displacement and devastation of life caused by unending greed and religiosity, over-population and insufficient natural resources to support us, rampant nationalism, overt racism, and various and myriad belief systems turned into systems of hate and prejudice that turns us into xenophobic freaks so rabid we are able to justify torture and murder in the name of “god”. We are forced to face a not so pleasant future on planet earth.
If hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of sages, mystics, visionaries, gurus, monks, and other enlightened folk throughout the ages, meditating hour upon hour, day upon day, week upon week, month upon month, year upon year, decade upon decade, era after era, cannot change the maddening course we are on to certain destruction, maybe it is time to realize that perhaps changing our circumstances is not the purpose of meditation, or if you prefer, prayer. Maybe we have been beating our heads and fists against a door that only exists in our minds.
Perhaps our solitary waiting is so that we can see a different reality beyond understanding. Perhaps this great unknown is just beyond our daily hurry and worry, waiting for us to slow down long enough to show itself. I can’t say that I know anything for certain. I can’t begin to articulate any of it, but for me, that’s O.K. I know that sitting quietly, waiting, breathing, brings a certain tranquility in the midst of chaos, and for now, that’s enough. Who knows what insight tomorrow might bring.
The night wind blows among a stand of young bamboo
At the edge of the garden,
Murmuring sadly a song of woeful grief.
Soughing a tale of love lost under a pale, fall moon,
The grass lies withered, the fault of the summer sun.
The nightingale silent as night tears seek my feet.
We could feel a tropical storm coming but we were nearly at our favorite place. It was hot, hot and the humidity was incredible. Last night there was a huge thunder and lightning storm and so we were walking in a sauna.
Steve wanted to swim and since it was our last night here, we were going to have dinner and drinks. When we got to Mahi Beach, Steve went right out into the water.
It began to rain. The waiters, Carlos, Luis and I carried our belongings inside the palapa covered bar.
The waves grew large and seemed as though they were going to nearly reach us inside. Streams of rain water opened up rivers that ran into the sea. The sky darkened and lightning flashed and thunder crashed. I could see Steve being tossed by the waves and hoped he would come in soon.
The rain came down and as Steve emerged he stood under the clouds bathing in rain water.
We watched as the sea near the shore filled with debris from landslides, large branches and mud turned the sea brown.
The storm ended and the sea calmed, the rain stopped.
We stayed there for hours drinking and snacking until sunset when we walked to the bus stop to catch the #4 that would drop us off a couple of blocks from the house.
Aaah, Vallarta.
Sitting across from me,
In a wooden chair,
In an open room,
Full of light,
And many things unknown to me.
Was an old man,
Who appeared to be a miner.
His clothes were worn,
And as wrinkled as his face.
His beard was long,
And his hat was large and frayed.
His worn out dusty boots,
Run over at the heels,
Were made of blackest leather.
As he arose with the slightest effort,
He clomped and scraped across the floor,
His eyes dancing in my direction.
And then he said to me in gentle voice,
Just wait a minute,
Whilst I get you a survival kit.
eyeamdust 