Reprise

Across the room
behind the shadow of his diffidence
he knew the passion of desire,
felt again the question forming on his lips,
while far outside the barrier
sealed from a hundred agonies,
not hearing stifled cries choked down,
the new prospective lover
slipping fast away, became
unknowing despot to the heart
obedient,
compressed.
~

My Father's House

Amit Goswami says, "The basis of consciousness is not the material world, but the unconscious. And, heaven is the collective unconscious." I have tried to approach this in a poem to see what my own unconscious (the center of creativity) might reveal:

My Father's House
I may tap into it,
as in the deepest well, drawing forth
that which I never saw before--
but carefully, balancing the wisdom
of my fear, against exuberance.

My children swim within the pool
beneath my mind; I do not know them
very well. They act as prompters
when I dare access
holistic mystery that rises
when the gods create.

My little gods!
Unruly as they are,
subservient to consciousness,
will not appear when I may call,
though on the cusp of all that I find beautiful.

Let he who chants the roundelay of madness,
turn the page and listen
to the antiphon of peace.
Let hurricanes subside
in combat with a single breath.
Let tumult die
before the fragrance of a rose,
and joy emerge where sorrow
knows no bounds.

It is an order not of hands,
this fanciful parental flight of refuge,
into a crystal void
where words are vanities,
where sense is like
a brooding spirit hovering
above the waters, yes
a mansion most bizarre
where love alone prevails.
where gods and goddessesgrow strong.

Such spirit residence must have
its downside in the skies,
its light ascending
from a paradise untouchable
beneath a mortal guise.

I know of nothing to explain
a metamorphosis from darkness,
tragedy, and strife.
and scarcely comprehend
that I am signedby resurrection and by life.
~

An Adult Lullaby

Awareness is some kind of god,
self-creating, just as daylight manifests
from nothing but the darkest hour.
Once again pure infancy, the height
of weakness is the roaring power
to titrate consciousness, precipitating bright Sophia,
from the night.

And there she reigns,
the avatar of all we know,
our mistress/mother made of dreaming,
come upon us as a flight
shy angels might elect...
and we who wish to trace beginnings
may as well drift through the stars forever,
never quite so blind as now....
never quite so filled with grace.
~