Conflict Resolution

Conflict Resolution

The world's compatriots remind me
I may not permit myself too much
of that resource called awe; it relegates them
to the mists that morning just proposes,
never dignifies, though they are of my blood,
my passion, and indeed the clay
between my hands.

Persistent is the vision of the one
who plants her kiss upon the ether of the stars
and will not shrink from all the glory
of the hedonist below.

There is a death involved,
the passing of duality; its requiem
a song of strange redemption I embrace.
Interred, the warring of the apocalypse,
the sprinkling of the earth, the stone,
the liberated sword.

The dew is not of tears
but of the gift of the departing night
that casts refreshment as annointing
to the silence lingering,
It celebrates the birth of truth,
a sacrament to seal the certainty
that all is one.
~

A Perfect Love

That which each of us is, and cannot let go, is our common "I Am"....our common God that binds us as one...that we must share always, conscious or unconscious, as it comes home when we are open to it. It is personal. It is essence. Let it in. Here is all the God we want or need. This is the core of all that we may know, the kernel of awareness, the spark of substance disappearing in an ocean of the void.

A Pefect Love

He looked at her and said,
"I take you as my own, my breath, my blood,
the one that is the incense purifying
all the vessels of desire, the stream
that surges life through channels
dry with birth."

He knew the silence as his God.
He knew the presence of I am within him,
fair impossible beyond--
knew that there was nothing more
than emptiness creating,
nothing to surpass its beauty--
nothing more than now.
~

Now and Evermore

Now and evermore

The final flight is past.
With closing eye the cycle is complete
and heavy on the fair receiving ground
is reconciling, confirmation
of the fall--a quivering wing
to bless us all, to save us
from insouciance, naivete,
unfounded hope
.
Within the weak, the strong,
awareness hovering, -for there
among the dying are the winds of change,
the moment they've been waiting for,
rushing in to lead the dance,
to take that moment, singular,
conjunction of beginning and of end
that slips away from time,
enshrined somewhere corruption may not know.

Yet as our fingers loose their grasp,
there is one truth remaining;
one aphorism still is left behind...
there is no peace upon the earth.
~

Reality Buffet

Reality Buffet

Prepared illusion is the offering;
you are invited to remain, sustain
your pre-ordained existence as you wish.
The cost is just your freedom--
non-negotiable, I fear, but then
our common heritage is that
which sometimes we call God--
something cosmic bouncing
in the foetal twilight of our brains.

It may be envy of an innocence
that some will hold
fast to their breasts, never tasting
the largesse before us,
never wise as we, approaching
spirit delectation sensibly
with appetence forever unresolved.

Perhaps the church is right;
creation acts ex nihilo,
for even chimera presents
its shining mental child
amidst the atoms of the mind
irresolute to celebrate its own.

As for the mind, it too
shrinks from the questions
of its birth. There are no answers
and the feast serves questions of its own--
those as well, illusory. As such
I may be pardoned for my lack of faith in God.
My words are product of an emptiness
conterminous with me.
The good news is
I have some timelessness
to deal with that.
~

Which Was, and Is, and Is to Come

Which Was, and Is, and Is to Come

Timelessness is vague, I'm told
until I press for that specific moment
to express what truth is all about,
to shout back to the rooftops
that their god is centuries too late,
too willing to discriminate, too wise
for the unborn to catch him
in their consciousness without
a crumbling passport scribbled
on their knees.

I call upon those rooftop prophets
to forswear their hubris for a moment;
wear their sackcloth loosely,
binding neither souls nor progeny
for a millenium or two, until
the light is better, all the voices stop,
and out of nothingness emerges
the divine illusion that is ours.

It is the only source--out there
along the fence-rows where
the howling wolves patrol,
the sky is ever blanked by snow
and every sigh sent out is unreturned.

There is the refuge;
there the realm of God,
where senses fall--where stillness
is the cornucopia, and where
I Am is understood. The voice
grows fainter still, until
it may be heard alone
and wordless
and totality is known.
~

What kind of Paradise

Death is increasingly my friend
as breath subsides; it hides no pretense
of regret or fear, but lets me own it
as a coverlet that I will know
as now is lover of eternity.

It is most gracious. Candles
all around me silently snuff out
and share their peace
in trails of rising smoke
that teach me of their transience,
speak as voice may not
of faithless time--of a reward
confined to castles in the clouds
or barefoot, unwashed gods
with spirit swords.

This body graces me with death enough
to yield eternal joy:
if consciously, no promise need be made,
if not, a dreamless nap devoid
of tangled bedclothes,
thunderstorms outside,
or mattress out of warranty;
insidious alarms will not exist,
nor yet the "I" to stand apart
and wonder,
wonder why.
~