Poetry/Prose

Permanently Temporarily Solar Powered

Photo credit: mine, sunrise, desert sunrise, unflitered, near Shahania, Qatar

Photo credit: mine, sunrise, desert sunrise, unflitered, near Shahania, Qatar

Hey you

Living forever

We’re all so

Very

And you think

Without a thought

For years

You’ll never die

Until one by one

“They” start to

Even as

Their shadows

Play sonatas

On your strung up

Violin heart

Haunt your

Electric memories

Entranced daydreams

Lucid showers

Liquid mass transits

All. your. dreams

Even as

Their laughter

Drifts in from,

Launches

Your life

Into,

The past tense

But the same green lights

Same city corners

The same crossed streets

Are not the same

They’re not

Beside you

Even if you know

You keep shoving it out

Hard

You work and work

Strike up conversations

Binge on a series

Zone out to music

Pray and chant

Say you do it for them

Because they would want to

Not because you

Necessarily do

So then you

Get fit and let go

Apologize and regret it

Run away

Climb a mountain

Sit in a cave

Confess to the tides

Feel holy

Mundane

Nothing

Run and spacejam

Eat and talk

To keep it from your mind

How temporary

And fleeting

This lifetime is

How mysterious

Its expiration date

Yet you know

You do

It’s as clear

As the sunrise

Before your eyes

Every day

Temporary

One day

Like a birthday

Denial drops away

And everything shifts

Everything counts

My friends

This is not a rehearsal

Everything counts

Not for them

Buddhas

For you

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Poetry/Prose

Now, Decide

photo credit: mine

photo credit: mine

Right now is a live wire.

You may think only something (maybe boring, maybe not, but limited by what you are exposed to) is happening.

When really everything is, now.

From the outside to sit still may seem pointless–but it is in doing this that we boil ourselves down to nothing and feel everything at once.

A massive speck, sitting there.

You might be in a little room with just yourself yet you know a whale is traversing the sea, a baby is being born, someone is digging through garbage, a businessman is clinking a glass over a million-dollar deal and you sit there and just know.

And on and on and on.

It’s electric, and you have so many options, how to perceive, right now.

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Poetry/Prose

Who Do You Think You Are?

Image courtesy clashot.com

Image courtesy clashot.com

Let me put it this way

We lose a civilization

With every extinction

Everyone

Has the wisdom of society

Even if we only see

With our narrow minds

Their purpose relative to us

Entertainment

Nuisance

Food

Transportation

Companionship

Lives marked

If survived

By our reactions

To convenience

Or inconvenience

Reckoning

We never will

As everyone collides

Millions and millions of galaxies worth

Of us

Species, families, kingdoms

Come

Call them what you want

Put them in silly categories

The birds would laugh

If they could or would

Pull focus

On the tiny speck

Of humanity’s rationale

It’s absurd

This obsession

Running away

From what we don’t know

By making up stories

Of what we think we do

You will get so much further

Watching, listening, whispering

Submitting

To your territory

Your dharma

And wide amazement

To all others’

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Poetry/Prose

Shakti

Rhett Baker: Goddess Durga, also known as Parvati is the consort of Lord Shiva. It is said that the Goddess Shakti takes on different forms such as Kali, Chandi or Durga to fight the demons. She is the power behind all creation, preservation and destruction in the Universe Image credit: found on wildroseyoga.com/pinterest

Rhett Baker: Goddess Durga, also known as Parvati is the consort of Lord Shiva. It is said that the Goddess Shakti takes on different forms such as Kali, Chandi or Durga to fight the demons. She is the power behind all creation, preservation and destruction in the Universe
Image credit: found on wildroseyoga.com/pinterest

Your promises–beckoned me to a place you knew I was reluctant to go

A place I explained to you was so raw

Did you want to be a hero, for the wounded?

That doesn’t matter now

Because I always then ask: Do I want to be saved?

And then I turn to you–hey!

Did you want to save me … and always save me?

Because that’s impossible

Hasn’t anyone ever told you?

Superman has a mother–just like anyone

She fell when they grabbed her by the womb

And rose to power through her creation

Superheroes know their source

Lest they dither, mortal, in the ashes, looking up, wondering “what am I supposed to do?”

YOUNG MAN! WAKE UP! SHE WHISPERS, THEN CRIES, THEN SHOUTS:

If you are not part of my rise, you are part of my downfall

And I tell you–I thrive on both

Falling is the only way to rise

Fizzy, electric sparks of reflection grow and dance along resolution’s wick

When the fireworks of my life are again launched from a cannon of decision

Exotic rays of daylight’s fantasy explode in relieved expression across the night sky

The silent expansion in all directions, all perceptible colors

Nearby chests rattle at the delayed boom

Babies laugh and reach up

Couples hug a little closer, feeling so small, together

Elders look up, smile slowly at the sight of forever

This isn’t a holiday

This is a signature

This is continuous

If you are not launching me, you are only delaying the inevitable

Either way you choose, you are critical and I love you

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Poetry/Prose, Yoga & Spiritual

Can You Taste It, Yet?

the_moment_before__by_Pretty_As_A_PicturePeople can complain about it being the cause of all problems.

But frankly, the most annoying thing about ego is that it’s predictable.

Because it uses the moment instead of being in it, it’s really not so super creative.

It’s got a plan, it’s hungry, it wants to feed itself. Period.

If you watch it a while, you will think “why am I watching something not quite as exciting as CSPAN?”

And yet it gets really high ratings and people sacrifice a lot of time for it.

This numbing, predictable affair–with ego.

Watch it long enough and its pattern is clear; you’ll know what happens next.

You think you are doing a different dance, in a different place, at a different time, but when you dance with ego, it’s always the same, predictable gig.

Inside a closed bubble of ambition.

Some needless drama, as pattern overtakes innovation .., inspiring just a touch of insanity, assuaged by activity, producing more of the same.

So how do you get out?

You ask, and even demand to know!

If I’m such a smarty pants, what’s the solution?!

I guess I’m like anyone else, always inclined to engage in this predictable pattern, but awakening to the fact that if I stand away from it a bit, I can turn away from it.

This constant, superficial identity crisis that reinforces itself.

But what do any of us turn toward?

You ask me and I’ll say this:

The moment.

And if you ask me in five minutes, I’ll say the same thing.

Put all your senses on it.

Close your eyes, can you see it?

Close your hands, can you feel it?

Close your mouth, can you taste it, yet?

 

 

 

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Poetry/Prose, Yoga & Spiritual

Sit Down, Close Your Eyes, Watch the Movie

"A Time of Reflection--Crow"--credit: James Ayers Studios: http://jamesayers.com/original-artwork/sold-work/a-time-of-reflection-gallery/

“A Time of Reflection–Crow”–credit: James Ayers Studios: http://jamesayers.com/original-artwork/sold-work/a-time-of-reflection-gallery/

It’s a matter of time–your life.

Humans make the most of it through reflection.

That is the one power that differentiates us.

 

Was the movie good?

I’ll tell you in four days, when the scenes still play in my mind, or don’t.

Is that person important in my life?

I need time–to miss them, time to notice that so many of the things that they did and said still come to my mind, as if they speak them in the moments, when I remember … days, months, years later.

If we are smarter than the little part of ourselves–the part that wants to be king, that runs like a rat on crack–we catch a pattern.

We start seeing people in the moments: for what we predict we will feel and know, days, weeks, months later.

If we’re lucky, if we reflect, enough, we develop this capacity and we use it automatically.

It becomes a deeper drive, righting our interactions with others.

If we sit still. If we pause, again and again, we see these things.

We become human, and we split off enough from our animal, come to know, our godselves.

We develop the film of our life so that the picture gets clearer and clearer. In the darkroom.

In the quiet, dark, still space–behind our closed eyelids and between our palms, spread apart, setting aside, our time.

We gain the power, to start seeing, through time.

Some of us do this. I do this. It doesn’t make me special, it’s just what I have chosen to do. And so can you … for now …

It’s so funny to me … and sad to see … how it’s always been and will always be a matter of time.

 

 

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Poetry/Prose, Yoga & Spiritual

Is it … Desire?

My cat, Pasha--image and editing: mine

My cat, Pasha–image and editing: mine

Was looking at my cat’s fur, as I do often

How perfectly it grows

Most people think about how annoying its shedding is

I guess I like to think of how it grows

Where it comes from

 

There’s something so elegant about cats

Inspiring if you watch them

The way they move

Their very structure

Springy joints

Powerful, understated muscles

This fur

The way it lines his face

The tiny, short hairs growing along his nose

 

And I wonder and wonder

What makes this fur grow?

What holds all of the cells of his fur together?

What commands the molecules that join to make the cells?

What?

 

Those molecules, those atoms, they can do whatever they want

But something commands them, to become, his fur

 

And then I start to think, about everything, this way

What holds anything together?

Is it …

 

What if it was, desire

What if I sit here and type

Because of desire?

 

The two cells that started what I am

They were held together by something

Their molecules

 

The molecules, the atoms

That could be doing whatever they want

Somehow, they come together

To do something very specific

 

Scientists will laugh at me now

DNA child, it’s DNA

But with this mind of a child

I will continue ceaselessly

As if it were a matter of my favorite toy

On the shelf

 

The answers

Like that toy

Will never satisfy

As much as inspire

More and more

Questions

More and more looking

At more and more toys

More and more answers

That never complete

This … desire?

 

I’m going to keep on asking

Like the scientists do, too

Because maybe I’m not just a child

Maybe I am one of them

Maybe we all can be

 

What brings that DNA together?

What commands those molecules?

What is it?

 

Look at anything around you

Ask yourself–what is it?

 

Whatever it is, you are a product of it

So am I

 

And if it’s desire, shouldn’t we tune into it?

I mean, if you do something you don’t desire

Aren’t you going against it?

 

If two people don’t share a desire

It is incomplete

Nothing will hold together

It will break apart

 

If someone stalks you

You will ask the police to come

You will tell the person to fuck off

A million times

Even if their molecules

Construct an ego

That won’t listen

 

You are part of this desire matrix

Telling molecules what to do

Your molecules

Someone else’s

 

The configuration we are discussing now

My fingers and your mind

As you read this

There is a command of molecules, atoms

 

The electric attention of your mind

If a video can travel over invisible space and time

To reach your phone

Why can’t desire bring this message to your mind?

And your mind to draw its own conclusions?

 

I’m not convinced

Never convinced

And if you read my stuff you know

I don’t believe anything

So that I can study everything

 

And today, I wonder

 

What is it?

Is it … desire?

 

 

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Poetry/Prose

The New Dementia (SOC reflections on time with grandma)

Grandma finishing a puzzle of my sister and I on an iPad (Image/editing credit: mine)

Grandma finishing a puzzle of my sister and I on an iPad (Image/editing credit: mine)

Last night

We sliced through darkness

*

Turned on hairpins

Of winding roads

*

Where headlights end

Imagination begins

*

A lone car on the highway

Gliding over bluffs

Between two tiny towns

*

It’s 55–she announced

Bundled in a blanket

Sitting soft, still

A mother hen

*

How dare I argue

With 93 years

Of grandma

*

How dare I do anything

But dance

With her dementia

*

“Where is Jennifer?”

With Connie

“Where are you staying?”

Cedarberry

“Have you seen your dad yet?”

We just had dinner with him–remember?

“Where are you staying?”

Cedarberry

“Oh … that’s nice.”

*

*Smile,* repeat
Not exactly

*

“Where’s Jennifer?!”

 With Connie

*

Meantimes

Watching emotions

Chasing tornadoes

Forgetting

Remembering

*

Over and over

Those days

Her council

Gone

*

Who am I?

Without her

*

Anyway

*

Transcendent spirit

We are one

*

Your Soul

The Wizard of Oz

*

The silent mind

Your yellow-brick road

*
The brain

Data processor

Emotional processor

Memory processor

Word processor

*
Fathom?

If there were no words

Could you think about it?

*

Other languages

You’ll never know

And those people

With those tongues

They think about it

*
Not enough sleep

Not enough will

Not enough understanding

Systems crash

Get old

Couldn’t think

Even if one wanted to

*
The soul rises

Shining through logic’s cracks

*
The demented mind

Ever as bright

Just, somehow, now

Diffuse

Like the feathers of a dove

Flown away

Left behind

*

We know they were there

*
We hold hands

She tells me what to do

Forgets

Asks

Surrenders

*
To everyone else’s words

*
I remove her shoes and socks

Rub her feet

Help her into her nighty

Assist her with her dentures

See a part of her

*
Vulnerable

Agitated

Reaching constantly

Again and again

For the slipping veil

Grace

*
Through her

I find a part of myself

The selfless part

*
“Emily,” she says

“You are such a big help”

*
But I can’t take all that

I’d be nothing

Without her

*
She sits on bed’s edge

Swings her legs up

Rolls to her side

*

Grandma, are you comfortable?

“No.”

*

Let’s get you comfortable.

*
She turns to me

Her blue-green eyes

Targeting

As they always have

My very soul

*
She smiles

Shakes her head softly

As if I missed the point

*

“No, hehe—it’s okay; I won’t be comfortable.”

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Poetry/Prose

Secrets from the Projector Room

Image credit: the-guided-meditation-site.com

Image credit: the-guided-meditation-site.com

If you have read my previous two posts, you may know I invented two souls based on observing perfect strangers in Barcelona (as part of a creativity workshop there).

The final related assignment was to imagine what secrets they would tell each other,* as follows:

From the Tattooed “Tough Guy” to the Servant

“What you are doing is fine, so much as you are 100 percent sure that it’s your destiny. If there is any doubt inside you, listen to it.

“Respond to it, and let life into your experience. If a life this way is deeply satisfying and enough, stay in your way, in your occupation … upon that line of railroad tracks.

“Enjoy life–enjoy leading your life. Take pride in yourself, and remember you have nothing to prove.

“Finally, whoever he or she is, makes sure that they love you, I mean really love you.”

From the Servant to the Tattooed Man

“Sir, if I may suggest, find contentment inside your every action. Find reassurance in the path you are upon. Explore the possibility of life being a vast, wide, deep stream.

“Understand that whatever you do is as essential as the Sun is to the Solar System and at the same time as insignificant as the stranger I have never met.

“Embrace this paradox.”

 

*I can see through this exercise the power of projection. Not knowing these people, I have imagined their souls based on my own perspective. Therefore, I could only be projecting things inside myself onto them. All of these thoughts are therefore from my own closet–past lives, imaginations, dreams, impressions, my own unconscious attic!

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Poetry/Prose

Dear Grandma

Image/editing credit: mine (Beijing street market, 2010)

Image/editing credit: mine (Beijing street market, 2010)

I’ve been traveling and having many experiences.

Of course I have spent time with men, but lately I am more interested in you and people very close to my heart.

I have visited South Asia, Europe, Central America, China, India and Nepal.

Now I live in the Middle East in fact.

People are so fascinating the world over, Grandma.

Not just the way they think but how society reflects this and, more deeply, how nature informs it.

Our thoughts, our way.

We are all human, but in these different habitats we have developed different natures, and it’s stunning.

Now, with globalization, nature is confronted by money.

Man (absent feminine impulse) uses money and industry to try to triumph over nature.

Everywhere starts to seem homogenous, but we cannot be fooled out of our natures.

And as we try to mix and mingle, we run into these edges of ourselves, challenging them in one another.

It’s so interesting, Grandma.

Sometimes I wish you could see all that I have so that I could talk with you about it in detail.

I know you would understand.

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Poetry/Prose

Assignments

Image and editing credit: mine

Image and editing credit: mine

Rolling over

He found her face

Asked without a word:

Did you want me to change you darling?

Because I’m afraid I will

When we say a thing

When we do a thing

We set it free

Why does it matter what it means, to you, to me?

Isn’t it such a pleasure, to know there is so much more, to anything, than what we say it means?

After kindergarten

We got all these assignments

Until we learned

To make everything

An assignment

Tell me

Love

Tell me

When do we graduate?

From yesterday’s meaning

Tomorrow’s fantasy

Listen here

What does any of it mean?

What did it mean, when it was not me?

When it was not you?

When everyone thought it was so damn good?

When people scorned and whispered that it wasn’t right

Just get under it

Immerse yourself in it

It’s everything

So why does it have to mean something?

To you, to me, to anyone

If it is

It is alive

Self evident

Waiting shamelessly

To overrule our little minds

Do you wrap the sacred in words?

In thoughts that struggle to be words?

In feelings that want to find patterns?

Do you wrap it in a pretty present?

Throw it in the garbage?

What do you do with it?

What CAN you really do with it?

Do you see now?

Nothing

And that’s what it means

Because it is

And we are, too

Beyond, beyond, so beyond

Assignments

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Poetry/Prose

Nothing but Time

 

Image credit--"The I of Time" from "Salvador Dali and Julia Childs" on Fashionista 514

Image credit–“The I of Time” from “Salvador Dali and Julia Childs” on Fashionista 514

For those with vision, justice is hardly a steadfast lover–for sure, it is NOT going to come running into your arms.

In reality, justice is more like some random, hot person who walks into a cafe and gives you a knowing nod.

You can’t plan the encounter … and, while it delights, you never needed a whole lot of it anyway … in fact, it was kind of distracting.

Today I realized that trying to be in tight with justice has only caused me continuos displays of disgrace.

Time is a much more trustworthy companion, and as I turn to it–finally noticing its subtle yet striking beauty–I think “aha, now I’m getting somewhere.”

So when you see things that others don’t, state your position and leave them to it. Cuddle up with time.

And when justice traipses past you two making out at the cafe, you can look up, wink, and turn back to your life in progress.

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