When We Are Ready

Not far off, the big bells are tolling.
If I sat down now, I’d fall right to sleep.

The world is a heavy wheel, crushing
the ugly and the lovely indiscriminately.

Their blood mingles in the soil, seeps down
to the sleeping roots of things, pushing up
tall stalks with sharply pointed thorns.

Blood-red rose buds bloom, blossom
into light against a deep blue sky.

We can’t resist their perfume.
Bell-like, they resonate at a subtle
frequency with the fragrance of experience.

When I came to your door, the rosy sky
was just about to open. The bells were
to remind us: don’t fall back to sleep.

Entranced by the gorgeous music of our loving,
amazing moments blossomed through space,
extending tendrils beyond mortality.

They scattered in time like fallen rose petals
without our knowledge or consent, vanishing
like the poignant echo of distant tolling bells.

With nothing remaining to add or subtract,
when we are ready we’ll lay down together.
Bells and roses will form that wheel
which rolls us gladly into light.

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The Real God

I have left behind all my other lives
to be with you in this one now.
How easily we fall together.

The one I once was — wandering, lonely,
through cities, valleys, and forests —
let him go on, that sleepwalker.

I have found you — nothing before this
matters anymore. Just to be with you,
wherever we are, is everything.

All around us the trees are swaying,
every kind of flower comes up
where we walk — the colors!

Could the sky itself shine any brighter
than when our eyes flow into each other,
sharing the light once given to us for this?

A field of white lilies in the moonlight —
before this world was ever imagined
we stood together there, speechless!

Whatever was true then is the same now.
This bliss: the way your hand takes mine,
the way the real God dreams us now.

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Garland of My Beloved

My Beloved
rises before dawn,
makes daylight possible.

My Beloved’s gaze
turns slowly skyward —
sudden streaks of color,
strange blossoms of wonder.

My Beloved
calls down every kind
of bird. They pose gladly,
loving the light in her eyes.

My Beloved’s hand
brushes softly against me —
serene sense door to samadhi.

My Beloved
pierces heavy clouds
of gloom, worry, stress
with her solar smile, easily.

My Beloved’s heart
makes a safe warm space
for shy animals, wounded ones.

My Beloved
wears moons for earrings,
strands of stars grace her neck.

My Beloved’s touch
makes gods and goddesses
envious, they want to draw closer.

My Beloved
stands near the bare fig tree —
sudden blossoming purple fruit.

My Beloved’s tears
nourish unknown flowers
on the other side, compassion.

My Beloved
wanders the sky fields,
her song connects the galaxies.

My Beloved’s embrace
weds form and formlessness,
there is no trace of separation.

My Beloved
dances in a sacred circle,
there is only consciousness.



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Tonight, nothing makes a difference.

Blown along cold coasts of reason,
the western wind is winding down now
to a softer part of the feeling, is warm
on the tip of the eye I am keeping
like a lover on this moon.

This moon!

Her naked radiance,
blatant and unashamed,
blasts the billion tiny mirrors
studded diamond-like within my cells,
ablaze with urgent white-light moonshine.

When stray strands of sly grey fog
seductively wrap themselves around us,
we might be tempted to the old debate:

“Destiny, or free will?”

Talking breeds its own dilemmas –
dueling concepts, mixed metaphors –
though we assume no fixed positions,
nodding to each other in that sweet
redundancy ancient loving brings.

We know that anything other than
the most impeccable humor in the face
of delusion merely postpones true serenity.

For no particular reason, and yet
for every reason there ever could be,
we smile — we have nothing to defend.

That’s true serenity, which is never
anything like the idea of itself.

Neither are you and I. We’re nothing
conceivable or even perceivable.

We indulge no secret motive to have anything
be other than what it is – a passing phantom
flash of itself, reflected like moonshine
on the black lacquer shell of itself.

The sheer intensity of this love
shines so strong our hands open up
and something invisible flies out
to blend with endlessness.

As I move closer to you (though between us
no distance exists), the subtle glances we share
stir emotions in beings still waiting to be born.

They’re all euphorically anticipating our next
full embrace. We will not disappoint them.

Here, within the bosom of this looming fog
of forgetfulness, something mysterious seems
to persist, impaled by shafts of intermittent
moonshine on the tip of our attention.

Grasping at nothing, turning nothing away,
we pause here, poised at the outermost reach
of vision’s lighthouse light beam, transfixed
at the exquisite nexus of darkness and light.

All effort has led us here.
All effort dissolves here.

From this time on, there will be
no landmarks, no buoys.

Somewhere, in the measureless
distance, a fog horn sounds:

I feel you . . . breathing . . . me

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Here, like a mesmerizing melody of Balinese gamelan chimes,
mind streams on, ripe with the inconceivable energy which turns
the great galactic wheels, suffused with the sublime indifference
of a blind magus who foresees the collapse of all worlds, all light
drawn back into an infinitesimal nucleus, a thin thread of smoke
lingering momentarily to signal the pure beauty of its absence.

Here, which is not a place in time or space, that dynamic silence
of the eternal, the womb of emptiness in which love fashions
itself into you and I, births us into the mysterious expanse,
alive, with no idea, no word to contain our wonder
at the appearance of each other, our simple awe
at the arising of anything, anything at all.

Here, in our pristine innocence, we stand prior to desire,
inherently and forever prior to fear. Imagine — no craving
for anything to be other than it is, nor the slightest impulse
towards avoidance, trepidation, or regret. Such perfection,
unbearable, invokes the imperfect, calls it forth from
within the ebony void of itself, where the un-named
unknown revolves in the bliss of pre-existence.

Here, it is only through the imperfect that the perfect
can experience itself. Only by means of consciousness
is awareness capable of recognizing itself. Only through
you and I, these relative forms, can the Divine, the Absolute,
enjoy its own timeless presence, its radiance, its is-ness.

Here, in the dreaming place where everything is real,
where the slightest movement of will can influence
the trajectory and evolution of whole star systems,
where the incomprehensible vastness itself is
swallowed up by an even greater vastness,
we face each other — two clear mirrors
reflecting one irresistible light.

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Bitey Face Pirate Girl

She jumps down from her armchair perch
to pounce on the green stuffed whale.

She really likes to bite that toy!

She doesn’t know what a whale is,
she’s never actually been to sea.

She simply has a bitey little mouth
and the whale is soft and fun to chew.

We call her the Bitey Face Pirate Girl,
because, when she’s happily engrossed
in her biting, she makes the famous
pirate growl: “Aaarrrggghhhh . . . .”

When tired of the toy, she’ll jump back
to her place on the chair and begin
to stalk and bite my finger.

This Love God’s teeth are tiny!

You can tell she’s happy because
her curly tail is wagging furiously.

Her delicate little bites are forms
of exquisite canine happiness.

You say she likes my salt. Whatever
the case, I surrender it all gladly
to the Bitey Face Pirate Girl!

Far above our roof, beyond the blue dome
which covers us like a spacious airy blanket,
creatures may appear and disappear in every part
of the galaxy, strange creatures which we never
even know about, nor do they know about us.

For you and I, it is more than enough just
to sit and watch our darling Tiny Tot
at play with her green whale toy.



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Nearer Than Ever

I was too far away to hear you, so you made a sign by raising your hand and pointing to the sky. I could see sparks trace up your arm and then shoot out your finger. I sensed that something was nearer now than ever before, at least in this present cycle, but not many others seemed to notice, and among them, even fewer seemed to care. As it is, it didn’t matter whether they did or not, because you knew, and that made me smile in the dark.

Was this what you were showing me? That it was dusk, and that soon the night would be complete? That stars would be shooting sparks into space? That everyone would notice then, and perhaps everything would finally soften and change — the hard glances, the distrust of embodiment, the addiction to suffering?

From someplace deep within — a shining place that the verbal mind could never reach — I knew that space would absorb every spark as if nothing had happened at all, and only then would we appear from that empty space, fresh as rain falling in the night, and though everyone else was sleeping, you would be awake, you would know, and you would try to show me, even though we were too far away to do anything but wave, heartbreakingly.

At that moment, I was nearly space itself, except for a few ideas. One of those ideas went something like this: all provisional limitations on the great universal magnetism are spontaneously dissolved so that everything everywhere flies together — atoms, molecules, precious bodies of beings, societies, planets, moons, whole galaxies fuse together into an enormous mass of glowing immensity, wildly shooting luminous sparks in all directions forever.

The other ideas in one way or another involved devising creative antidotes to religions and politics, to lies and control schemes, to division and cruelty. Animals would saunter right up to you and lick your face and hands without any fear of retribution. People would have nothing to argue about, so there would be mostly silence and bird songs that nobody could quite pinpoint.

And sure, this may all be crazy talk, but here a tiny dog has crawled over onto my lap to lick my writing hand, so I know it is possible — the way she looks up at me makes me certain it is all nearer than ever now, and I suspect from your facial gladness that you just might agree.


b lick

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