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What a delightful, uplifting poem. Thanks for sharing. Sarah
From: Steve Toth <poetree1968@...>
Sent: Saturday, January 31, 2009 10:52:15 PM
Subject: [VoicesOfThePhilosophersStone] Mom
Sometimes the world seems so cold
we light candles
just to run our fingers
through a little warmth
but it was never that way with you
One by one you adopted us
You wanted everyone
to call you Mom
& so we would
never call you anything else
The love we feel
the moment you come to mind
is prayer itself at work
& so you live
The universe does not
revolve around you.
The stars and planets spinning
through the ballroom of space
dance with one another
quite outside of your small life.
You cannot hold gravity
or seasons; even air and water
inevitably evade your grasp.
Why not, then, let go?
You could move through time
like a shark through water,
neither restless or ceasing,
absorbed in and absorbing
the native element.
Why pretend you can do otherwise?
The world comes in at every pore,
mixes in your blood before
breath releases you into
the world again. Did you think
the fragile boundary of your skin
could build a wall?
Listen. Every molecule is humming
its particular pitch.
Of course you are a symphony.
Whose tune do you think
the planets are singing
as they dance?
~ Lynn Ungar ~
(Blessing the Bread)
Web version: www.panhala.net/Archive/Boundaries.html
Web archive of Panhala postings: www.panhala.net/Archive/Index.html
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To the editor: feel free to delete if this is inappropriate for this
As I got out of my car, my eyes penciled in on the tight dark circle
of a large cigar.
The familiar strong odor crossed the parking lot as I walked towards
the small man with big cigar.
It reminded me of when I was a kid and the southern Italian men smoked
Sure enough, he was of Italian extraction, a Vietnam Vet, with one eye.
Friendly, he told me of the war – a war he thought to end all wars –
but, he said, "they never cease and the senators lie".
Recalling what it felt like having a gun to his back and pointing to
his missing eye, he could barely see, he told me, out of the other eye.
He could, however, see the flag as he pointed one out overhead to me –
big red and white stripes with stars.
Yes, he could see the flag, but he couldn't see the big lettering
anymore nor read it.
He woke up after sudden open heart surgery and has diabetes now.
He fell over something in the pool earlier this week and as I listened
he lives between disasters.
He said the politicians lie to us – always more wars – always
I agreed. He concluded that "it's really a war on one's own people
eventually to send good men like this off."
At the bank line I overheard him ask if there were any 50 cent pieces
of dollar coins.
Quickly I told my teller that I wanted the dollar coin to come from me
as a present.
A trinket really, but as he thanked me saying it was for his
I told him I Wished that Never Again Would ANYone in His Family Have
to Go to War Again.
Forever I wished his bloodlines down all generations from this point
forward peace from these horrors.
I was angry for him.
The young TV watching teller told me as if she knew about it that she
thought we should get out of Iraq, but that it was good we went there.
Lily in her job, young in her life, she hadn't seen his decades of war
nor considered his life.
Instead, I saw the possibilities of his life if it hadn't been
disturbed, if he hadn't lost an eye or known a gun at his back.
I saw his family – children and grandchildren. Each one of their
lives had been different because as family patriarch, he came back a
one-eyed, never well man, his own potential spent before its time.
I liked him.
I found it a crime against him and his family that our good bloodlines
are disturbed by incessant wars and service that never seems to end as
target after target is selected.
Eventually, he pointed out, "We, the US people are also as a nation
thereby under attack. External wars", he said, "really are ones also
against our own people and tax payers". I considered his words seeing
the potential if industries had remained here, people worked fewer
hours, no debt, and communities had developed intact without bussing
to destabilize everyone. I considered in our case, decades of war
have finally bankrupted the nation. The ship has run aground when no
war was needed, and certainly wouldn't have been initiated by the
people, unless in lock step they had been heavily conditioned to think
like the young teller who thinks she knows. Debtors, yes, I thought,
from this we will be overcome.
The man got into a big truck with a big US Army decal on it. His
vehicle was plastered with patriotic stickers.
There was something happy and zany as he drove off ... even though I
knew and he knew, his view of the road was quite different than one
would expect for a driver of this big machine.
I didn't care. Life is too surreal. I was glad he was driving.
I don't thank him for his service. I don't expect the Viet Cong would
have come here and robbed my refrigerator or come to take my job then
here. I'm sorry he and others were asked to serve.
I'm glad he's still driving even if he can only see flags and a couple
Moving forward in time, what patterns of suffering will emanate from
the ones fighting "for US" today?
As I look at this man and the bankruptcy this country has become, who
cares if he's driving when he shouldn't be. We have much bigger
problems than if a poor man with bills and diabetes is on our streets
smoking his cigar.
Sometimes in real life, it's hard to distinguish who is the student
and who is the teacher.
When a student, a great one, selects beyond time
the teacher is summoned
Returning to those
Capabilities and Potentials
He had before and will learn to express again.
Working through time
Each time is different - Alive.
A virtuous cycle – un-degreed and un-decreed –
a personal conversation ensues.
Life teachers are a treasure we're given
for a season or cycle or more.
May I always be faithful and helpful to my students and teachers,
wisely and faithfully with the Fates doing best as their soul essence
This is the ancient way - earned through and across many lives
building a tapestry of being – beyond self.
It is one aspect of true evolution.
One applies oneself well as a student, studying and working to improve.
But also as teacher, one is taught, not in an opportunist sense, but
unexpectedly and often with great power, as the essence of a student
works with the teacher to assure its development unhindered across all
c SigrunZ FolkSoul Channelings 8th Horning (Feb) 7708 PC
Thanks for the reading. Mom was a real person named Fran Simpson who
had just been placed in a hospice. The doctors were giving her one
week to a month. Her Son was good enough to take the time to copy
this poem & read it to her. She died last Saturday. But on two
other groups, one person's Mom died on the day the poem was posted &
another a few days before. They both asked me about the timing.
--- In VoicesOfThePhilosophersStone@yahoogroups.com, Sarah McFarland
> What a delightful, uplifting poem. Thanks for sharing. Sarah
> From: Steve Toth <poetree1968@...>
> To: VoicesOfThePhilosophersStone@yahoogroups.com
> Sent: Saturday, January 31, 2009 10:52:15 PM
> Subject: [VoicesOfThePhilosophersStone] Mom
> Sometimes the world seems so cold
> we light candles
> just to run our fingers
> through a little warmth
> but it was never that way with you
> One by one you adopted us
> You wanted everyone
> to call you Mom
> & so we would
> never call you anything else
> The love we feel
> the moment you come to mind
> is prayer itself at work
> & so you live
> uplifting spirit
> Steve Toth
Six robins divvy up the space
in the apple tree catching the last
rays of sun before withdrawing
in silence as the neighborhood redwood
is silhouetted against the lilac
& cherry blossom sky
So what if some people insist
the earth worries about us
about as much
as we worry about
the mites that live
in our eyebrows?
There are others who will tell you
the earth is fully aware
of everything each
of its atoms is doing
in every body in existence
& she does it for the stories
The clear nights are the coldest
The only stars we'll be seeing
are the ones that are on fire
& like the stars we are still burning
loaded with light & breath taking
wonders never to be repeated
Land After Land is Destroyed.
People buy things they wouldn't otherwise need and what is not always
good for them.
Layer after layer of new falsenesses twists the concensus, weakens the
education systems, turns health care from its service, and throughout
society keeps people in service to the ads, creating mass ADD.
LOVE POEM 10
I was out of place
trying to remember the words
for sunrise & rose
I was crying in a strange tongue
Waiting for tomorrow to come
so I could get to work
It is not that you set my obstacles on fire
It is that you burn them up so quickly
Some people say love kills brain cells
Love can sure be hell on the ego
Just what I need
The quest for experience is all consuming
Your intimate details are
what I long to learn
You are the queen of my swarming bees
Our fruitful love is still growing blossoms
Do you ever wonder who you are really?
You are the love of my life
I fought with love & love won
I have so many things to tell you
but once I catch the look in your eyes
I forget them all
You make something beautiful out of my being
a rush of pure joy
For a New Beginning
In out-of-the-way places of the heart,
Where your thoughts never think to wander,
This beginning has been quietly forming,
Waiting until you were ready to emerge.
For a long time it has watched your desire,
Feeling the emptiness growing inside you,
Noticing how you willed yourself on,
Still unable to leave what you had outgrown.
It watched you play with the seduction of safety
And the gray promises that sameness whispered,
Heard the waves of turmoil rise and relent,
Wondered would you always live like this.
Then the delight, when your courage kindled,
And out you stepped onto new ground,
Your eyes young again with energy and dream,
A path of plenitude opening before you.
Though your destination is not yet clear
You can trust the promise of this opening;
Unfurl yourself into the grace of beginning
That is at one with your life's desire.
Awaken your spirit to adventure;
Hold nothing back, learn to find ease in risk;
Soon you will be home in a new rhythm,
For your soul senses the world that awaits you.
~ John O'Donohue ~
(To Bless the Space Between Us)
THAT LIVES IN US
If you put your hands on this oar with me,
they will never harm another, and they will come to find
they hold everything you want.
If you put your hands on this oar with me, they would no longer
lift anything to your
mouth that might wound your precious land â€“
that sacred earth that is your body.
If you put your soul against this oar with me,
the power that made the universe will enter your sinew
from a source not outside your limbs, but from a holy realm
that lives in us.
Exuberant is existence, time a husk.
When the moment cracks open, ecstasy leaps out and devours space;
love goes mad with the blessings, like my words give.
Why lay yourself on the torturerâ€™s rack of the past and the future?
The mind that tries to shape tomorrow beyond its capacities
will find no rest.
Be kind to yourself, dear â€“ to our innocent follies.
Forget any sounds or touch you knew that did not help you dance.
You will come to see that all evolves us.
~ Rumi ~
(Love Poems From God: Twelve Sacred Voices from the East and West
by Daniel Ladinsky)
Web version: www.panhala.net/Archive/That_Lives_in_Us.html
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Hi Everyone. I am just posting a note here to let you know that I'm still alive. I have had my ups and downs with depression ove the last couple of years due to the bypass, and the meds have well taken care of most of the problem, but I do still have many hidden problems concerning this matter.
This is one reason why I only post at certain times, and at certain sites, as it is so hard to control, plus the fact that I am working nearly non-stop these days on the writing, or the artwork, plus now getting into the running for a Poet Laureate her in the valley.[ posted 23 runners now in review, March 11 will choose final 3, March 17th the poet Laureate for the Silicon Valley.]
I am also currently publishing my fourth book of poetry, plus the fact of all the side line creating...and home life.[ truly there are angels watching over me.] My depressive wit sometimes turns people off, so I have to know when to communicate also, and to maybe who and why.
I have been creating poetry on just a few sites, at risk that some of them might be up to par. I never used to worry about that, but then there are those few who take everything so personally, that the poetry has long been forgotten, and the arguements keep lingering.
For anyone reading my work, they would know that I am quite often off the wall with my work, this is what makes me the poet that I am.[ Reaching out to new boundaries in a material world.] [ Same goes for the art work- don't ya know.]
So...... If I reach out to you, or if I don't, either way...its an up or down. I'm quite impressed with all the friends that I have found over the years...here on the Internet...this World Wide Web. Ed......................................
Hi Everyone. I thought I would send this post as a grouping message. For everyone who is interested in art, I have found a site that deals with the latest artwork of many new artists...I am hoping to get some of my artwork placed here
The site is ugallery.com // I hope you find it ok.....if not, let me know. On my work as with the fine art....they will price, and sale the work, and ship it for free to the buyer, at only a mere charge from the sale. [ It sounds pretty good....] Ed.
Book Of Flowers
by Edward Wolverton@2009
She Loves me,
she loves me not.
For every pedal
there is a rose,
for every rose
there is laughter and love.
The book of life
is covered with flowers,
such is the scent
of such sweet roses.
A book upon a bed of roses,
as red the blood that pumps
the power of life is this rose,
to hold such enduring love
and cover this book
of my heart.
A bed of many flowers
to cover the book of life,
the colors shine
as the golden sun glows,
how true my love
is this single red rose
to touch your ever loving heart.
I hold this book of flowers
near my chest to thee,
to sing,to love
it twas my heart to be,
this one and only flower
within a page
and time to dry a spell of tears,
from a book of many flowers.
THIS COMING SPRING
to the earth
raped in hell
Let's break out together
this coming spring
before we die in our shells
Let's blow these seeds sky high
Let's burst into green
flames of life
It's really a simple story Beings find planet. Beings treat planet badly. Planet goes about her business. Beings start to realize that they need planet, and had best learn to make friends rather than futilely keeping up enmity.
Gaea: A Ritual Performance
layers of imagery, music, tribal drums, futuristic dreams
Gaea was there, in the beginning. Gaea was all. Gaea was wise.
How could we not have seen, in the blindness of pride, of avarice,
of service pledged to false gods?
The journey was long.
The journey was cold.
The journey was lonely.
Asleep in a box with wilderness dreams.
Or awake on the watch, wondering what was to come.
Thus it was those false gods bespake us:
Out of the cold vastness of space and time,
out of the fear that was all the companion we knew,
out of a need to make it all Someone else's responsibility,
out of a need to believe all would be well for our kind.
Our planet was dying.
We did what we could to survive.
Survival we find
an appopriate end
to any means.
Survival will give us
the time we need
to find a better way
The strongest of us,
the proudest of us,
the meanest of us,
would not allow us to die.
We took off in our ship with the barest of plans
to find another land
where our kind could live ...
hybrid children evolved
fleeing a hostile star
Skygods and Earth Mother of ancient lore.
It's time we relinquish fear and hatred,
accept Gaea as partner and home
that we may all live and thrive.
The land, when we found her was so warm and inviting.
We felt safe, supported, encouraged to grow.
We ate of her fruit and her herds.
We built with her trees, stone and clay.
We drank from her cool crystal streams
which we soiled with our waste.
Gaea was saviour and womb.
We repaid her with rape.
We didn't understand,
thought her merely land,
thought ourselves masters from afar.
Gaea sent storms to bring us to our senses, wild winds and seas.
Gaea tried to shake us off: Earthquakes, Floods, Famine, Plagues
sending us scattering into hiding,
intermingling with her primates, Gaea's children.
Without question or shame, we murdered what we could not steal.
Without honor or remorse, we laid waste to our host,
to our adopted home,
then cursed her for not giving more.
By accident or design, chimera adapting to Gaea's marketplace,
creating new ways to define our origins from outer space.
We lied to our halfling children, denigrated their Gaean kin,
twisted their virtues into a false concept that we called "sin."
What Gaea did to us? Cruel, evil, in need of the whip.
We seal over her bounty
into mad parody of Mother Ship.
Unforgiving of the mess of living, the miracles of life.
In our ignorant pride we gave ourselves law to decide
propriety over fate
in our minds
into a mirror of hate.
Frozen in fear and rage, children swept out in the storm,
trapped in a self-made cage we had hoped to protect us from harm.
Gaea, we cry, why do you treat us so angrily?
What will it take for us to wake up and see it is we who are wrong?
To hear and be aware of Gaea's song singing in our blood?
To learn the cycles, the seasons,
the reasons for fire, wind and flood?
To redefine our race,
to find out that our place is here among our Gaean kin?
The telling of new tale must begin.
Gaea opens to sunshine to ease our agitation.
Easy winds, easy gushing of summer rain.
Feeding the greedy young grains,
growing along the plains, the flowers of the storm.
Feeding the beasts of the field,
continuing the cycle, as all is revealed.
Love is the web,
craftily spun by great mother spider,
weaving magestic grace
no longer concealed. It was never our place
to control, nor others' to steal.
Gaea creates in intricate arrangements,
feeding us all of us all, a transformative stew.
So much energy wasted; painful lies to find our way through
our beings to create such beautiful
children, reaching out to become and be free,
enjoying our destiny,
as Gaea's beloved.
Arising in the circle, giving voice to pain --
grateful to Gaea's grace, dancing in her cleansing rain,
we sing in voice united:
It would be so nice (paradise)
You and I
Floating in the sunlight
Ready to break free
Exactly who we are.
(c) April 7, 2006 Laurie Corzett
--- In VoicesOfThePhilosophersStone@yahoogroups.com, "Steve Toth" <poetree1968@...> wrote:
> THIS COMING SPRING
> We came
> to the earth
> for love
> but then
> we got
> raped in hell
> Let's break out together
> this coming spring
> before we die in our shells
> Let's blow these seeds sky high
> Let's burst into green
> flames of life
> Steve Toth
After the showers the robins come
listening to grubs & worms
disturbed by the rain water
I start to daydream I'm a bird
Don't know what kind
My instincts come so naturally
I never have to think about
or even remember them
The hardest thing about taking flight
is getting off the ground
no matter how hollow your bones are
Some birds leap before flapping
Others run until the pressure lifts
Some birds fly like a fish on a hook
Others show the clouds how
to navigate the air at full speed
By their songs I know
which of my neighbors is still alive
& if everyone is where they belong
Sometimes the begging cries
of nestlings can put them in danger
If you've got any fear
don't let it show
Wings of storm don't stop at love
While reading in the gray morning
suddenly the table before me
The clouds have cracked
just enough for a narrow
shaft of sunlight
to slip through
striking the table
Is this some kind of a sign?
Can I be a chosen one?
But the crack in the clouds closes
& the table turns to shadow
before I can finish saying wow
In the 5th century B.C.
an Indian philosopher
Gautama teaches "All is emptiness"
and "There is no self."
In the 20th century A.D.
Barbie agrees, but wonders how a man
with such a belly could pose,
smiling, and without a shirt.
~ Denise Duhamel ~
For Barbie's Fiftieth Anniversary
LET NOTHING SILENCE YOU
O wind I know you feel free
Let nothing silence you
I'd like to dance with you
but must you drive
drive drive me like the rain
You make it sound
like all the air
in the whole sky
is rushing past our house
in one evening
You blow the words right out
of my mouth
& yet I keep breathing you
O words what are you saying?
You can kill someone
with kindness too
Your fire has no heat
Your food has no taste
Your water isn't even wet
Argument can sway one's thinking
but experience will feel free
to change your body
Is there ever an answer
that's as good as the question?
Or does silence just seem to come
naturally when you listen?
After a hard day's forage
Two bears sat together in silence
On a beautiful vista
Watching the sun go down
And feeling deeply grateful
Though, after a while
A thought-provoking conversation began
Which turned to the topic of
The one bear said,
"Did you hear about Rustam?
He has become famous
And travels from city to city
In a golden cage;
He performs to hundreds of people
Who laugh and applaud
The other bear thought for
A few seconds
~ Hafiz ~
(The Gift - versions of Hafiz by Daniel Ladinsky)
Web version: www.panhala.net/Archive/Two_Bears.html
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Correction to last three lines:
I will never live through you
I can never be you
I will always be me"
--- In VoicesOfThePhilosophersStone@yahoogroups.com, "consciousrevision"
> Anywhere ... in any lifetime ... when we find one another ... the awakening,
the soul commitment of Troth:
> "I will find you
> Unbind you
> And all ways remind you
> Who you are
> What you are
> And what you can be.
> I will never harm you
> I will always speak well of you
I will never live through you
I can never be you
I will always be me"
> © FolkSoul Channelings February 2009
> Note: more of this is known, but not yet assembled sufficiently for
> Dedicated to Vidar and the Green World of Natural Goodness
THIS VERY MOMENT
The waves are releasing it
as they break into spray
on the rocks
The redwoods exude it
as they breathe out vapors
from their pores
The mountains out gas it slowly
as their rocks mellow with age
I'm talking about
the essential healing energy
more subtle than oxygen
It's surrounding my body
in this very moment
like fog surrounds the boats
in the harbor until you can't
tell them from the water
It touches my skin
with all the gentility of a cloud
making me feel light all over
I inhale it
& it makes its way inside
to where it's needed most
making things sound
as it's passing through
Restoring repairing & making whole
Now my body is radiating
with the power of life itself
& in this familiar room
where I just think
I know everything
there's a strange kind of glow
pulsing in the evening
I guess we can see how
your family got the name
Could it be from the way
you keep flashing
the yellow patch
just above your tail feathers
almost as if you were
using it somehow
to entrance bugs long enough
to get themselves eaten?
You bounce inside the fuchsia
branches like a pinball
rattling between bumpers
You're not about to start
carrying your life around
cautiously like a too full cup
APPOINTMENT WITH THE BELOVED
At the podiatry office
they say what happened
to your face?
It is all swollen on the left side
I think I might
have an abscess
The doctor advises me about
the uses of oil of cloves
& salt water
Then they start calling
every dentist listed
in the phone book
My doctor relates a story
of a young woman
who was on chemotherapy
& squeezed a pimple on her nose
then died a few days later
of brain infection
Everywhere I go there is
someone to tell me
You know with an abscess
it's either a root canal
or you have to go ahead
& have it pulled
Some people say language
is simply a filing procedure
for locating the invoices
of experience a lifetime of living
has alphabetized into
our nervous systems
I may know next to nothing about
what words are dropping in
but we're so deeply in love
we'll never be much good
for anything else anyway
& even now I feel like I'm blooming
Still a coyote
we come across in the park
pulling feathers off
a dead peacock body
shows its teeth & snarls
at our approach
Bright hummingbird stops dead
in mid-air before
an unopened peach tulip
takes a quick look at an open one
& then rushes off
with a burst of speed
Hummingbirds just seem to know
where every flower blossom
is supposed to be
& when something new pops up
they just have to
check it out in a hurry
Maybe I need a hummingbird
to show me where
to look for wonders but how
can I be lost in our own garden?
Like roses I've grown thorns
Like poison oak I've acted rashly
Thank God, Good Friday
He came back
And we can worship, believe
Not like everyone else
He did not abandon us
Dying in a far off war, leaving
starvation for affectionate attention
pummeling harsh walls with
Banging against the icy windowpane
crying salt, oceanic sorrow
"I tried to be good. I hated hearing
your screams of disappointment
muffling shameful despair
because this was not the life
you bargained for in the
promised land beyond
hot desert wanders"
Desert, resurrected sea
where we all began
Sliding along rocky formations
begetting, begatting, belonging
to the Earth, mud creatures
breathing molecules of air,
baking in the Sun
Ready for sacrifice
carrying crosses along a huge column
era to era
Atlas's and Eves
burdens of responsibility
our sacred contract
broken every time you speak of God
"Take not my Name"
for words have consequence
A cross requires two lines meeting
requires juxtapositions of history,
people in bondage
to their own ideas
(c) April 10, 2009 Laurie Corzett/libramoon
Easter Morn - A Romance
Lightening into morning through all the shades of gray.
And then comes pearly, silvery dawn before the dawn --
Clouds swirling in nacreous patterns,
Almost iridescent with the coming light.
Day break looms, the sky expectant, swells
With tints of mauve and blue and pink and gold,
Oestre breasts then the far horizon, bursts and blooms
There was little sleep the night before;
There were tears, and a sad shouldering of duty.
Before first light she went to the tomb;
It was empty.
I AM the Light that leaps up with the dawning,
Rising in the sun
I Am the Love that holds all possibility within me,
Renewing life, enkindling spirit.
Dark confusion, and fear, and questioning, and mourning
War with hope and trust, and love that is undying.
She seeks, and finds,
And in the dawning witnesses the Living One, arisen,
And knows him not
Until He calls her by Her name.
Lover and Beloved meet on Easter Morn.
~~Crownelady [aka Old Mother OM]
Once Upon An Eostre Morning
In the still chalice
of this sweet morning's blossoming, dear Mary,
dewdrops like sky's tears of beauty's joy...
Am I not here, again,
& are you not here with me?
Do not touch me! (& you know how I love your touch...)
for now is not the time!
Silently & softly I have come unto you;
tenderly I have greeted you...
you who have waited most faithfully,
you who are nearest to me... & I see
your love*eyes bedewed like the petals of this lily.
Your love has the fragrance of forever, sweet Mary...
& I will abide in your love, for a time & a timelessness...
& you will abide in mine unendingly...
This love that expands you, seeds divinity
into each heart who receives our love...
"Lord, where have you been?"
What is any-every dying but a blink of the Eye of Eternity?
A sleep, a dream, an awakening...
I have been in the arms of Her tender mercies...
I have been to the deepest depths of Her ocean of Love,
my head upon Her bosom... Her heartbeat like waves
passing thru me; & She has ministered unto me...
Death, too, is Her Mystery,
Her Face of Darkness, all devouring...
testing the depths of human fear & agony...
upon time's cross of changes...
passage thru the veil of mystery of metamorphosis...
this verylife a cocoon of strange new generation...
"I was so afraid. My tears could not wash away your agony..."
If my executioners had divided my body like my clothes
& spread its pieces to the furthest corners of the earth,
you would have sought out each piece to bring that body
together, again, my little Isis...
For there are fibres that bind us across the infinitudes,
our essences are interwoven across the eternitudes;
in every life we have known each other, o so freshly again,
in this flesh, in that flesh... for your soul sings
the love of the mystical Rose unto me, Rosa Mystica enfleshed
with a tenderness that knows no boundaries.
"My heart is a tumult & is like unto bursting for you..."
As tears burst from the heart of God, Who weeps, too,
remembering *your* tears, dear Mirya Magdalena,
your tears wept for *me*...
But see how these tears have changed! Now they are tears of joy...
in this new morning in your heart... & yet behind your soft bosom...
o how I have loved the softness of your bosom! -- the wild waters
in your heart are like a storm upon the ocean at full moontide,
each heartbeat a new surge of your swift enamoured blood...
How I long to embrace you, sweet Mary... But now is not the time
for such bliss with you; tho this very moment i am remembering
the very First Time you touched me... & the deep-souled beauty
radiating so tremulously from the depths of your eyes, then...
As I have told you, before you felt so bereft...
we have an eternity ahead of us to joy in one another...
with so much to share & bare unto each other...
But for now, go and tell the others the good news...
that I will be coming unto them soon...
The Way Love Works (Part Two)
You are held up high in this self.
And, what is to be
in the universe of space and time
are of, and for your soul's fulfillment only.
Your wish-dreams are
the clothing of spirit for God's revealing.
You ride the cosmic wind of an eternal sun
as the breath of conception.
As the craftsman of creation
you listen to what speaks in your spirit hands
and obey the impulse of a divine love talk
as it shapes all poems of existence
within a limitless sphere of self-creation--
as the love of God to be seen of Herself.
You take your heart-ease in you
here in the space and time of your well-being,
breathing into yourself
what is good and ready to be consumed
in the absorption of spirit,
that it might nourish God also.
You slip through the world
like clear water.
And nothing sticks to your fluid path--
where you leave no footprints of any other--
but Love passing in your way.
You can feel your being
in the breath you draw into your own self
when you let go of trying to breathe
through any other medium but God.
Then you feel the ease of your way in you--
the felt-scent of a traceless joining,
love lapping together in its waves and its depths.
There you ride the same sweet breath
where you are the receiving and the giving--
a life shared in the soul dance
of your divine experience
and breathing for God.
You are nothing more than She can be in You.
And this is the Way of you.
You need no path but your love songs--
poems that shape your soul
and untie your heart from anything but the Beloved.
And you have no questions to ask of the Beloved.
You have no complaints against Her.
You are Her finger
tracing the stars into whatever earth She makes.
You are the fingertip of Her love;
and what you touch becomes your thought--
your endless thought-- carving out Love's images
in all things that mirror your being within them.
The art of the divine
reflects Love's face upon every feature.
The way Love works is not slow or fast.
It slips through time
as your own incestuous investigation--
as a sinuous blade prying open
what can only be opened in your death as Love.
Love has its own ingenious shadow
that feels its way through
to a star-child's sunrise of itself.
It waits for the chink of your horizons
to crack open like a clam shell,
and then lays itself down as your life
when your shell is broken.
It is a secret path--
this Way that keeps no secrets.
You are a secret to yourself.
This secret of God in you is too intimate
to be said in words and the spaces between words--
too sacred to be called from the minaret
or preached by any lesser being but Its own tongue.
Your temple bell has lost its voice,
to be the ringing of the sky.
You are a secret teaching
that has lost its bible in the church of the heart;
and your walls have tumbled down
to be the stars that lay under
whatever meaning the world can preach.
Yet, for a while, a lover must fly his own kite,
keeping a few dreams made out of string and paper.
For Love is revealed in the faith of its moonbeams;
and when his beams seek lesser gods
the God of the One Sun can shine through them.
He should try the air as Love's dream in him.
Flying out and bobbing for a while in the air,
fly a few thought-forms that are his special dream-life--
as if all dreams did not dream each other
in the limbs of one awakening love play.
Until you get crazy-drunk with yourself,
you cannot repent of the world.
You cannot drown the moon in the sun
until the sun receives your shadow.
So, for now, keep a little confidence
just for the flying of a paper moonrise
and a few stray heartstrings.
Be a paper moon willing to burn
so that some God you cannot reach by yourself
may take mercy on you to be that fire that lights only God.
Then you can be mute and simple and not tell how
God has placed you inside of Her
like a key in a lock
that only love can open.
You should keep some silence on
how your skin fits Hers all the way around
and how your blood
has Her spirit-heart beating within it.
How when you speak you can hear the stars shining.
You should fly a few make-believe spaceships
and travel somewhere
and not let on that you are the space
wherein all ships fly,
relation-ships that fly apart only to be Her perception,
endeavoring to keep this secret life
that is the water
where all vessels drown in each other.
You should tell a few stories of love
while drowning in the only story of love
that is beyond your telling.
You should tie a few bits of string
and paper together
and recognize that you had thrown them up
in the air as God.
Until you can fly without paper wings
and have no dream hand to hold onto the string of Love,
it would be too overwhelming to be
your orgasm in a strange body
that you spoke to as Hers.
It would be too confounding
to be the one perfect desire
held within the same drop of imperfection.
God will let go of you
when you are ready to be Her only love.
Until then, keep a thin tissue of secrets
a few lover's lies
placed like a transfer paper
over the face of God,
just a little transfer of love
between here and there,
a little dream space to hide within,
to keep the distance
an eyelash keeps from vision
just for a comfort zone of difference--
just for the sake of a little burglary
where you can steal your heart away
and pretend to have made a distinction,
where you give back your own tears
because you shed them for love
as a gesture, and a transfer of yourself.
You should keep going on like this,
impersonating the impossible
in the contrasting theater lights of illusion,
until the curtain of this deception falls
and the lights go out one by one--
until there is no one left
to keep the mystery of you
but this overwhelming Love
as it raises reflected in Her soul--
until you hear the shattering of empty raindrops
falling from paper clouds--
until you break open into the sky confessions
of God's grace and laughter
with no secret dreams to share but Hers.
Love's imagination is gravid in this drop of yourself.
You fall through your tulip heart
and taste the whole ocean of Reality in that falling,
of the pregnancy of Love's desire,
a desire of faith and an ever infant joy
that expands the universe of you.
You are both the embryo and the Mother;
and, within those two,
the Father shines out.
You are the invocation of Love's prayer
within all growth.
And this is the Way of your becoming--
Love's foretelling of Herself
in every soul birthing.
You die each moment
and are resurrected
into a neonate revealing
of the miraculous conception of Love.
You are the easy path and your yoke is light.
You make no hindrance of yourself.
You seek no advantage over love.
You do not interfere with the flow of being,
but play with each wave of yourself
as if with your only love.
You do not avoid the wave troughs;
and you do not cling to the wave crest,
but flow easily as both,
knowing you are the spirit
that moves upon and in the water of life.
And, in that fidelity, you meet Love as itself--
as it Is and as it becomes in you.
Love wears your body and soul as a marriage ring
upon a hand that touches its own creation.
Love knows Herself in the way you touch Her.
What you touch in yourself as love
feels nothing but Love's touch.
You awaken in the eternal Mind
knowing: this is the heart of everything that will ever be.
For Love cannot awaken
without your will to be its movement.
Love is only known in the act of loving.
Love Is. But, without your being of it,
Love is a door unopened--
a marriage yet to be consummated.
Love is only as wide
as the door you open in the heart of yourself.
The Beloved who knows your love to be Hers alone--
both in your sleep and awareness--
enjoys Herself in your vessel
and kisses every contour of your craft.
She tastes you and loves that taste;
and you live on Her tongue
as a drop of yourself in Her perfect goodness.
You live in Her mouth tasting this thought of love,
while, in the heart of you,
She awaits that kiss of perfection
you have denied yourself.
You are not a secret way.
You have no knowledge and nothing of wisdom
that is apart from Love.
You are simple and that is why you are great--
great with the child of your love.
Your passion is not your own.
You are Her speaking
in the womb of Herself before the delivery
of what She can say as you.
You are Love's labor of love.
You come out of Her easily
and are not apart after that birth.
You enter what She will enter;
and you remain where She will keep you.
You are the Way Love is and will be;
and the thought of what becomes you
is your own self-evident life in God.
You give no meaning of yourself to Love
but reveal Love's meaning in Her Nature.
You dress up in Her-- in God-Lightning,
in the divine silence, in the invisible thunder
of Love's vision.
You are not other than this utterance
in the cave of Her Love
where She listens for Her answer--
Her love revealing the secret of Her.
Your heart now speaks
because you have let go of any language but love.
You are the sound Love makes
in the open mouth of surrender.
You hold yourself close
to whatever loves you into this Self,
and flow out of this Self
as whatever Love has to say.
For now you are turned over.
Love has turned over in you;
and the face of your mirror-soul
now looks upon a self that was hidden in God.
You have become so human
that your soul has flowed out of all bodies
to be the cup that Love drinks from.
You are April rain washing
the hills of your country.
That rain holds within each drop
the myriad features of being
held together by One Love.
You are bathing in where you are
and finding out where you are not
in the cleansing rain
of a timeless awareness.
You are human as a flower is human,
and the earth and sky is your flesh.
You live upheld in a benevolence
of God within you,
uplifted as the tulip heart of a sun
that opens its petals of light
until no petal remains--
only essence shining;
a speaking that is the voice of the blossom
awakened for the delight of Love,
and opened to itself.
You are delighted with this being,
this body of Love shared with all things.
When you look at your hands,
your outspread fingers,
you can see your celestial self
lifting the face of God into infinite emptiness
and returning as the artwork
of an abundant beauty--
a Beauty that needs your eyes to see its reflection.
Forms appear to die and be reborn
upon the fingertips of this Love.
Your fingers spread out further
creating more of Her-- more of you in Her.
Dead sparrows fly in the daffodils.
You are feather-fueled here in the garden
where the passing away is flowering again.
You have found out Love's secret teaching.
Quite by chance
you have stumbled over your mind's skeleton
here in the garden of endless decease
Here, in the limitless body of Love
you become the look the moon has in a dreaming lake
when it stares up at its eternal Beauty.
You have understood what the daisy has known
and the daffodil preaches eternally:
that there never was any rule of Love,
and that the golden rule is to keep nothing,
and there find a priceless gold.
The rules you had been learning
were the sermons of despair
prattled by the insane idols of a God
you had raised as a separation between
what you are
and what you allow yourself to be
in this One Love.
The moon does not need its surface
to be the light of the heavens.
The dark face of your moon-soul
is as clear as the sun both in shadow and light.
The only rule you now can be
is to give every idea you have away
to be God's idea of you as Her,
to be this burning feather
in the daffodil-prayers of becoming,
to be a sparrow consumed by an eagle,
willing to nourish
daffodil-suns with dead feathers
and fly unburdened by any other wings.
You can say yourself in every part of you;
yet, all your words of life
are only the garments of your truth.
That Truth which is Love's work in you
remains the silence of God's knowing--
a knowing that is beyond what can be said.
If you could say your truth
in any other way but love,
you would have to find another language
to speak in--
a sound and word not known in the world
since that morning
when your clock crashed off the wall of time.
that time that was outside of time
that you did not feel in time,
but felt as Love's body turning over in you--
in that dawn, when your tulip heart opened
to be the face of God.
Then the Beloved turned you over
to be Herself.
Then She began to pray in your being
as Her divine expression
and to wash your face in Her body of Love--
a Love that rains ever more clearly
into the empty cup of yourself
held up for the cosmos of creation
to pour through you.
You are the sky-roof of heaven
and the ground of a fertile earth,
both returned to each other.
Now you are human at last
and live in the heart
of an infinite tulip of love
as the unseen essence of that
which will blossom
in the garden of time and eternity.
Now you can never be less
than the love that you are;
and, what you are now,
is the way Love works in you.
Now you are not speaking in your body,
for your spirit is not yours,
but an oral movement of Love.
You are the partaking and the giving.
You speak from a tongue of flame
that licks all tongues into feeling,
forever beyond the extremity of flesh,
but uttered into every form as its content.
You are the fiery thrust of life burning
upon the secret lips of love--
lips that sustain appearance
for the invisible touch of yourself.
And, in that telling of yourself
there is no secret to your telling.
It is the sex that births the cosmos of God
inside the seed you-- open in yourself.
It is the flower that can be tasted.
It is the eternal blossom that is inside
the flowering of the Universe.
You are petal movements breaking open
to be the one power of Love
seeking the space and the offering
of your star-bright surrender.
And what you surrender to
is just your emptiness
made real by your heart-shattering desire
to be God's way through you.
These bodies of Love that you fall through
begin where you open them in their subtle forms,
in the transpiring bodies of Love
you bring awareness to.
They are the hidden flowers of Love
that are held in the darkness
for the light of you to reveal them.
Every new body you move into
is the untilled garden of light and shadow
brought to appearance as a mirror
of God for Her to look upon.
That looking of God is the way you look in Her.
She sees Herself as your clouds and rain
and opens Her own infinite body for this meeting.
She opens your clouds and rain
for you to fall through.
She opens the bodies of you
that She be nourished of the love you give Her.
That love is Her own prayer
answered in your passion to be only what She is in you--
this one body of Her Love.
And so, you are the finding of your earth and the sky;
and where you join them as one body of your truth
She blesses that union with Her Beauty--
a Beauty not of your earth or sky
but of Her Reality transpiring through
whatever body you make sacred for Her touch.
That touch is Hers and you may only feel it
when you offer your realms of being
to the fire of Her vision
that She might ignite the soul of your cosmos
to be the being of Her.
You are limbs spread out like clouds
to receive the rain of Love's passion--
as Love's prayer into light--
as this oral movement--
as this tongue convergence of Love.
You are not born again
You are not begun, but arrive;
and where you arrive you depart
as a movement of Love's Self
as She explores what can be said
in the body of Her own Way in you.
Love works in you;
and only Love reveals this work
that is void of all becoming of you
but Love's Way.
You are no longer a haunted house
but the temple of Love's prayer;
and from that temple the fountain of God
overflows to inspire every sphere of your consciousness
into the sun-flowering presence
of your being in Her.
Then, from out of that star-bright beyond of you,
Love gathers you into Her womb again.
Your early dawning consumes itself in an unborn darkness.
You lose all title and rank
and are consumed in an adumbrate mystery
that cries out one last prayer of death.
There is no God or you to hold to--
only a wind of dissolution
as it roars as a dragon's breath in the valley of annihilation.
This does not happen. It happens always.
This second coming of Love
always was your real birth
and it is now open wide in the unknowing of itself.
From out of that death
your Jesus soul returns to you
and you are now the Spirit of the wind.
You are the second-coming of man,
and all men are your flesh and blood;
and creation is a cup you drank
in order to be the life of Love's resurrection.
You have reclaimed the body of Christ.
You are Jesus and Mary
and you are not two
but one breath dancing for the play of Love.
You stand in yourself
and are the door you walk through.
Love has opened the tulip heart of itself.
You are the soul of God
and the Holy Ghost is your house
that is lit for all to see as the work of Love--
a work you give away forever:
as the I Am:
as the Body and the Way.
And all this you have written here
and will ever write of, are only hints
written in the sand of dreams.
You can understand these ghost words
for you are the pen and paper
of Love's soul speaking for God.
Your one good eye is open;
and even though you dream a while
of being haunted by this Love,
you will know that this haunting
is just Love's work in you
until your ghost awakes
as the living eye of what you are
and always are to be:
the vision of God as Her
in what you give up of yourself
for Her alone to see.
Copyright May 2003 Eric Ashford
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