Thursday, December 7, 2006

The Fire ever burning.


On the worshipped tiles of yesterdays streets,
There is nothing left but tears.
The days are waning now.
Fusing into one another like an epic, indistinguishable army.
And yet these things do not bind me.

Some beast of burden am I,
in a make-believe world I have made.
But is any of this true?
The allegations, the condemnations, the temples...
all will fade.

Leaving now.
The fire ever burning.

Ironic

 
Ah, the irony of all things seen...
If the seer is not clear
The miraculous slips to oblivion

Ah the irony that while men seek
lovers among feverish masses,
While boys touch themselves,
and we fight broken images of ourselves...
a protector looks on guaging all,
Holding hands with a destroyer...
And behind them a flower buds anew...
Symbol of the shining Creator.
Everything in perfect symmetry
and yet, for most, it goes unseen.

Ironic too, that while the Great Earth
heaves a weary sigh in the stillest
point of the night...
I remain aware of my dearly Beloved.

He beyond form... He who dances.
He beyond gender...She who here, now
embraces me.
Full of affection and sensuous blessings.
He nowhere....everywhere.

The rock, the tree, the lips that waver...
the hidden meaning...

Ah, the crystal clear mind.
Door to wholeheartedness...
Mirror to the kindest of smiles.

The Road Less Traveled


Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth.



Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same.



And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.



I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.



Robert Frost

 

Love is letting go

 You have killed my brother and taken my earnings.
You have polluted my dreams and destroyed all hope.
You have done these things because it is your nature to do them.
You know nothing of trust.
Trust is all I know.
It yields everything that is of value.

I do not believe in loss or gain.
I am not what you think I am.

You may try to pin me down with your hatred and your anger.
But, my dear ego...all your efforts shall fail.
They amount to nothing before the light of my love.
You think you can hurt me.
You think that grasping will lead you somewhere real.
You think that condemnation will yield you resolution.
You think the body a home.

Forgiveness is my gift to you. It is my only gift...
It is the end of you.
It is the first and last step on the path to healing
all that the blind world has created out of fear.
It is the eye of beauty amidst the storm of transformation.

It is ever still and it is my gift to you.
It can not be learned...only lived.

The dead tree that bloomed


There are many tales to tell.
Many voices within clamoring for expression.
I want to make sense of it all.
I want to be a voice of sanity.

The long shadows that come upon one on a summer's evening...
the cypress trees I have seen in far away lands.
Days gone by and days to come when I have weathered a fine storm.
I know there is much to do. I know there is great beauty to be sort
and shared.

There was a man who was easy to anger -
a wise man told him to
repair shoes at the side of the road.
He did this for he had faith in the wisdom of his teacher.
One day a man came and hurried off ungratefully without paying
after having his shoes fixed.
The man who was easy to anger lashed out and killed
the man who had treated him with disrespect.
The man he killed had been a murderer - on his way to kill a number of people.
As the man fell to the floor fatally wounded...
A dead tree burst into bloom.

Sometimes I find this world so mediocre.
And then I realize how deeply it needs our compassion.
How deeply WE ourselves need our own compassion.

How little the world knows of its own beyondness.
I have given my life to that though.
If only men could discover that true wealth lies there.

I was once wedded to a woman.
Now I find myself wedded to perserverance.
Whatever you do - in your heart give everything to God.

Love is another life

 



I am far away now

I picture you running through my mind

The flow of things



People will have their opinions,

Daily life will soldier on,

We crave the familiar

(as bats crave the wind and sky)

with the same intensity that we fear losing it.



The mania for success

swallows most of us.

Love is another life.



I pray you do not become bewitched by exotic dreams

These alternatives:

the familiar and the exotic are blinders...



Wisdom is not for the faint-hearted...

I will close now.

But to all your questions

One thing you must see

Determination will open all doors

Distinguish all flaws...

 

It was my thirtieth year to heaven by Dylan Thomas

 

It was my thirtieth year to heaven

Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood

And the mussel pooled and the heron

Priested shore

The morning beckon

With water praying and call of seagull and rook

And the knock of sailing boats on the net webbed wall

Myself to set foot

That second

In the still sleeping town and set forth.



My birthday began with the water-

Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name

Above the farms and the white horses

And I rose

In rainy autumn

And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.

High tide and the heron dived when I took the road

Over the border

And the gates

Of the town closed as the town awoke.



A springful of larks in a rolling

Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling

Blackbirds and the sun of October

Summery

On the hill's shoulder,

Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly

Come in the morning where I wandered and listened

To the rain wringing

Wind blow cold

In the wood faraway under me.



Pale rain over the dwindling harbour

And over the sea wet church the size of a snail

With its horns through mist and the castle

Brown as owls

But all the gardens

Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales

Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud.

There could I marvel

My birthday

Away but the weather turned around.



It turned away from the blithe country

And down the other air and the blue altered sky

Streamed again a wonder of summer

With apples

Pears and red currants

And I saw in the turning so clearly a child's

Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother

Through the parables

Of sun light

And the legends of the green chapels



And the twice told fields of infancy

That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.

These were the woods the river and sea

Where a boy

In the listening

Summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy

To the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide.

And the mystery

Sang alive

Still in the water and singingbirds.



And there could I marvel my birthday

Away but the weather turned around. And the true

Joy of the long dead child sang burning

In the sun.

It was my thirtieth

Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon

Though the town below lay leaved with October blood.

O may my heart's truth

Still be sung

On this high hill in a year's turning.