The Bulb : Students of Inner Peace

I am listening to Van Morrison
on an old radio.

I am an Old Person.

I am remembering a Long Life;
a life that no longer exists.

I am entering this moment called “Now”,
and I can take nothing with me.

Van Morrison fades, and the Radio is gone -
gone into something Younger,
a voice I hardly know.

A Younger Voice is singing about Love & Sweetness;
these Guitar Chords have been used before.
the Minor makes the Major all-the-more worthwhile.

It’s an Old Guitar and a Young Voice,
and the Afternoon aches for recognition
as Time slips by.

Van Morrison is gone, and I can’t recall his name.
Young Voices have taken over the radio
and I’m dissolving in a Purple Flame.

The Magic of Love is massaging my Heart,
and I just don’t know What To Do.

Perhaps I’ll just be quiet,
And let the Triumphant Armies of Love
Come Marching right on through.

Who are you, you who are reading this post?

Are you a visitor, a stranger, a dog at the door, a crumb in the kitchen, a flame in the tinder-box forest of Love?

Are you a One-Night Stand, a Toothless Old Lady, a Bottle-Washer from Winnipeg, a Mohawk-Hair Earing Studded Leper of the U2 Colony of Extended Liberation?

Are you really Who You Are?

Are you AwArE?

of the Hardware that Certifies you as “Human” …?

of the Software that upgrades your Heart to the Silent Flame of Life, dancing in Fragility deep in the Cavern of your Inner Breath?

of the Extended Shelf-Life that you’re Living, defying the Pain of Breathing, the Obstacle of the Ancient Hill-Climb, the Marathon of the Eternally-Dying-Dog, running in the Heat of the Night?

Who are you,  you who are reading this post?

A lost Lizard in a Day-Care Center for Dinosaurs?
A Standing Tribute to all the Gay Singers of the Roaring 40′s?
A Plush Popsicle,  waiting to melt in the mid-day Sun?
A Jehova’s Witness, standing “Naked-For-Jesus” at the Door of Eternal Life?

Does God inhabit your Genitals… or is your “thinking” all above the 49th Parallel?
Are you Decaffeinated, or Simply Relaxed in your own Shoes?

Can you feel Peace in the Tentative Strings of your own Heartbeat?
Can you Hear the Vast River of Angels in the caverns of your “indoor plumbing” …?
Can you slide back the Sun-Roof and eject yourself into the Stratosphere, comfortably, quietly, without activating your Air Bags, your Nagging Housewives, or your Dumb, Eternally-Barking Inner Guard-Dog, who has ruined many Staff Picnics on your own behalf … ?

Who are you, who is reading this post?

Yourself a Poster?  A Toaster?  A Hostmaster?  Nutcracker? Sailor-Boy?  Country-Girl?  Breaker of Fish-cakes and purveyor of Manna from the Heavens?  Have you let your little girls and boys out to play?   Where, pray tell, is your playground?

Lost again, forgot the trail of Breadcrumbs.  Forgot the home buried deep in the woods.  Disowned and forsook your own Forest, your own Sacred Trees, your pure and unspoiled rivers.  For the sake of  ”Candy”.  Expensive Candy.  No Dentist, no Teeth, no Wisdom, no Food of any worldly kind will ever stop this incessant craving of the heart for that Infinite Candy not known to any scripture.

Who are you, who is reading this post?

Can you truly read, and taste the lines of silver and gold between the stupid Times New Roman, or are you caught up in the dance of words, intellect and pride.  There is no recycling plant that will handle that stuff.  It is yours to sip until you fall drunk into your own mortality.

One tiny Diamond in the Garbage Dump, and the Human Life is made Noble.

And the rest falls gently, as Oceans once again make their Claim …

Dear Baby,

I am the Harpoon Hunter
I am the Whale that got away
I am Good Friday waiting for Bad Monday
so my Mediocre Memories of  how-to-play
Get lost in the picnic frenzy of “Workahol” – the Drink of Everyday Man.

I am the Opening Door
that closes only for you
Only for the Light that sees right through
Only for Rose-colored Spectacles that Paint my world Blue
I am the Academic Scholar
that fell below his White Collar
and slid down the Shiny Breasts of Mother Maya
into the Belly Button of Nature’s Lost Fire

I am the Only One who knows My Way Home
so I journey there Alone
while dialing on my Telephone
The Crystal Number of your Name keeps coming up
(is it still the same?)
And before I fall into Melodies of Silence Insane
and become a victim of Love’s Purple Flame
There’s only One Thing that I Remain …

Yours Truly:
The Heart with no Name

The House of Breath
We go out and play
we save our tear-drops for a Rainy Day
We Play
We visit Others – our Cousins, our Brothers, our Lovers, our Mothers
We live on their Doorsteps; we Stray
We save our Dances for a Sunny Day

The House of Breath
Chance, Circumstance – finds me at your door
(have I been here before?)
You seem so familiar – the Curl of your Hair
Your hot summers’ Air
Your Roaming Fingertips of Despair
I linger and Lurk: you must think me some kind of Jerk

This House of Breath
This house of Living Life and Dying Death
This House I left behind, the only thing ‘mine’
This House of Colors, Fullness, Feeling Filled, Softness, Stillness, Willing to be Thrilled
This House calls me home at the End of the Day
This House of Breath is the only Place
My heart wants to Stay.

I was a Lost Feather,
a Man Without Cause.
Looking for Identity, Reason, Homeland, Season.

There is a Journey somewhere:

a Calling, a Knowing, a Home-coming.

A Crystallizing in Silence.

Life proceeds along “attractively”,
for most that we know.  They have a car,
and a house, and a small piece of snow.
They are “busy”, these birds are busy.
These people are never seen talking to
a flower on a street-corner, or looking
into the Divine Eyes of a a baby
in a supermarket crowd.

They have points and merit-awards
and plots reserved in the cemetery,
“right by Mom & Dad”, and they have
sugar on their corn-flakes and Organic
Pet-Food for their Geriatric Cats.

I have never been “busy”.

I have avoided and deconstructed
the word, “busy”.   I don’t listen to
busy signals or go to business meetings.

We are busy avoiding ourselves,
being distracted into the world of nothingness
that we think is “somethingness”.

We are the collectors of trash – the material
garbage of the world; we are the undisputed
kings of mountains of Nothingness, which we
endlessly worship as “somethingness”.

We are Lost Feathers in a Big Storm.

We are Lost Feathers clinging to Dust
that we think is “somethingness”.

We are headed towards the Hot Fire
that burns Lost Feathers
and all their Precious Dust
into ashes of an
infinitesimally fine nature.

The Big Storm and the Hot Fire
dance & play every day.
They love the sound of Feathers
going, “snap, crackle, & pop”.

This is the Opera of Life & Death.
And everything in between.

This is the Sky of Blue,
the Swing of Breath,
the Color of the Canyon Green.

The Crystal Song of Silence,
and the Moments In Between.

I will tell you why I don’t go to movies, but you will think I am insane. Or you will take it personally. Or you will assume there is an audience in the clouds, judging your every thought.

So, shut up and listen.

All of life is a Movie. And all is exquisite. It’s full of Good Actors, Bad Actors, Actors who are Bad at acting Good, and those who are Good at acting Bad. And the stage is amazing. It is never the same for two days, two hours, or two moments. The light is superb, dramatic, unpredictable. Weather comes and goes. Flowers bloom in cracks where no one would imagine; dying trees cling to stormy cliffs above heaving oceans unnamed.

Lives begin and end, love comes and goes; the Spirit, the Sacred, the Essence of Life, inhabits the eyes, the voice, the song… then, like a quiet deer in the woods: gone. Never to return. Never to play at another theater… for 8 consecutive weeks or two consecutive seconds.

This is NOT a movie, yet, this is the most incredible movie.

And you ask me to sit in a theater, and look at past light projected on a screen – light that only mimics life? You ask me to spend ten dollars and two hours of irretrievable time?

And you ask me to look at actors - uncertain of who they are themselves – trying desperately to play a character dreamed up by someone’s overactive imagination?

So, you ask me to meditate on layers of façade, meticulously placed to trick my perceptions, to manipulate my emotions, to dull my own sensitivity and creativity … so that, for a very short time, in my unbelievably boring life, I can lose myself in a non-existent “hero’s life” with exploding cars, talking animals, and cozy, suburban romance in a house I could never afford?

And, all this fantasy and expense, and overwrought lighting effects, to bring to life someone else’s arbitrary myth, where their value system, their emotions, their sexuality, their world view, are superimposed – obliterating my worthless, mundane, empty, boring one — all for ten dollars and two hours of my irrevocable time?

Hmmm.

Tonight, I watched the only sunset that will ever occur on the only Monday, April 26th 2010 that will ever occur, and saw soft seagulls crying and smelled fragile cedars breathing, and walked silent footsteps through a sacred old forest, smiling and greeting the sweet and amazing human beings who passed me by. I may never see them again, but I saw them tonight.

This is my “movie” and this is my life.

It is the sweetest production ever made, and it only shows once.

The acting, the cinematography, the plot, the lighting, the location, the props … are totally amazing.

And … it’s free.

(but very, very expensive …)

“The Subtle”.

This subject is not commonly addressed.
It is not commonly addressed, because it is not common Knowledge, it is known only by a few.

I talked with a friend the other day, about the depth of conversation. About the comfort-zone we achieve with another person in the context of dialogue.  One criteria we used was, how comfortable is a person “in their own skin”.   This quality speaks of a person’s relationship with Self.   The other parameter was a person’s relationship with Silence, how comfortable they are in entering Silence – again – in the context of dialogue.

So, talking and conversation occupy a whole range of human expression.

At one end of the scale, the “loud-mouth”, the one-way dialogue.  Or, the animated, self-centered “fluffy” conversation about the superficialities of life: often a nervous attempt to stave off the dreaded Tide Of Silence – as though Silence was a natural enemy, a cloaked vampire waiting at the door.

On the other end of the scale, people who somehow are at ease, both with Self and Other; people whose thoughtful pauses are conversations unto themselves.  People who convey entire manuscripts simply with a raised eyebrow, a soft smile, a deep resonance in their tone-of-voice.

These latter statements speak of people who are not only at peace with “Self”, but who also have a relationship with The Subtle – the invisible and humble counterpart of human existence that dwells in us all.  This counterpart has been described in many ways, has been burdened with many labels, name-tags and qualifiers over the ages.

We are not interested in adjectives.

We are interested in living in, celebrating and sharing the felt sense of this Inner Guest, this hidden counterpart.  We are interested in enjoying, manifesting, and realizing this felt sense, as a statement of a Life Lived.

When we share with other human beings, when we connect with others, we bring something of quality to the table. Something of the Taste of Silence.  The Fragrance of The Guest.  The celebration of the Subtle, in its Nameless Name, its Formless Form, and its enduring Beauty.

Of all human endeavors, this is one of the most worthy, the most honorable, the most sweet.

I can receive Text Messages
while lying in the Sun
They say, “When your Journey’s Over,
Where will you Run?”

People & Dogs in this park
they run in Circles,
the Children they Bark

Nobody’s new on this Friday afternoon;
this has been done for Millions of Years:
Children & Dogs, they run in the park.
They Look.  They Laugh.  They Bark.

They come Here, they Go Home.
They grow Older, they die Alone.

I can receive Text Messages
while lying in the Sun.
They say, “When you Grow Older,
Where will you Run?”

The Righteousness of Mountains
Is that they talk only to the Sky
and they pose with God
for Naked Photographs
And they don’t listen
to your whimpering and complaining,
nor do they care that your
Pussy named “Santa” died after
17 years of spiritual vacation
pissing on your living-room floor.

The Righteousness of Mountains
is clearly expressed
by visiting Volcanoes and
Erratic Earthquakes who
Keep the Landlord of Time
on his toes as he harvests
yet another crop of wary
human souls.

The Righteousness of Mountains
outdoes your Suntan once again,
as you confide with Buddha
your uncertainties and pain
about your registered retirement
savings plan and the spiraling
stock market as people you love
die of cancer and your Kraft
Dinner burns on the stove.

The Righteousness of Mountains
echo in the dark
one hollow voice that will save
your soul as your grow older in paradise.
You lost your teeth climbing
your own rooftop, but the Grandeur
of the divine screams louder than
your dentist’s drill, as he removes
the final cavity of blindness
from your third eye.

now then
here you are
dressed in blues
silent as salad dressing
examining the dull notes
your mother left in your
dry cleaning

have you no other sanctuary
than your fallen dreams
your artistic crumbling future
your dead relatives
and dying friends

life is rising to call
not the dead from graves
but the living from their caves
and the lying from their sleep
and the lions from the sheep
and the thirsty camels
who fell asleep
at the empty oasis

now then
here you are
awake at the wheels
of a brand new car
listening glistening
like a bright falling star
the journey of dreams
gives way to the
pathway of life
to cut free from illusion
you need the gleam,
the Knowledge,
the Knife.