Posts made in February, 2008

The mirror of my lover

As I search your face, I am drawn to the depths in the pools of? your eyes. Shyly,? hesitatingly, fluttering butterflies of small fears, half hidden, I am very much the secret watcher.

I am temporarily held captive by the feeling of the silky softness of your skin against my own. I am in awe of the pounding rhythm of your heart which carries? mine, to places that alone I would never dare to go. I catch my breath with the beauty of you.

There is something so pure, so innocent, so much of the truth of love reflected here. A man is not supposed to be so open, so vulnerable, so true, I hear that nasty whisper spoken in my? mind. But, I am the one whose breath is stopped.

You are the one who is capable of remaining in the pure breathing space of in and out, accepting the truth of….. that you love, with no boundaries imposed on your heart. You are a seeker of? freedom’s spaces, a lover of love itself and all of her faces. I am the learner here.? Where did you gather such courage? How did you muster such will to circumvent the mirage of no one loving?

Yes, I will stay with you awhile. Resting in the miracle of the mirror. You, who is reflecting the open ended possiblities of? my own heart.

It is my desire? as well, to discover. To take this? journey into the depths of myself. I will rest here for just awhile, joined in breath with you as a secret watcher. Until my own true lover comes, rising from the sea of love within. I will be a drop in my own ocean, until the ocean takes from me all seperation. I will celebrate with you this dance of secret mirrors. But only still for awhile….

The Smell Of Love

I walk through the café of life.

There are several smells along the way. It is a café of smells. There is no escaping beauty, doom, magnificence, banality and orchids. We are swimmers; sinking is not an option.

The Smell of Love is the most noteworthy. It writhes like a golden serpent, sinking deep into fabrics unseen, riding in Dream Territory, speaking to the sounds that came before words.

It is the smell most of us avoid, yet the fragrance most of us seek. The odor undealt-with, the nameless sound we all recognize like a dog’s ears that rise to the Distant Familiar.

Rumi and Kabir Bowling

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Last year, as I understand it, Rumi was the best selling poet in the United States — 800+ years after he was alive. Amazing, eh? Clearly, there is something timeless and universal in his words. Kabir, too, is still being widely read — as is Hafiz, Gibran, and a host of other ecstatic poets from times gone by. Many people assume these guys must have been praying, meditating, and going on pilgrimages all the time. I don’t think so. All one has to do is read their poetry to see how down to earth they were, how irreverant, and how funny. Anyway…this next piece is an homage to Rumi and Kabir — my little fantasy of how the two of them might have spent an evening — in a bowling alley — if they were still alive today. (Read it aloud for maximum value). Enjoy!

Going Back to the Island

There it was — 1971 & I. Tuned in, dropped out and turned on, and on the ferry to meet up with friends and live for 3 months on The Island. Talk about traveling light: not even a backpack: the possessions wrapped in a blanket that doubled as a poncho if it ever rained or got cold, a treasured copy of the “I Ching”, and “Be Here Now” by Baba Ram Dass, a spare ankle-length hand-painted dress, and (although I can’t recall it now) there must have been some personal hygiene necessities of civilization — a toothbrush perhaps? And a bag of mangoes I had collected from the ground on my walk to the ferry terminal. Was this paradise or what?

We were the generation who wanted more: we had grown up with post-traumatic-stressed parents — many years later they told of their war stories — of friends being shot right before their eyes. We wanted the lot: a scholarship to university meant a free tertiary education; those oh so soft drugs (compared to the horrors of today) of the 60’s had opened our minds up to other possible realms of inner experience — but only as whisper, a wafting scent of possibility, fueling the search. So there I was — on semi permanent holiday: just a need to show up once a week for a job, a private bay to live in — a choice of a hut right on the beach or one with the geckos under the poinsettia tree. And the eccentric but loveable landlord, who treasured his hermit life, but welcomed the other drop-outs into his bay — for rent of $1 per week.

Fast forward to 37 years later — back to The Island.

Sea still as blue. Rocks still magnificent-cascading down the sea, interspersed with bays and beaches, water that feels like warm like a bath, pines sprouting from barren cliff sides; amazing little bays with private beaches and views for ever. Still the streams of young people from all over the world — now probably with trust accounts and deferred university courses and parents they can keep in touch with by email and phone (with requests for more money). Not like the totally alienated and bemused parents of the boomer generation of the 60’s.

Still the dreaminess of this island, a feeling of sanctuary. I took myself back again to 1971; why had I left? Wasn’t this what I’d always wanted? I remembered sending a letter to a friend, as I left The Island to go back to the city: ”There is so much beauty here, but I need to find that beauty inside of me.“ Paradise on the outside, but a longing for the paradise within me. It was a palpable, driving, intense passion. And did I find that Paradise Within? Happily and gracefully, yes. A big joyous ”Yes“, a triumphant shout ”Yes!“

Just a few months after I left The Island, I went to see a young boy speak — he was 14 years old; I was 21. He didn’t seem like a child to me; I was just so conscious of how I felt: I felt at peace. I felt a gentle energy that was fresh (like mornings) and hopeful. I knew that feeling, it was welcoming & comforting. I wanted more of it.

And so, to The Island, 37 years later. I saw & loved the sea & the sunrise still, but I appreciated even more that exquisite beauty within myself & recognized the gift of life. And felt the depth within my breath.

The Forest of You

the trees of me
in the forest of you
echoing laughter
songs are brand new

the shelter of you
in the heart of me
is a harbor deep blue
in a dark stormy sea

the laughter of you
in the soul of me
opens my windows
sets the bird free

the trees of you
in the forest of me
are the gifts
that keep blooming
from the seeds
that were free

the flowers of you
in the clay pot of me
are the souls of butterflies
dancing,
for all to see