CELEBRATION

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!

Home

Life is a colourful maze of glorious adventures.

Each turn left or right, takes me to some unexplored places.  Like sailing down a river to long-forgotten worlds, I find myself at peace knowing that every turn along the way will bring me closer to myself.

I marvel at the soft textures of materials and the brilliance of each scene that lands upon my screen.

Birds chirp happily in their nest, while summer brims with scents of bbq’d fish and mouthwatering melon.

My home unfolds before me in radiant colorings.

Death of a Maori Poet

Tree let your raised arms fall
nor extend your vain entreaties to the radiant ball.
This is no gallant monsoon’s flash,
no dashing trade winds blast.
The fading green of your magic
emanations shall not make pure again
these polluted skies…. for this
is no ordinary sun

– HONE TUWHARE 1922-2008
published this poem “No Ordinary Sun” about nuclear testing in the pacific, in 1964, in his first volume of the same name. It was re-printed 10 times. I can’t help thinking he was one of the spearheads of the nuclear free movement that defines New Zealand’s foreign policy today .

Let us allow peace to reign from the natural radiance within us all.
I used to have a little badge from friends of the earth ” World peace begins at home”. My 16 year old daughter wears it now. Where there is life there’s hope.

Filament of Our Love

As long as i know who or what,

is the filament of my bulb,

everything is really fine,

i can always turn on

my sweet inner light,

i can dance with it,

with all my joy,

peace, love,

heart.

through my breath, through my whole life,

satisfied,

i can dance

with your inner bulb,

if you too turn on your light,

but i can’t dance with your dark,

i can’t dance with my, or your past,

i can’t dance with our fears, anger or lust.

Filament of our life is lit in this moment now,

through whatever is done through it=grateful heart.

Stoyan Svet