The Ocean in You; The Ocean in Me

There is something about the Ocean.

For those of you who have lived its Bigness.   It breathes full. It contains many landscapes.  It births many dreams and consumes many sailors.   It is both entity and identity; moving in subtle mists and pounding in terrifying torrents.

We think this thing is “us” … we trust this thing knows us and supports us and favors us.  We tiptoe at its shore like skitterish little birds, playing it its arms, knowing that caresses and death are but a thin, red line.    Nature is our kitty-cat, but also our cougar, and never at a convenient time.

But, dangers and archetypes aside, the ocean is simply amazing.   To be near a body of water where the bigness of the ocean can be appreciated: sniffed in, savored, sipped – like a delightful wine – is indeed a gift.

The elements at play are huge, and remind us of our sweet insignificance.   Major elements, in major proportions.  The Sky: vast, spacious, open; a blue and pearl dome of cool, infinite and soothing dimensions.  The land: shore, sand, rock: sculptures of mortality and magnificence.  The immoveable that has been ground to dust.  The shifting sand that dances and disappears underfoot.  The unyielding high craggy cliffs that groan and crumble every million years with invisible voices to timeless ears.

And the Ocean Itself.

That which is in us, that longs for and craves the solace of the eternal … strives to measure the infinite by the only little rulers we own.

And of these Little Rulers, the Biggest Little Rulers are the perceptions we carry of the Voice of Nature.  This Ocean, in its expanse, it’s blue-ness, its unrivaled contrasts of softness and violence, its lullabye sound, its caress on our skin … all this speaks to the deeper longings of us humans.  It becomes one of the most powerful facsimiles of the Infinite.   It speaks to the Soundless Sound within; the Deepest Depth within, the bravest Sailor in our skin.

We romance that sea, in both our calm and turbulent times.

It is both serpent and sage.  The undulating deep and primal power, the soft mirror that shows radiance, compassion, reflection.  We, those tiny birds on its shore.  We, those delicate Dancers of Dust, on this shifting Stage of Sand.   The thing of immediate history, holder of memory, shaper of continents, tosser of tiny boats riding gigantic waves.

And all we can do is look.  Breathe.  Sigh.

Sit like seagulls on our old logs and wait for our ship to come in.

Bathe in the crashing, the roaring, the cold & foggy mornings, the ancient Egyptian sunsets, the tiny bits of shell and jewels that this monarch spits up on our shoes.

Another day in superb creation.

Another gift that we can open our eyes and see.

Your God is too Small for Me.

you tell me of your god
your god that draws lines in the desert
and says “this is Holy Land” and “That is Not…”
your god that says, “you must pronounce my name This Way, not That Way…”
your god that says, “here is my Book of Rules that you must live by…”
and you say that your god is Big and Is Everything and Knows Everything.
I listen to this and I shake my head, and I say,
Sorry, your god is too small for me.

you tell me of your god
your god that makes the decree of marriage sacred,
marriage that allows a man to abuse his wife and child,
your god that decries homosexuality and pre-marital sex,
your god that despises birth control and abortion,
but loves abandoned women raising children in abject poverty.
I listen to this and I shake my head, and I say,
Sorry, your god is too small for me.

you tell me of your god
that lives in a temple but hates the mosque
that lives in the mosque and hates the synagogue,
that lives in the synagogue but hates the church,
that promises heaven after we die
if we live by the rules, stipulations and laws
written, edited and argued by thousands of men.
I listen to this and I shake my head, and I say,
Sorry, your god is too small for me.

you say your god is big;
I say your mind is small.
And your mind, with its faulty and fragile ego
will never comprehend one crumb of the Infinite.
Your “god” fits conveniently in your mind,
but you have abandoned your own heart.
Sorry, your god is too small for me.

Ocean, Sand & Chain.

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 …

The Fragile Human Way

This is a Central Place
This is a Park of Strangers
This is a Gathering of Fragmented Ego
Seeking to express The Inexpressible
Seeking to know the Unknowable
Seeking to merge with Rivers That Flow
in a Purposeful Direction

This is the Breath given to Life
Given for Packaging, Content & Purpose
Given for Celebration, Communication, Knowledge
Given for the Attention that gives back to Itself
For the furthering of the Infinite Golden Cycle
of Knowing, of Fulfillment, of Joy

This is the Garden of Senior Flowers
a Resting Place in the Timeless Sun
a Watering Hole of Sparkling Luminous Song
Where life renews itself under the Watchful Hand
of the Amazing Avid Gardener
Separating Thorn from Fragile Sprout
The Pulling of Weeds so Love can Breathe
Attention to Details of the Tiniest Need

This is the Central Place
An evening of Life-long Celebration
The gathering of Fragmented Eyes
to form a Single Vision:
We all Find our Way
We all Taste the River of Love
We all Know the Golden Spark of Infinite Day
While we Dance, Romance, and Chance
The Fragile Human Way

The Heart with No Name

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

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.

Lost Feather ~ Crystal Silence

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.