Tag Archives: poetry

If This is It

I scour my dreams and other unconscious strata
As if there in that matrix rests that piece of me
The one I would know if you/I stumbled across it
Something about it –perhaps a certain shape or
The way it upends everything upon gazing on it

I might call it a gem, a treasure, a hobgoblin or
Better yet leave it unnamed as that is part of
Its alchemy and how it works –filters through
This strata then the next and then the next
Like a gaseous light a din a fragrance a chill

I have a special apparatus that knows how to track
This this It this wonder this knot, untying itself
Unraveling more than the traces it’s known in travels
Uncharted beyond and outside of time penetrating
Dense matter insinuating itself in likeness, similarity

And yet the very complexion perplexing disparity
Of its presence is what serves as leveraging whisper
Intoxicating tissue bone all that can be agitated
From its stance and form liquefying spine upright
Collapsing again and again simulacra –what upholds

It has looked like this –a plea, subjugation, crying out
It grasps at its subject of affection/disaffection
Target aim narrowing down to focus coddle foster
And yet this is its guise to act as something other than
To stand alongside waiting mentoring flummoxing

And bewildered I am with eyes and heart opened
By this raw wind searing through all persistent cracks
The draftiness of my being is somehow a grace, in which
The delivery of that which is unborn has yet been bared
Comes to its fruition, a soaking in of radiance undeniable

San Cristobal, NM 7 January 2015

Overt Folly Gentle Song

In the leaving always a return
As sure as spring follows winter
And yet long are some winters
Uncharacteristically long ~ forgetting yet
What rests within ~ a supreme patience
And a recognition that pales any other

In this realm Timelessness reigns
and there is no departing that scars

Such is the wisdom of Life, life beholden
That voice rising along the purest of paths
Untainted from what seem too many diversions
Beacons all from the same source
The oil of that lamp eternal font
Cascade in all measures, as well as none

We come together here, this confluence
the large and the small, high and low
Traveling farther than reaches seen
sooner than expected and later too

This perfection is the last thing to wear that name
Its warmth need never be restored
As what appears to falter is not That
Even what appears to never falter is not That

And as another winter approaches
Its spring calls simultaneously
All bound together in the same music
Note by note  warmth and pale, bright and cool.

We Are This

There is no methodology
There is just life

There is no education
Simply intelligence awakening

There are no helpers
We are what we are all

Nothing is alone here
What is distance and time?

We have short stopping overs
A pause for this and that

What is the solo journey
If not a full expansion
Of All That Is at one time
Unfolding of this one facet

We cannot comprehend the
Magnitude of what we are

And yet it is so, simply so
Orders upon orders of facets

Of shimmering nothingness
Alive with the mystery of Being

The spectrum of which is infinite
May we simply know this

May we simply know this
In our touching in ~ communion

Anything we think we need
Is inessential and yet we pause

There again and again and again
As if to mark the unmeasurable

To quench that which thirsts for
The exquisiteness beyond form

We bully the forces from which
We emanate, play at placating

We cajole and make light of
That which is the stuff of stars

Not realizing, error upon error,
We cannot eviscerate this Life

For it courses through all that
We Are and think that we are not

Folly of great follies, may we
Continue to play at these mounds

Giving the pitch, burying death,
Crowning all Glory with Herself

This is who and what We Are
We cannot comprehend how

So leave the how and why
The where is simply here now

September 2, 2014

What We Carry

Names rarely hold us
Yet foster some sense
Of a binding we only wear
But long inseparability from

What continuity is there truly
Forms sign up for this task
And yet are insufficient in their
Very purity of grace in letting go

And then the belly, what a grip
Equally capable and incapable of
Locating us as the semblance of
Our preferences, identities, woes

How soon do we falter with our
Suppositions in what we carry
When instead Life finds us again
Again in our essential forgetting

For only as we trace the humble
Traces, the pure subtle breath
Of communion between the Seen
And the Unseen do we know Us

And return that which needs no
Return as it never emerged as
Separate only appearing as so
And we fall in carrying that along

Falling in and as Love
Falling below measure where
With gratitude we momentarily
May see, nakedly and unabashed

San Cristobal, NM
9.3.2014

You

Hey, how have you been?
This question is not a question
as in question/answer,
but a contact point, an act
of connection.

It rests in the natural
space of emptiness.
Nothing pushed away
or made into other.

The pure elegance of this goes
unnoticed all too often,
especially by me, the me
thinking there is a you.

And then it appears to be too late
and this business of separateness
has already started – gotten
under way.

You is a tricky conjunction,
so mesmerizing and uncouth really,
like a hammer blow on the head,
not the head of a nail.

We act as if it were as essential
as the blood in our veins and arteries,
but do not take the time
to test it out for real.

These assumptions are
like an intoxicating drug or
vice and to what cause?
So subtle.

The empty You, the I-Thou,
is like the freshest of breezes,
a pause in the clause
of being human.

At Two O’Clock

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The clouds moving, nearly
Imperceptibly closer than,
I move to the east side

The eaves shelter from
More than the rains
Good Samaritan design

Noon stands out acting
The Prima Dona except
In loneliness and reaches

Then to One and Two
For company inviting
Them early for tea

Some days no one wants
Near and turns away to
Find the most ready refuge

Awaiting their turn
Their moment in the sun
Patience is a virtue

Blessings come to those
And yet… the winds pick up
Darker under bellies seen

Two O’clock is inconsistent
It’s her way or her luck of the draw
Maybe both perhaps neither

Today she was thinking
About that tea invitation
Chameleon writ large

Seeking anonymity in
The heat of the afternoon
Hoping to get off the hook

For what others have
Come to expect of her
That “time of the day”

And yet it’s all so fleeting
Yesterday’s invitation
A glimmer, is not Today’s

El Rito – Kagyu Mila Guru Stupa campground

8-16-14 2:59pm

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Circle Through

I sit in the shade
the shadow of nature
taking refuge

A kind of solace
offered everyday for this
one and all

Nothing asked
in return and nothing
offered to possess

Only mistaken
identities get burned off here
and the rest remains

Stepping in and out
of the light we call Humanity
something there

Casts no shadow
when seen As It Is
simply abiding

Not requiring even
an ounce of dignity or regret
as all is equal here

A here where
there is no there or here
nothing set apart

The dance of light
all circles like the sun
invite our fantasies

But invite yourself
to remain As You Are
in the truest sense

Not embellishing
resting in the purity of things
nothing more

Nothing less than
what we are is astounding
pause and see

Fumble

I am my own all and nothing

Sensations of the body brain crowd in

What of these am I and not

A new mix of All That Is

Dawning like any other new dawn

But a measuring stick was left

By an unexpected guest

And unconsciously I pick it up

Fumble, aim to use it until I see

What it is, grasped in hand

 

Walking backwards sizing things up

I trip over the empty footsteps

That were never there

And that is when

Everything relaxes back

Into simply What Is

 

Virtual Blog Tour and the Sometimes Perhaps

Welcome. Thank you for following the thread that brought you here.

The notion of a virtual blog tour landed here upon being sparked by my dear friend and colleague Daniel Ari, who made the initial suggestion that I might like to participate in such a tour, following his blog tour post (a poet friend and colleague had invited him.) I felt the spark land and since then the question has been did the spark become an ember and did the ember survive? Or perhaps another question might be was it a virtual spark and does it, now, have what it takes to light this contemplative, virtual fire? Perhaps. Shall we see?

What is not a perhaps is the whole-hearted conspirator I find in Daniel Ari, the person, being, and creator afire. I invite you to visit his blog Fights With Poems, as long as you have more than a moment to explore and drop in. Daniel’s projects are a many (writing, publishing, teaching, collective blogging and more), his stretch is broader than most and not confined by his idea of himself, if I can say so. One project of note is his forthcoming book, One Way to Ask, a book of querons, a poetry form of Daniel’s originality, inspiration, and making. For this book, he is collaborating on many levels with artists and other co-conspirators, which has Daniel’s signature of ever-ready-to-remake-oneself with each sitting, writing, and re-versing. It has been my honor and stimulation both to be included in amongst the co-conspirators included in this book. I look forward to the publication of One Way to Ask. 

And thank you, Daniel, for inviting me once again into territory that I may not otherwise find myself in if it weren’t for you and our connection! (Another such invitation from Daniel brought numerous years of my participation in his collective blog, IMUNURI. Currently Daniel has 131 submissions there, I have 57, and ten other poets have submitted their works/poems there, as well.)

 

A photographic interlude as the blog tour continues…

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The Virtual Blog Tour comes with these party-c-pant questions (putting on these party pants is one way to participate!)

1) What am I working on?

I don’t know what I am working on until I am working on it. Even then, while I am “working on” something, it is more precisely working me or opening out through me or pondering within this persona/non-persona. It doesn’t seem to be my way or mode (at this time) to know what I am working on. What does come, at times, is some kind of knowing being expressed through words on paper or words being typed on a computer or iPod screen. Question #4 seems to be creeping into #1.

2) How does my work differ from others of its genre?

Similarly, I am not aware of my poetry and writing being of a specific genre type. If you know otherwise, please let me know! Ha! What comes through as poetry seems to be unique to itself. I will say something that does come to say around this question: the poetry I write comes from or via direct experiencing, an internal voicing or somatic experiencing as the words present themselves. I would not say that I don’t think about what I write, but something like that. It seems to me that I am ready when something seems to come through and have easiness of expression as words in some kind of structure close to what we call a poem. Poems as awareness as felt sense, perhaps.

3) Why do I write what I do?

“Why do I do what I do?” as a question seems to come out of some unseen or unconscious motivation to seek security (or need to know) when security of that kind is simply non-essential. So, for me, there is not an need to answer such a question. The poems ponder enough on their own and simply get written (or not.)

4) How does my writing process work?

There are tastes of this question in the previous answers 1, 2, and 3. What else I might share here is that there is some kind of seeding and then a gestation period and then, perhaps, a kind of birthing in the writing. The writing usually takes my full attention and is something that moves through and I respond in the now. Often there is the anticipation of something before it finds its form as words on paper, mostly as poetry, sometimes as contemplative writing in prose, sometimes in photography or a combination of the aforementioned.

The writing is a kind of direct experience, as in I am present for something as it is felt and expresses as words. The photography, too, is a kind of calling or marking of direct experience and has a numinous quality within it. What gets expressed, conveyed, felt, or sensed through the sharing of these, I also do not know what that might be. It is like breathing for me. Or at least that is how it comes today to write about such things.

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Monsoon skies in El Rito north of Questa, New Mexico ~ July 2014

And finally, the blog tour may continue in a similar fashion to above, if I have other bloggers to invite for you to check out with blog tour posts of their own. However, I found that I did not have currently active bloggers to invite!  So I invited both a poet/artist and a songwriter/musician/poet to start their own blogs such that they could be included with accolades in this Virtual Blog Tour.

Perhaps they will do just that and at least one new blogger will be featured here in short time. I will update this entry with their URL and some of what inspired me to invite them to participate. Perhaps.

 

3 poems from northern New Mexico

arriving with the full moon ~ July 10, 11 2014

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while camping near the Kagyu Mila Guru Stupa, north of Questa, NM

1. What Pause

We have our things

Even if we have very little

or essentially nothing

Not threadbare are any of us

And some semblance of things

is brought together, even if

just to drink this or eat that

 

We can sit on the ground

The body will sleep when it comes time

the preoccupation of belongings

is such a high order in our lives

that it is nearly invisible

 

I pause to think, as if thinking is

the way, how to live

on the land with no amenities

 

It seems preposterous

Just sit on the ground?

Rest under a tree?

Wait until batteries run out

and then be silent?

 

As if Silence was not there

all along

Everything we eat, drink, sleep

is there in the Silence

 

Everything we are

is that Silence

 

2. Doorway: Empty As

We love an entry into.

Leave an opening

And something will move thru

Even if just pretend.

So when we really go thru

What then?

 

Is there no going back?

We’ve moved between

And are never the same.

Something has passed

From here to there

And back again is only onward.

 

We pine for what was

Looking thru What Is

Trying to see something

Other than

What simply is, Just This.

 

And pining, things just look the same

But never are

Or are so inextricably

The same it would take

The widest open eyes

To see This

And not see something else.

 

Perhaps it is the putting aside

Of what the eyes see

And letting things be

As empty as they are

Each thing a doorway

To itself

Nothing more, nothing less.

 

In that entry

We move as all direction

Within and without

Leaving nothing aside

Going nowhere but everywhere

Without departure.

 

And the openings

Await nonetheless

Waiting as the perceivable

In the perceiving

As they are

As they are.

 

3. Do and Not Do

When there is nothing to do

Something seems to be found to do

It’s a circus we didn’t even

realize we had tickets for

and have been going to

all so regularly

 

It looks like life

And yet life isn’t doing

Life just happens

All on its own

No tickets necessary!

There is no grand entry, no backstage

 

Just ask the wind

the thunder

the rain

None of these need permission

And cannot be kept

Under lock and key

 

There is no one to pay

Even if that makes us

Feel more real somehow

 

We have so many wallets

all around and everywhere

Most of them hidden away

(what are we protecting, really?)

But there they are

What good would it be

if we didn’t find ways to fill them?

 

Is it a question of good?

Or is it a question of a day

yet upon us when all

bartering ceases

 

And something yet known,

however already conceived,

bursts forth taking us

as we are

as our most direct

Unfettered, alive beyond word

 

Nothing need be done

The question of do and not do

Too will cease