Black Hole Unique

Black Hole Unique

You fear being faceless

To the marrow of your

Unseen white bones

Bred to feel unique

This may be your

Greatest curse

The dull emotion

That puppets

The bones

Under the curse

Of uniqueness

Is like a black hole

Sucking in the

Material world

As sacrifice

To feed the fire

Of illusion

Remember

Reality

Is its own

Foundation

And illusion

Is a bonfire

Rapaciously

Swallowing

Forests whole

Do not fear being

Common

Unplug yourself

From the machine

That projects

Phantoms

Of uniqueness

Watch those

Puppets

Implode

Under the strain

And know

Eventually

No one can bear

The lie

For we are

As common

And uniform

As leaves

Spreading above

A great trunk

Of grace

Our only job is

To serve

As we gather

The light from above

And pray

A Life Of Magic

A Life Of Magic

 

I sit beneath vaulting curves of wood

Snake forms spiraling into the sky

With a million flags of green

Sprouted in complete surrender

A breeze comes

And I can hear the movement

Of the sky

And in this moment doubt erupts

Who am I to feel this way?

Where are my credentials?

Where is the proof?

My heart dips

In the trough of emotion

I stare out from the bottom

And suddenly I catch a swell

My heart leaps to crest and

I spring up to capture the

Hawk feather tumbling by

I hold it

And feel no need for faith

I carry the feather with me

As a beautiful mark in time

When I swam in alignment

Later

A little girl on a red tricycle

Looks through her golden locks

At the feather in my hand

She squints at the sun

And says, “Can I have it?”

I place the feather in

Her little hand

And she smiles

“It’s a magic feather,” I say

“Take good care of it”

Lessons can grow roots from tests

No matter pass or fail

These roots will go deep

If I take care of them

Magic

Exists only in relationship

Alone

It can’t survive the elements

We must give it shelter

In the warmth of our near bodies

Unicorn Supernova

Unicorn Supernova

Good words

Nice sentiments

Wrapped in resplendent nature

With a psychedelic bow

And perhaps a baby animal

Riding on the back of a unicorn

Are rather unsavory

To the tyrant in you

You cynically dismiss

Flower-child words

And shred petals

In the grinder of your mind

Bake them in hard science

Then bury them in the backyard

Oh, how the positive

Pisses you off

Look around you, dreamer

There’s no such room

Amongst forests plucked for greed

And waters poisoned for profit

Hard weapons that effortlessly

Deliver on the promise of death

Oh, contraire, my lovelies

The proof lies in the dismissal!

You wouldn’t feel so strongly

You wouldn’t feel like retching

At the mention of peace and love

If they weren’t hidden

In the core of your being

A supernova

Waiting to explode

What Is Love?

What Is Love?

What is love but a strong breeze

That enters this spirit infused clay vessel

And defines its volume

Describes its arc and curve

By touching inner space

With invisible hands

Defining that which has no definition

What is love but a river

Flowing ceaselessly into the sea

And the sea ceaselessly accepting

That which is given

And neither the river nor the sea

Holding back for a moment

Not the sea for fear of space

Nor the river for fear of running dry

Love is a gradual unfolding

Like the clouds becoming flush with sunrise

Till all the darkness is driven away

And there is only light

Winding Through Ferns

Winding Through Ferns

The trail you walk curves through a landscape of ferns. You can see the thin line of bare earth cut gently through the plants and disappear over a rise. They seem ancient. So ancient that you think that’s probably how they looked millions of years ago after having settled from the ambulations of a dinosaur. The air is rich and moist and when you inhale through your nose it feels like you are participating in the forest’s essence, taking it deep within you and savoring it. The enormous trees rise from their bed of ferns like stately pillars charged with upholding the sky. The canopy is thick with billions of slender green needles, each a variation on an ancient form, shaped to gather fog so that the tree might drink. Your steps are silent on the spongy ground and it’s almost like you’re not even there, passing through the play of light and shadow, swaying around you on the dictates of cloud and wind. You feel part of the ecology of this place, aware of everything without having to focus on any of the details. This land has found a home in you and you smile as your legs take you, you know not where and this does not matter because each step you take is one into your heart and from this you will never stray.  

 

To Know Without Knowing

To Know Without Knowing

You see a flower

At the moment of unfolding

The last purple petal spreads

Like silk over your eyes

And you stare in wonder

How could such beauty exist?

The yellow belly button

At the center of the bloom

Yells yellow at your eyes

Till you think of the sun above

Your heart leaps for love

Reminding you of something you’d nearly forgotten

You walk over and snap the green stem

The umbilical cord to the Earth severed

The petal now swings like a pendulum in your hands

As you begin to think of other things

And the colors will never match that moment

The petals won’t even try

They know without knowing

They can’t trace a direct line

To the magma center of their home

From the vase on your coffee table

A Prayer For A Sunday

A Prayer For A Sunday

There is a cure for our sickness

This cure need not be administered with prayer

It does not require faith in a higher being

It does not require a strong foundation of belief

It can be administered by the scientific method

A method some would say caused this sickness to begin with

Fighting poison with poison

The cure is simply said

But momentous to execute

A revolution would flow in its wake

Do what is good for the Earth

What is good for all other forms of life

Including the rocks and the water that rushes over them

For they have souls too

Do this, say no to destruction and waste

And yes to balance

Yes to helping all life flourish

We should grow up

And be the stewards we were made to be

Then everything will be a prayer

Faith will be unquestioned

Because it will be a seed

Sprouted from each individual’s heart

As they tend the Earth with their love

And sow it with belief

 

My Heart Radiates Desire In Waves

My Heart Radiates Desire In Waves

My heart radiates desire in waves that

Beat ripples of time

Filling the air with lines of energy

Don’t tangle!

Be strong and true

Like the arrows

Shot from a huntsman’s bow

Help me find my way to you

Help me hear your clear call

Through the obfuscating noise of

Confusion

Woven into the fabric of this Earth by

Minds enthralled by stories

Learned sitting at the feet of fear

Under the cold and insufferable

Light of reason

Blow through this tangled web we weave

Like a gentle breeze

Traveling through branches

Unhindered and free like water

Fill this humble sail

Made from scraps gathered from

True moments I’ve lived

Stitched together with sinew and time

Send me to you

So that I may drown myself

In your siren call

The Discarded University

The Discarded University

It is a human birthright to live in a state of connection and grace. We are born with an innate ability to communicate and receive messages from our Creator. Some call it the Great Spirit, God, Nature, Buddha-thought, Gaea, Pachamamma…this energy, this all knowing and all loving energy is called by many names but all cultures agree as to where this energy resides and this place is in nature, untouched by human hands. This is rather obvious. Prophets and sages and seekers do not go into the canyons of Manhattan to commune with their Maker, they go out to the wilds, the old places where canopies have overspread the plants beneath and provided the wisdom of shade for thousands of years. This is where a direct line of communication can be established, where messages can be received, if the instrument is ready and sensitive enough. Pachamamma communicates through Her children, through the other life forms we share this Earth with. She sends messages through the plants and whispers to us through the sighing of trees, through the wind in leaves. Those of us who live in cities have been almost entirely cut off from communicating with our Creator. She has no messengers to send. The imprint of the human mind is everywhere. Hard asphalt covers dirt, buildings made in the image of the human mind with all of its shortcomings and constraints, boxy, inelegant, wasteful, crowd upon the eye and fill it to brimming with half-truths and blatant lies. The city as designed for buying and selling, growing rampant with the fertilizer of ego and greed and dire misunderstanding. Pachamamma has been driven out by the hubris of the ego, the false state of the mind that mistakes creation for its own. There isn’t a one of us that doesn’t know there is something drastically wrong. Not one of us is free from the nagging feeling the world we live in is terribly and catastrophically out of balance. We don’t need to do most of what we are doing. We need alignment and healing, we need the loving song of our Mother to bring us back, to reawaken us to what we are. Sacred, holy creatures put here in the ocean of time to learn, to experience and take our place in the great construct that is the expression of the Creator, the web of life. We are here to learn a single lesson and this is all. And how are we to learn if we’ve discarded the university? We’ve surrounded ourselves with a leaded box and are cannibalizing one another with the nightmares we’ve come to believe are true. For many, nightmares have become their birthright. This is false. We need to go back to the old, powerful places, open our senses, let go our false desires and fears, generated by this one-sided construct of the mind and go back to the multifaceted and energetic construct which was made for us. Our home. Our true place. It fills me with a sadness too deep and too hurtful for words to think we can not receive the messages intended for us. There is much to be learned from the singing of birds and the harvesting of fruit. Our true text is the book of nature. Our cousins are the plants and in many ways our progenitors for without them there would be no oxygen to breathe. And what insanity that we cut the trees down for profit. Truly they are our lungs, we are utterly dependent upon them for breath…and we cut them down. What dangerous self-destruction. What is truly frightening is that the Creator, Pachamamma will not be put aside, will not lick Her wounds in the last untouched places, no, She will resort to other means of communication to get through to us. Disaster, flood, famine, pestilence, suffering and war…these are all the products of not being in alignment, of cutting ourselves off from our teacher and savior, cutting ourselves off from the energy that loves us absolutely and made us perfect.