Spirit works through us,
as the sun stretches far into deep caverns,
even as it dances upon the surface of things,
it still falls down to inconceivable foundations
where dark creatures are free in their mysteries.
Every living creature breathing,
has the sun shining through it,
for light we are,
and to light we will return,
flowing like the waters;
but unlike the waters,
we cannot be contained.
So, we flow into and out of one another,
organ from organ, cell to cell, pain to memory:
we are one, but not even parts of the whole,
for we are invisible to the naked eye,
nudging us as we arise into new dreams
while we are still sleep walking.
This is what love is.
Not the desire.
Not the romance.
Love is the sun that showers,
The light that floods us all.
You can see them if you ask,
If you stand in the Present.
If you awaken from your sleep.
The harmless words we speak in the theater
can shatter the heart of those who hear us,
launching them into unknown darkness;
for the shadows contain more light,
than the intentional speeches of mind.
These are acts of love.
We live here on the earth in ignorance.
Nothing works as we expect.
We do not love who we think we love.
Our intentions fall like leaves in autumn,
for spirit uses our mind like pawns
so that we might love more.
We are that for each other.
We are that for Spirit.
we are the others for each other.
Mirrors within mirrors never-ending,
encouraging, goading each to see the truth,
that we are one and where one goes, goes all.
that if you are in pain, I feel it;
that if you are in joy, I feel it;
the boundaries are all illusion.
can you feel each cell’s desire to be free,
not by itself, but in the body’s entirety?
But mind wants to understand by dividing:
are these words a poem or a bit of prose?
do they rhyme? is the rhythm right? do I like it?
But this is nothing at all, just the spellings on screen,
a strange uncanny bit of light flickers in between,
an attempt to point towards a living being dreaming
that wants its soul, its planetary body, to see.
When you hate the other one,
you hate forgotten pieces of you.
When you love the other one,
You love forgotten pieces of you.
That is why, when you reach out,
you are reaching out to shadows,
phantoms that dissolve as they say,
as the dust in the wind,
as child’s dream dissolve.
The others are there to remind you of yourself.
The other is never other.
The other is what you have abandoned in yourself
When you return, the other dissolves.
We are not the mirror,
but we pretend to live in all the reflections of the mirror
like children playing house or school
before they know what is a house or school.
By the light of the Spirit working through us,
We live in fantasy and play in order to grow,
fed by a light showering light through all by all,
until the day where we as Source do see
and in silence stand we speechless
in the Presence of what love is,
that it is One,
that it is We.
when I was younger and filled with desire,
I used to think that powerful art could awaken,
that the charms of poet, music and philosopher
could return us to our long lost forgotten souls.
but how mistaken I was about that primal love
for I had not known or returned to my own soul
and so how could I have possibly ever known
that all religion, philosophy, brilliant art and song
are maps of an erroneous creative mind blind
confused and longing for a heavenly blissful life
a life that has been present for us here all along.
Upon the day the sun shone brightest, I looked upon the waters of the deep,
I thought perhaps I could gain knowledge of the life of these greatest seas
for I had been fond of such abysmal research before, watching the crowds
passing by or doing their daily chores, heads down, hands unable to hold
unable to give, unable to scold or to capture their dreaming desires bold.
Yet all I could ever see upon the surface of the sea were mirrors of me
fragments fallen to the bottom, souls of me swimming in that dark deep
with a frightening and most sinister gravity hiding down below pulling
my heart beneath to be and live there alone as alone as the earth is alone
she, a living cosmic symphony who muses with all planets, sun, and stars.
Could it be, I wondered, could it be that my drowning is a birth of me?
Could it be, I marveled, that I could dissolve into that heaven born sea?
I will dare the wandering as ocean flows and reaches the shore to leave,
as I, too, breathe wondering to where leads this strangest of journeys
the one where water’s rhythm heart beats with a trillion flickering stars
I stand between the dawn and the dusk
as the moon stands midst dark and bright
sweet light borrowed from her consort Sun,
and as I wain, darker creatures ever emerge
In the sleep of those anxious and despairing
as if the lights of heaven are disappearing:
dark in that night are those lost sorry souls;
but as I turn face to reflect his light in full,
those cruel fears dissolve each in their turn
giving song to those bright and starry souls.
Who are you—who, against the hidden river,
were able to escape the eternal prison?”
he said, moving those venerable plumes.
…Dante, Pugatorio, Canto 1, 40-42, 52-54
Then he replied: “I do not come through my
own self. There was a lady sent from Heaven;
her pleas led me to help and guide this man.
I saw you standing midst those who in purgatory dwell
singing makeshift words of another’s conjured rhymes
lies that evaporate before entangling hearts and minds
what you still pretend to be yesterday and tomorrow
as a child clinging to hopes from mommy borrowed
the thin shades cannot survive your heavenly skies,
not a million could survive the power of your light
to lead you to where you know you are called to go
to be brave enough to pass through your own shadows;
for the reflections of others will never keep you close
the shadows that follow others when they leave you
what you mistake for love just ’cause it hurts the most.
Love is found in the gift of time we give ourselves. It is found in the small and beautiful places, the places we don’t believe we have time to notice because we are busy chasing the bigger dreams and visions that other people gave to us.2 of Swans
Love is that single rose who blooms
vivid red to capture wandering looks
portal to a universe magical but true
yet whom summer breezes oft confuse
with the tired colors of old passersby
noise overwhelming flowers that cry,
for human ends do drag them far away
to resume the repeating and familiar day
whilst rose is left to dry petals falling
doors closing to the vast expanse of all
magic lost till when again Love calls.
there is heaven on earth inside your heart’s desire
of the waves that breathe up in order to come down
the rhythm and dance between the silence and sound
the flame of true love that burns when it’s found;
for our love here is no shooting star ready to die
nor is it an interest to be gone by morning time;
no, we are forever, infinity between us binding
you I, lost in mind, blood of ocean, waters of fire.
carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero.Horace, Odes 1.11
seize the day, and as little as possible put faith in the future.
let your ripened fruit fall far from the tree,
or gently pluck it by your timely decree;
enjoy this day before the sun folds its rays
and gives all his light to earth for decay;
for sweetness in abandon is quick to spoil
falling to disgrace from which time recoils
to dig a grave that poor memories want to fill
where flies consume what’s now past its due.
We’re taught that love’s a fragile thing seeming
that changes direction with the slightest breezing;
that love’s a sister of pain, an enemy of pride;
that love’s a deepest desire forever denied.
but these are the wicked lies of a god of envy,
luring us from bliss with false apples of plenty,
lies hissed by tyrants for dissuading mankind
from the will of love, from who they are inside.