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LUVDRUNK POETRY (FILE 3) OPENED 6/13/97

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ANOTHER QUESTION AND ANSWER

Q: How far can we go along the path
of self surrender?
A: Into the limitlessness of God.





THREE CHRISTIAN MEN

1. THE 3RD CENTURY A.D.

Three Christian men
sat together, chattering
like sparrows in an apple tree:
one was old, the other young,
the third was free.
Their speech was sober--
but their minds giddy as a hen--
they drank in the sunshine
and spit out the wind.
A mountain’s stone-flank soared above them,
like a temple--granite walled!
a simple flower, like a diadem,
enchanted them with awe.

*
2. THE 20TH CENTURY

Three Christian men
sat in a pew,
silent as gargoyles on a roof:
one was old, the other young,
the third aloof.
What was there to talk of,
except golf at the coffee hour,
they would have had a little OJ
but it was sour.
The fellowship hall was pretty nice,
with programs posted on the wall,
and a picture of Jesus walking on water
that no one saw.





WHAT WOULD WE FIND?

What shall we find
in pre-institutional,
pre-ascetic Christianity?:
A wedding feast of reality
in the pure unfoldment of Way;
Life as free-flowing Spirit
which is the core of Christ;
and sumptuous rivers of absolute creative,
imaginative powers expressed
as revolutionary compassion,
turning a religious/political world
upside down, threatening the existence of all
the Maker had not made,
all that the alienated ego of mankind
built to sustain its own aberrant existence.
And what would happen
if we returned with a full and free heart
to this primal essence of reality?
Aboomba. Joy! Justice! Breakthrough!
The radiance of God in everyone's eyes;
openness, trust, celebration;
life in a riot of loving growth
in the everywhere wild soul of Christ.






POEMS WRITE ME

I don't write poems,
poems write me,
knocking on my heart door
with their wordy little hands.
Opening, I find them
all free and fluid,
begging for brilliance
in my mind, (light I mean),
wanting nothing,
except to be known.
And loving them,
they write me,
and kill me,
and scatter themselves
like seeds
through the wastes
of my heart.
Now, I am a garden...
and the hoe
and watering can
are held by the Poet
with miniature moons
in His fingertips,
a golden sun
in each of Her
opened palms.






A MIRROR OF GOD

When the eyes of the heart open
the whole face
becomes a mirror of God.
If our hearts should become pure
miracles would happen
to us unceasingly...
though no one else would notice.






THERE'S A TENDER RIVER

There's a tender river
flowing into soul
becoming soul,
coloring it;
flowing through the body,
being body,
being the song
in human form,
God's body,
you.




THERE IS LIFE TO RECOVER

There is a wisdom
that sometimes
breaks the bounds
of fundamental morality,
that shatters family soul
to make a new maker.
There is life to recover,
captives to loose,
energies to regain.
This is the wildness of God!
There is a predictable God
who is tamed and owned.
But the Living Master moves:
birthing dreams,
crushing dreams,
fulfilling dreams
to kill the dreamer
into his dream:
incarnating a breath
effortlessly breathed
eternally.
*
The Soul is utterly realized
through countless
unconventionalities.




I SAY, YES! YES!

Blow the wind through me
Drive me like a wedge
into the dark!
I say, Yes! Yes!
Your invisible blows
of love, shattering
the strong stone,
splitting tough roots,
bleeding the love through,
blasting open water spouts.





I HAVE A MASTER IN HEAVEN

I have a Master in heaven.
His name is Eshoo.
I have a heart for kingdoms
and he is the Great King.
But on earth I longed
for visible teachers
to fill my senses
with songs and words.
I found three teachers:
the trees, stones, and rivers.
The trees teach me rootedness in earth
and sensitivities to sky;
the stones, simple constancy;
and the river: forgiveness, play,
and deep moods of freedom.
My teachers were made by my Master.
to impel my movement in His Way.




EXERCISES IN AWARENESS I.

Thought is a voice without sound
as imagination is sight without eyes.
Think about it.
Say to yourself in thought alone,
"Mary had a little lamb..."
Now, again, slowly...
Did you hear the words? Were
they not a form of silence that spoke?
Who was the speaker. Who the listener?
Can you answer?
Who answers?
Now imagine a lion.
Can you see it? Where? Who sees inside?
Right now a million nerve impulses
are bombarding your brain
and the mystical thing creates this sound
of thought for you, the translucent listener,
the silent watcher, the other one
you do not know.
There is a back door in the soul
that can open to a hidden Sun.
There is a Golden Voice waiting to speak
our new names in light.
There is bird song burbling
from another world
which can swallow
us up in ecstasy.
I have heard a song of light
that sings open two worlds!
This is the breath of it:
listen!...




WHY I SING

Have you noticed how beautiful
people become when they sing
love and happiness?
Or have you heard that tremor
that naturally comes
to a voice
when the soul starts speaking,
putting to word
the wordless?
I sing
because I love the Love
that loves Love--
to be in it,
to flood full with it
loving...
To turn in it;
to spin like a goose on a spit in it;
to cook hot in love
'till heart-juices drip
out my mouth, through my eyes...
That's why I do it the singing way,
because it's the way of light,
speaking in colorful juices,
the radiance who introduced Himself to me
when I wasn't looking
for anything more
that some serious, solid dark
embodied in swelling, soft things...
but stuck in flat things!
in the gray was I,
in the curt and cold,
like some poet's
voices I've heard recently
around these wearisome
post-modern parts.




ALL THINGS MERELY IN TIME

All things merely in time
are mindless motions...
impersonal impartialities.
Sweeping a child away in its floods,
a river plunges through time.
And that sun cooks the brains
of a man lost in a wilderness
of hot stones.
But in the soul,
when the heart falls open into life
and life courses through,
all things become ruminations,
indications and intimations
of counter-universes of love
and the whole thing explodes open
into poetry.
And the heart holds life fluid
as fluid life splays the soul
set deep in a percolating fabric
which undulates open in times
beyond time.



IMAGES FROM A DREAM

Because of war
I chose my weapons of war:
I rode a white horse
with a horse in its saddle
and talked to the women
who grew from their heads;
I kissed one,
as the hair of her mane
fell into my mouth.
I visited my children
when they were young,
and spoke with their mother
but to no resolve:
yet my children loved me
and that was the healing.
I said "Yes, yes, yes!"
to Jesus amidst a crowd
of beautiful people:
and joy surged through me
as a glorious presence.
Then suddenly I was home
and the war ended.





BIRTHING THE GRIEF OF BLESSING

I don't know when it was,
the first time it touched me...
Was it in those sea voices,
astir in silent pools,
or in the fringed throats of anemones
when I was a barefoot child?
Or was it the first time
I discovered the power of women
over young boys?
I remember it in a desert sky,
that was white as milk with stars,
pouring through a silence
that made my heart pound
a loud, mystical beat in my head,
and there again with the great sharks
I saw swimming where I often swam.
It was there, without a face or hands,
beckoning me, a child dumb with grief
from being born into a miraculous, cruel world,
--cast blind upon concrete,
sliding into the music of foam--
urging me to desire nothing,
to know nothing,
be nothing,
have nothing,
that might allure me away
from the voice:
this hidden fire in my belly,
this mind-breeze,
this seizure,
this fate of lushness
streaming through nothing,
this monstrous curse
of blessing.
*
I'm going back now
to the startling wind in a bush,
to birds in straw tents,
to the gray squirrel's tail,
to a severe blade of grass,
to a woman's milky thighs,
to soft rivers of the moon,
to a gold splash of sun,
to enter that
which enters me.




REALITIES PROJECTED AND KNOWN

There are imaginative projections,
and beyond these projections
a silent, silver center,
and beyond the silence
of the silver center
a golden world
full of voices
and song.






THESE THINGS TURN MY HEART BACK

Salt, bread, honey, brown eggs,
an old wind in young trees,
sea foam, barnacled stones,
the silky movement of kelp
in the tides: all things call us
towards a place where secret doors
open unto day's colors
and the fragrances of night.
Life becomes like kisses there:
soft, passionate, warm and wet,
loving us.
My feet seek the white sands
of Argentina, the rock islands of Chile;
my ears: sheep hoofs on stones, lamb's cries,
the sharp comment of the hawk;
my eyes: sheets of sunlight
seeping down to dark roots--
loosing the green--
and you, running barefoot amidst gray hills.
These things turn my heart
back to where I am,
watching light-filled waters
spilling between dark stones,
feeling the fissures love cleaved
out of which wild, white spray spumes
towards the skies.



UPON THE DEEP PASSION

I would die into
the deep passion
of all sufficient intelligence—
busy as a ceaseless ant,
quieter then a nun's whispers—
from which all artistry
of form and fire
issues in a continual dance.
*
I need seven days of naked solitude;
seven days of sky;
seven days to clear my mind
of the jangle of senses;
seven days for the doors of light to open
seven days to clothe the wind with words
upon seven pages;
upon God's seven breaths;
upon the circuit of being;
so that she who reads
may know her human heart...
and die into deep passion.






FOR THOSE WHO DO NOT FEAR
(Only God fully lives Life)

For those who do not fear
their death
we become like plum trees:
the surge of Life
that God only lives,
swelling our blooms,
until blossoms
fall white, like rain,
in mystery and grace,
warm in sweet grasses—
while armored seeds
that never died
darkly dissolve
with weak cries
amidst rotting leaves.





LET US LAUGH THE LOVE TOGETHER

I have to laugh
and make a defense for love
and love's pleasures
of spirit and body in this world.
This is about joy!
Is fear, or guilt, or rigid duty
a better defense
against selfish abuses of freedom
then love's own intoxications?
And what can make us wiser
then pleasure’s pure creative flow?
Let us sing together affirmations
of the beauty of love's light
rising in our hearts and eyes.
Let us laugh together
and dance in grace
with celebrations
of love's lightness of being
as it brims up
in a free flow
through the center of our hearts.





IN EVERY ACT OF GOODNESS

In every act of goodness
God is here
and we are home.





I WANT TO SEE MY MASTER

I want to see my Master
as the holy book says
I should see Him--
and to hear His voice
behind me as the prophet
dreamt it could be.
Sometimes I think
He is merely a cultural fantasy,
and then I curse His name:
the one I love...
But my heart remembers
being awakened by His voice
one deep evening
in a solitary room
while monks prayed—
and I cannot stand
with my argument.
Sometimes I imagine He is here,
looking quietly upon me,
thinking thoughts
I cannot fathom
in harmony with
the inscrutable wisdom
of His love.
But this is only imagination
and longing.
Yet, wasn't it through these two doors
that the prophet once walked
onto a sea of fire?
And wasn't it through these two doors
that the desert birthed
great wheels of eyes?





SPRING SPEAKS, MELTING INTO SUMMER

I imagine all things:
form to delight in
and the void for rest.
My pleasure is boundless
in all that I make.
We are like each other:
I too find ecstasy
as I am released in another's body.
You are my form,
I, your spacious freedom.
We expand each other...
but only in Love for Love--
for the beauty of it,
for the joy!
Open your eyes this instant!
You will see me
in the empty blue skies,
in the blank space of stars,
in the white sheets of snow,
or rising, all warm and silvery
in a lover's eyes.
Open your heart this instant!
and you will feel me
in a child's spirit,
or as a cloud of light
hovering over the sick bed
of one who prays;
or illuminating the room
of the open-hearted ones
as they die
from earth's rough forms
into heaven's delicately
beautiful ones.




WHEN THE HEART GATES OPEN

When the heart gates open
and all the walls of fear fall
then we fall into God
as effortlessly
as God falls into us.
This is the awakening
to know
that the soul has always been in God
as God is in the soul.





A TERRIFIED CHILD RUNS

A terrified child runs
from the tenderness
that would lift the mask
from its face.
But, gentle hands carry
a soothing flame
to burn the soul open.




THE TRUTH THAT DESTROYS TRUTH

There is truth and
there is the Great Truth.
It is true that people have possessions.
The Great Truth is that
no one owns anything--
never have, never will--
especially their own soul
which is the essence of freedom.
In the light of Great Truth
why all this delirium
of possessiveness?
Why do we ruthlessly compete
instead of nurture the Love?
There is a round door
that we must all slip through
at the closure of our tenure.
It is called The Truth
that destroys truth
and it leads into the Great Truth--
even for those who adamantly resist it.






EACH OF US IS AFRAID

Each of us has a mind
of flame that tenderly burns
when kindled by the spark of love,
and a silk purse in the heart
that clasps sky
and holds old sounds of earth
being slowly tilled,
and fragrances of wet horses,
lavender and sage.
Each of us hides the ancient child
we love, the one whom we have lost
in the shadow of our grief.
Each of us is deathly afraid
of Christ our Lord
and would kill Him
in the one who becomes too free:
for to be reminded is to be called
to face the painful essence of our grief
to its resolution:
and that takes courage and passion
and the willingness to be wrong
in this change.






TOTALITY

All that matters is the Spirit
the Spirit, the Spirit,
the Spirit pouring through
all things, in all experiences,
the naked breath,
the blue, spacious current...
the Spirit.
Centered in the heart:
the Spirit.
Pouring through the brain:
the Spirit.
Opening the senses:
the Spirit.
Spilling out the love:
the Spirit.
Welcoming the whole soul home:
the Spirit,
Spirit,
Spirit.







WHEN THE HEART DROPS INTO THE SPIRIT

When the heart drops into Spirit
to be lost in the silver sea
unknown to the mind;
to drink fluid light;
to spin free in God;
then the whole being
must acquiesce to the heart,
bow to it as it blows.
Then the journey towards destiny
clears, the life trues-up
as resolve firms,
while stars and trees,
fish and birds,
fight for the soul
to fulfill its God-dreamt dream
of freedom.





HIDDEN TREASURES

In the Spirit
hidden treasures are reserved
for each who asks.
The heart alone can receive
treasures hidden in the Spirit's fields.
When the heart falls into the fields
to admit its bounty
everyone around hears the sound
of the Soul of God singing--
everyone wakes up
a little.







HEALING THE OLD ACHE

My children, best friends
in memories—until one
golden girl I did not know
spoke with untoward eloquence
against her mother
and turned to me
to sing of fatherhood.
And love moved through
so deeply
it felt like God.







THREE POEMS ON SPIRITUAL FREEDOM

Dancing in dirt
the secret flame laughs
as sky rushes into stone.

I. AIR

Why are we here?
To love the true Love.
When loving with the soul
we vanish into sky.
Only seeing remains,
and the deep listener
who doesn’t speak.
Our feet barely brush the ground.
Everyday our body grows younger,
fresh with light.
How natural it is to be rooted
upside down in sky.

II. EARTH

Why are we here?
To love the true Love.
When the heart is freed
from the grief of all things
it embraces everything.
Breath passes through,
the wind is light
and earth radiant.
Soul buries itself
in color, soaks up fragrance,
dances with worms and beetles,
sings with crickets at night.
Because nothing can
enmesh it, the soul passes into
everything, tastes it all,
loves it all, imbues all,
releases all.

III. WAKING UP WE ASK

Waking up we ask
for what we most truly want.
The answer comes as pure answer
for the desire and its fulfillment
are one.
No desire, no fulfillment—
only a free movement
in the Infinite.
Dance child for it is dawn
and all things come.
Dance child for it is night;
even the fearful cry
is full of beauty
as long as crickets sing.
Dance child
where two worlds meet
for you are of the One
and always Nothing.





HOUSE BEYOND THE SUN
(A meditation on a Navaho song)

Far to the east
beyond the sun,
there is a house.
A beautiful house.
The God of light made it
out of His dreams.
It is His house
and my house.
Beautiful house.
It is covered with white flowers,
and fields of sunflowers
surround it, keeping watch.
Their black eyes see God
and are delighted.
Their black eyes watch for me
to step through the sun.
In this house, everything is soft
with the light of peace.
The garden is full of food:
fat tomatoes and beans that climb high.
There are many streams
laughing everywhere.
Boats sail up and down
on clear rivers.
Fish are leaping.
Beautiful house.
There are fields of corn.
There are fields of wheat.
There are many birds singing
in young trees.
Ancient people come and visit
our house.
They drink silver tea
made from the light of the moon.
They laugh at remembrances.
They talk to the deer.
They talk with birds.
They see God’s face
and are delighted.
They are watching for me
to come to my house,
to step through the sun.
Beautiful house
far to the east
made by God
out of His dreams.



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