THE ROSE BREATH OF THE WESTERN WORLD
File opened 9/4/95
A...
ANOTHER POEM ON THE LAMB OF GOD
ANOTHER WORM POEM
ART AS A
MEANS AND AN END
A SONG FROM THE PEOPLE OF CHIAPAS
B...
BACKWARD MOVEMENTS
D...
DAY AND NIGHT IN CHRIST
DIVINE
MEASUREMENTS
DON'T BLAME ME: ST. PAUL SAID IT
E...
ECSTATIC SUBSTITUTIONS
F...
FALL BACK, YES! DROP IN
G...
GOD IS CREATIVE GENIUS
GOD SEEKS THE LOVE
GOOD COMPANY ON THE WAY
H...
HAVING NO NEED, USING NO ONE
HOLY CONSCIOUSNESS
I...
I'M HIDDEN IN THIS OPENESS
IN THIS POETRY I KNOW GOD
I REST IN A DREAM AND THE DREAM MOVES ME
ISN'T IT ENOUGH TO LOVE?
I THINK JESUS WOULD APPROVE
I WRITE THESE POEMS
L...
LOVING WISDOM
M...
MANY ARE CALLED, FEW CHOSEN
MEDITATION UPON THE COLORADO STREET BRIDGE
O....
ON A DAY OF BIRTHING
ON SEXUALITY IN CHRIST
ON
THE FREE MOVEMENT OF CREATIVE WISDOM
OUR DELICATE WARS
OUR IDENTITY
R...
REMAINING TRUE
ROSE BREATH OF THE WEST
S...
SELF IS A WEB WOVEN BY ANXIETIES
SUNDAY OBSERVATIONS
T....
THE IDEALIST
THE FLUID MIND OF CHRIST
THE LILLY LOOK
THE MASK OF SELF
THE OLD ONES OF LOVE
(A Communion)
THE SOUL'S BLESSED ESSENCE
THIS WORK OF REMEMBERING
U...
UPON THE GREAT ADVENTURE
W...
WAITING IN THE WORK
WE ARE ECSTATIC ESSENCE
WE HAVE WAYS WE MOVE UPON
AND WITHIN EACH OTHER
WE MUST WALK IN REED SHOES
WE MUST WRITE POEMS TO BE HERE
WISE BLAMELESSNESS
WRONG IMAGES?
Y...
YOUNG WISDOM
YOUR SUNSHINE IN MY CLAY
Last Poem in the File:
THE OLD ONES OF LOVE
(A Communion)
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THE POEMS
I WRITE THESE POEMS THAT I MIGHT LOVE YOU
"I write these poems
because you are so precious,"
says the pearl to the sea
with round white words
upon its round white body.
The sea smiles blue smiles
and swims a song and a sigh
of little silver fishes by.
"I write these poems
that I might know you,"
says a cloud to the naked sky,
as it melts away its sadness
in a long, slow die...
"I write these poems
to be known,"
says
the ancient wind
to the lime green leaves
on a spring-sprung tree.
The tree's leaves rustle
with a mindless glee.
"I write this poem
to love you,"
says a poet to the crowd,
but who shall dare to sing it
out loud?
THE SOUL'S BLESSED
ESSENCE
What is the soul?
The soul is clear glass
full of flowing, fleeting images;
the soul is a vase
created to contain
the unfolding
rose bud of God.
That is its essence
in repose,
in a divine rest
from which the unquiet mind
is driven mad
with longing
for the blessed beauty
it feels
and sees.
ANOTHER WORM POEM
There is a worm that can never enter
the pure stream of God
for the worm is restless
and the stream is rest.
GOD SEEKS THE LOVE
God loves the love
that loves the Love
that longs
for Love in me:
and rest in Love
is all the fruit
of wild eternity.
Love is the relentless power
that brings a soul to rest
so beauty, joy
and Love's delight
may
tumble through its breast.
ANOTHER POEM ON THE LAMB OF GOD
There is a tender,
shy-eyed wisdom
that seeks to pour
her silver waters
of ecstatic rest
into the open, glass vase
of an empty soul.
There is a velvet flower
that only unfolds
in the effervescence
of these waters.
There is a drop of dew
on the lip of that flower
mirroring angels
in
all the earth and sky.
There is a shy-eyed face
hidden in everything.
ON THE FREE MOVEMENT OF CREATIVE WISDOM
There is an ecstasy
in open-hearted rest:
the blue breezes of day
sweep through unhindered
by stones;
the silver waters of wisdom
flood
through
quietly, wetting everything--
or come as a flash and spurt
shivering the belly
and the bones.
ROSE BREATH OF THE WEST
Why not live every day
in ecstatic emptiness,
in Eshoo's flowing fullness?
This sweet gentleness
of rose breath
is
God's rest:
It is the mitzvah of the Hebrews,
the flowering grace
in Francis's holy bosom--
it is the fragrant, unwavering flame
around
which Rumi twirled.
GOD IS CREATIVE GENIUS
God is pure, creative genius:
what else can I say about this One
but that?
When God wells up,
floods down,
envelopes in silk,
trickles through the naked core,
the images flow:
seeking to express
the transparency of the shiver,
the soft blow of rose breath
in blood and warm bones.
FALL BACK, YES! DROP IN
We can always keep
accepting,
always keep emptying,
always let the rose breath blow.
If a rat builds an muddled nest
in the mind, in the tight belly,
let
the wind carry it away.
If a cold stone drops,
let it tumble in a warm river.
If a worm eats into your apple,
throw the apple in God's press:
its golden juices will flow.
It is Eshoo who ever
keeps blowing...
O freedom!
O velvet delicacy!
His white wind,
(this movement
of unmoving light...),
is everywhere and always!
So open up soul
and fall back,
Yes!
drop in.
WISE BLAMELESSNESS
When innocence comes again,
it is called wise blamelessness:
it is the melting away of anxiety,
the flowing openness of God.
It is the sprinkling
of Christ's grace-blood
all over the head and hands,
the throat, the breasts,
the belly, the loins.
It is bare feet in wet grasses
and a yellow flame glistening
in your hair.
DAY AND NIGHT IN CHRIST
The clear mind opens.
Stars pour in;
a glitter of moon light.
The sun arises,
coloring the mind golden and blue.
A
silent ecstasy is felt
in light amongst the leaves.
THE MASK OF SELF
The mask of self
is woven of anxiety.
In the cool stream of God
anxiety eases into release.
A white flame on the inside
melts the mask away.
DIVINE MEASUREMENTS
It
is a hand's breadth
from the portal of God
unto the windows of wind,
a hand's breadth
from the windows of wind
to the golden voice,
a hand's breadth
from the golden voice
to the white flame of love,
a hand's breadth
from the white flame of love
to the yellow joy shining,
a handÕs breath from the yellow joy
shining
to the blue rivers of belly,
a hand's breadth
from the blue rivers of belly
to ecstatic rose pedals,
a hand's breadth
from ecstatic rose pedals
to the lily of dreams.
WE ARE ECSTATIC ESSENCE
What we call ecstasy
is simply life.
The leaves tremble with it
in a warm caress of sunlight,
in cool currents of wind.
It
is pain that dulls us
to life's naked shimmer.
Pour out pain
until your soul is empty.
You will sink in silver shivers;
you will tremble in flame.
GOOD COMPANY ON THE WAY
This silver shiver of life
that passes through me now
burnt as flame in Moses's bones,
and moved as wind through Isaiah's voice;
it softly shimmered as a pale bird
above Jesus' wet hair;
it betrothed barefoot Francis
and became liquid light in Rumi's pen;
it was a rose bud in the breast
of Joan of Arc
and the flame which consumed her flesh.
And there are countless unnamed ones
who yielded open and learned to love--
common folks now famous in Heaven,
who let the gentle ecstasy pour through.
SELF IS A WEB WOVEN BY ANXIETIES
I yield the anxious web of me
to the pure flame
which
melts open an expanding portal
to the careless, naked sky.
And the sky pours out
a silver refreshing dew
upon those wrestling in webs.
UPON THE GREAT ADVENTURE
What is life?
It's an ecstatic wind of light
blowing in the dark;
an everywhere emanation
of
God.
Streaming forth from God
it is God
silently flooding through
every brain, every bud,
every leaf, every stone,
every star.
And who shall say otherwise?
It is the dark that denies life,
that twists it and colors it dimly,
that projects its own severance
from God on God.
But, as the old wisdom says,
"In Him is life,
and life is the light of men.
The light shines in the dark
and the dark cannot comprehend it."
Brother, Sister, drinkers from one fountain,
beloved pain-numbed bathers
in shimmering effervescence--
love
life! Let us practice it!
We can wake up saying "Thank you!"
for seeing, for hearing, for breathing,
for speaking, for singing,
for eating, for excreting,
for feeling, for thinking, for dreaming,
for the little flapping fish
and silky rosebuds, for the adventure of it,
for the wonder of it... O to be in awe!
it will lead us to God.
And in finding God, "Closer than breathing,
nearer than hands or feet,"
we shall find
the heights and depths
of the silver shiver and rose breath,
with white wings crowding
a pour of blue skies
in the supreme beauty
of the transformative love
for which we were meticulously designed
and joyously created.
A SONG FROM THE PEOPLE OF CHIAPAS
The rose of the western world
grows
amidst dark pain
the life hungry, the true lovers suffer
for want of rose breath.
Our children need to play
amidst fish in flashing rivers.
Big-souled women need to sing
spirit songs together.
holding our sassy babies in their laps
as they weave their heart's beauty
into cloths of justice
--lamb's wool and yellow reeds;
into clothes for all our seasons.
Men need to love earth again:
to turn her, to knead her,
plunge their hands and naked feet into her,
pour sweet mash into her dry loins,
whisper poems to her beauty:
make her silky, make her moist
for white seeds of pearls, gold seed of corn,
black seeds of beautiful melons.
Father's need to love the sea with their sons again:
the white whirl of it, the taste of brine on lips
will be a liquor to make them drunk together
with life. Then silver waters will shiver
the people's bones day and night, and in each
other's arms--chest to breast,
arm entwining arm,
hands tenderly on bodies--
will rise amongst us the odor of bread,
the color of
carnations,
the secret fragrance
of the rose
of the western world.
SUNDAY OBSERVATIONS
When the spirit is naked and open
so life can course through it,
then the flash of a woman's thin thigh
is as beautiful
as a quiet discussion of recent history,
or
the homily of an old priest,
or the raucous caw of a blue jay
or the sight of birds drifting through trees,
or a dog's restrained, wary speech,
or the splash of river water on a stone,
or the taste of blueberries,
or the writing of poems.
REMAINING TRUE
The
truth of it
is this open,
naked, flow of life
from God.
To explain it any other way
the possibility
of self deception
is great.
As the pure-hearted,
artesian one said,
"He who seeks the glory
of the One who sends him
remains true."
OUR DELICATE WARS
With our delicate weapons
of rose breath,
children's songs,
and pearl-light aglow
in the dark waters of secret wells,
we destroy our hateful ones:
the little
Hitlers of the heart
yearning to make our bodies ovens,
longing to make our many petaled souls
6 million helpless Jews.
We
are learning the silver laughter
of water songs,
the golden stories of sunlight...
And how shall they stand against us?
THE IDEALIST
There was a poet
who once found
two silvery pearls
in a leather sack.
He kept them in secrecy
until he found
a perfect rose.
Then he sold his shoes
and his songs
and
bought the rose
that he might marry
pearls to rose petals.
ON A DAY OF BIRTHING
When the thin black sack
of selfhood breaks
to let its waters out
and birth the royal baby,
then ecstasy cries,
"O sweet sea of silver waters,
O divine origins,
flow out,
flow out forever!:
You revolution
of bright blessing,
You
floodtide
of countless birthings!"
HOLY CONSCIOUSNESS
Life
is a pure, transparent,
essence of
consciousness
welling up freely.
Through this clear, fluid glass
is continually poured
fragrances, colors,
sounds,
tastes,
ecstasies, pains, silver flashes
golden glows, aches
and other sensations
of the inexplicable miracle
we call life.
YOUNG WISDOM
What could be more intoxicating
than young wisdom?
It is a holy child
lighting up
the face of an old man;
softening the spirit
of a decrepit woman;
it is that rare treasure
in a young man's earnest eyes;
in the soul-passions
and whimsical smiles
of a sprightly woman.
THE LILLY LOOK
I have noticed
that there is a certain
whimsical look
in the eyes of those
whose spirits
have
remained
close to Heaven:
even in the midst
of grievous soul-pain
the joy is always there,
flowing out from under
a blanket of snow.
ART AS A MEANS AND AN END
This
writing is not the work,
nor is singing,
preaching a sermon,
painting a picture,
photographing wonder and beauty:
none
of this is the work!
The work is birthing
countless free-spirited,
compassionate souls
into the world,
to
do the work
of birthing and beauty-making
which births and makes beauty.
MANY ARE CALLED, FEW CHOSEN
How many actually desire joy
and freedom of spirit
enough to forsake all dissipation
and commit their whole being
unto the journey into Life?
How few truly gather their souls
back to the fountain of their lives;
yet, this is merely the first step of Christ.
Who hungers for beauty daily
coursing through them like scented waters
flowing in sunlit streams?
Who thirsts for naked shivers
of silver water spilling freely down
the core of their wide-open being?
Who yearns to complete the ecstatic circle
in nakedness,
that
they might see a radiance of God
pouring through all things?
THE FLUID MIND OF CHRIST
Through the simple,
love-opened
core
streams contemplation
of beauty
into action.
Through the simple,
love-opened core
flows a new rationale.
I'M HIDDEN IN THIS OPENNESS
I'm walking with God in the worldÑ
hidden in this openness
because of the simple flow
of ancient wisdom that creates galaxies,
the gossamer film of a fish's fin,
the sheen in a wolf's eye.
I'm becoming a child
because I've spent thousands of hours
learning to kill one worm
so I might speak God's nonsense in rhymes,
and sing love songs to those
who have no money in their pockets:
songs sunlight sings amongst the trees
sung to melodies old men murmur
in the presence of young women;
song of wild songs winging over wild seas;
songs of an adventurous future
to those at death's doors...
and that I might be so blessed
as to feel the wind
scrawl upon my soul
stories of its love affair
with the sky.
*
Sometimes I'm just on my own,
writing echoes of worm breath,
eating earth,
defecating
a small, brown, cloud.
It is God who has created me
out of thick shadow,
out of red loam and bone marrow,
and has
flowed through me as words,
to form a soul. It is His soul,
a child born of compassions,
a messy, miraculous work
crafted by grace.
God
passionately loves me,
as He loves you.
Happiness is knowing this
with a child-like heart.
ON SEXUALITY IN CHRIST
There is a woman
who holds a rose bud
in one hand,
a pearl in the other.
She has big eyes, open,
joyous, luminous like her soul.
She sits in front of a radiant
white wall
which has been veiled with black
by God's hands.
When ever she puts her two hands together
and laughs,
the black drape falls.
WRONG IMAGES?
I took a walk in the art gallery of God
and observed His sculpture of the trees;
the exquisite lines and intricate textures
of a dead branch amidst reeds;
the phenomenal form of a river stone.
And I sat before His flowing painting
of a river falling,
(I believe it was done in watercolor),
and
listened to Him play
a soothing, intricate
little passage of music in the wind.
That afternoon He filled the sky
with classical clouds,
and by evening put on a surrealistic show,
delicately coloring with the tint of peach
wind-whipped smooth shapes
--like women's soft, cloudy breasts--
and
then, with a sudden shift of the wind,
ragged shapes, like torn linen,
all flushed with the color of blood,
the iridescent sheen of mallard wings.
*
Not a bad job for a judge
whose hobby is art.
HAVING NO NEED, USING NO ONE
This sensuousness comes from deep inside me,
down near the liquid core,
down near the place of passion's
yellow surge of sunlight,
down near the gray moon of sorrow.
The
mercury mirror of my soul,
flows in metallic dribbles
from my mind to my loins,
then shimmers out through my limbs--
wetting all the clay.
I'm an open-lipped well
holding moon light;
I'm an empty pot
full of sky.
How can the light of the sun
feel so old upon tired leaves,
yet taste young
when it shimmers the silver waters in me
and makes them tremble?
How can the ancient, sad moon
become
that silky light
in a young lover's eyes?
I am convinced that God is a sensualist,
luxuriating in the full feast of His senses--
having no need,
using no one.
LOVING WISDOM
May God kiss me with the kisses
of His mouth:
the young Shekinah
springing
out of God's side
while He slept
in religion's dark.
She alone is His kiss.
She comes to me
in the morning winds:
Her innocent, passionate eyes;
Her high breasts wet
with the milk of wild wisdom,
a free compassion.
She is Shekinah, God's beauty,
open and delicate;
so pure she pervades all things
--tainted by nothing.
Her name keeps flowing like bright oils
from bowls of glass
into rough, clay pots.
I would run with you...
I would make you my Bride
--breath, rising spume,
ecstasy of God making us young again!--
if You would help me cast off
these heavy garments,
if you would teach me
holy nakedness.
YOUR SUNSHINE IN MY CLAY
Your sunshine
in my silver waters
--help me remember!
Your sunshine
in my silver waters;
Your wind blowing clear my eyes;
Your rose growing in the gutter,
sweetening desolate streets.
Your silver waters
in my clay
--help me remember!
trickling from head to toes
down the core of the soul.
Your wind blowing through my eyes;
Your thorns on mountainside roses
pricking the skin of dreamy lovers.
Help me remember.
Your sunshine
in my silver waters;
Your silver waters in my clay;
Your wind blowing clear my eyes;
Your rose growing in the gutter.
Help me remember...
You.
YOUR SUNSHINE IN MY CLAY
Your sunshine
in
my silver waters
--help me remember!
Your silver waters in my clay
trickling from head to toes
down the core of the soul.
Your
wind blowing clear my eyes;
Help me remember...
You.
DON'T BLAME ME: ST. PAUL SAID IT
We must leave the Word
chiseled in stone
to find the Word
written with warm blood
upon cool waters.
We must stand upon the stone
and inscribe words
with a flute
in flowing air.
MEDITATION UPON THE COLORADO STREET BRIDGE
When the great, huge, placid
reserves of God
well up, artesian,
through an opened soul:
Oh! the burbling power,
the free flowing flashing,
the silver streaking,
twirling, twisting, exuberance
emanating from the pressures
of the universal movement
of the mystery as silent force!
All this to create a child,
a tree, a stone,
a cat, a star.
WAITING IN THE WORK
The soul is to be realized
amongst the elements of God.
The first love of the Creator
is Creation:
Fire, wind, stone, water,
passionate stars and patient trees,
the fox in the hedgewood bush,
the herring of the wild seas.
A man's passion must be loosed
in the coarse of his will
to will God's will:
to see the work to its finish,
to flame with desire
--to walk in controlled fire--
amongst God-loved beings,
waiting for the woman
who shall realize her soul
in matters far greater
then she now safely dreams.
She'll live one day
in a free-born way
amidst the flames of passionate things!
Therefore, the man must burn
as he waits, 'till his work
awakens her yearnings
unto her sorrow
and ecstasy,
when fire sings!
BACKWARD MOVEMENTS
When I tried to return to young
light-filled seas
my peers told me who I am.
The ancient rocks and rivers, the sand
and holy sky told me who I am.
And the trees, my old lovers,
whispered into my bones,
"Don't you remember,
the sea is also deep and old."
And so I grieved
and grew to sing it.
THIS WORK OF REMEMBERING
This work of remembering
who I am here in verse
is akin to the dream streams of night
that flood me out
into the lights and shadows
of a loving nowhere
full of everyone.
WE MUST WRITE POEMS TO BE HERE
We must take off our clothes
and be clothed only
with blue robes
of the
sky
before we can safely
put on the green leaves
of jasmine plants,
or slip our feet
into clay boots.
We
must write poems
to be here,
to be known from the inside
before we can speak words
that mean something.
It's a dangerous thing
to speak words
that mean something
in a land
where folly is held so dear.
It's a dangerous thing
to grasp
the darkness
when insanity is so feared.
We must be known
from the inside
before we are here.
WE HAVE WAYS WE MOVE UPON
AND WITHIN EACH OTHER
We have ways we move upon
and within each other
that are rarely said
by anyone.
But we can look through
another's eyes
into vast, spacious places
beyond the bounds of sense.
The passage there
is always open,
though we be a closed door.
*
Do we know the mystery of anyone, anymore?
*
Someone may suddenly run out there
naked, like a young child
happy in summer.
God flies his kites
in a boundless sky:
"Did I ever really know you?"
we
say into an open coffin
and cry.
*
We have ways we move upon
and within each other
that are rarely said
by anyone.
I THINK JESUS WOULD APPROVE
Sometimes,
when there is too much
wrangling
amongst the many owners
of God
it is time to wash
the face of love clean
of all its images.
Then there is only something
like a simple trickle
of silver waters,
or the warm breath
of a beloved.
Why argue about it?
Just drink
and kiss.
ISN'T IT ENOUGH TO LOVE?
Love, expecting
nothing in return.
Isn't it enough to love?
Oh, there is so much
that
must burn away
so that the silent center
may speak, may sing
the Word that birthed all words,
the Meaning of all meaning.
The
dreams we have long dreamt
and loved
will someday show
in the lines of our faces.
If your dream has
the subtle fragrances
of truth,
follow it.
It's slow burn will burn you up.
WE MUST WALK IN REED SHOES
We must walk in reed shoes
upon
concrete
until, one day earth breaks through
all cold, gray things
and the smell of rosemary and roses
arises again
in
the lavish love
of Life.
Until then,
let your heart be a tincture of rosemary;
be a rose.
OUR IDENTITY
There
is a powerful identity
which grows
in our identity with the truth.
Let truth burn it up!
There is a purposeful work
of the
Spirit that bears lush fruit.
Let others eat it
until not even scraps are left
to weigh or count.
There is a beauty
that links two
worlds.
Work to remove the obstacles:
Let it be!
Love pours out
to create love.
Nothing more.
Nothing more.
IN THIS POETRY I KNOW GOD
It is in this poetry
I know God.
I cease to speak it--
and where is He?
Someone
said,
"God is silent."
Could it be
it is because
they aren't speaking
for love?
Yet,
sometimes love
is quiet-eyed,
when it disrobes
to dream of love.
I know for a fact
love bears a billion
images of deeds;
speaks trillions of words
a day.
Who among us can say
God is silent!
I REST IN A DREAM AND THE DREAM MOVES ME
I rest in a dream
and the dream moves me.
Please don't despise the images I speak...
they may be truer
than
you think.
A judge once said
that God is our Judge;
it was a king who said
that God is a great King;
and a Lover who sang
that God is love.
Perhaps God
was once
a slim young girl
who let her clothes slip from her
and wore only
a holy robe of sunlight
on the battlefield.
But this is a poet's dream
who longs for sexual innocence
and to say it, I feel shy.
Yet, I've heard God say,
"When the soul slips naked
from the body...
no one is shy."
ECSTATIC SUBSTITUTIONS
If
I should ask to kiss the sun
it would melt my lips to liquid;
if I should ask to kiss the moon,
it would freeze them like ice.
But I can kiss sunshine
in an apricot, or in your skin,
or by writing poems
about your eyes.
And I can kiss the moon
in a pearl,
or
by touching your breasts,
or by slowly singing
a song of your face.
THE OLD ONES OF LOVE
(A Communion)
There
is a place
where the souls of old women meet--
those who spent their lives
cooking fabulous feasts:
it is the rich rest
of
a gathering goodness,
it is the candle light
that bathes lover's bodies,
it is the scent
of rose petals
on bare skin.
And these old women
mutter prayers
in the form of recipes of love:
first take a pinch of star light
and sprinkle it into the shadow
of an aloe plant,
then add two shakes of cinnamon
across a slice of green apple,
toss it all into a cherry wood fire
and drink the flame.
The smiles of these old women
can make the whole desert glow
in a moonless midnight.
The smiles of these old women
give hope
even to a wild and destitute child.