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POETRY SWEDEN 2002

 

B

BEING FOUND

 

C

CULMINATION

 

D

DEATH

 

I

I AM

IN AN INVISIBLE UPSURGE

 

K

Kitchen Madness

 

N

NIGHT OBSERVATION: GOTLAND

 

O

ON A BALCONY IN VISBY

 

S

SUNSET #1 GOTLAND SWEDEN

 

T

THE DELICATE FRAGRANCE

THE FINAL CHAPTER

THE LAMB SALESMAN

THE NOTHING IS PACKED

THIS IS THE PATH

THREE SWANS

 

V

VERBAL REIKI BLESSING

 

W

WITHOUT CONCERN

WORDS OF TRUTH RETURN TO THE SOURCE

 

17 Poems

Final poem: DEATH

 

 

 

 

Kitchen Madness

(At a workshop on healing the inner child)

 

It was to be a day of mourning, but madness broke out. Who can explain such things?
They fly right out of the heart. Dancing because of joy drifting through the kitchen like a
cloud of electric birds, it was infectious. The mourners coming in from the dinning hall all
broke out with wide smiles, and the madness kept building until the chef and her helper
were making wild love to the bread dough, kneading, rolling, beating the soft fleshy
substance warm in their hands, unearthed passions gyrating, getting hotter, the ecstasy
of primal earth at last celebrated in water and wheat and their bodies falling into an inner
hollow, unashamed, their minds barely serious with the fearless work of being fully
woman.

 

It went on for an hour, cooking like inspired scientists in a disco lab. It was a You Ain't
Nothing But A Hound Dog
, Schubert, good timey Gospel hour, with the sweat pouring
down from soul-fire through bodies that couldn't tire, and heat from the oven's open
doors, and a dance that would not stop its wild leap over the abyss of a wounded
child's lost sorrow.

 

 

 

September 17, 2002

 

VERBAL REIKI BLESSING

 

The top of your head opens like a portal to heaven.

Let the golden oil flow down.

Welcome the golden oil into your mind

all warm and welcoming your mind Home.

Your mind opens like one eye,

single and simple and clear.

Let your mind open, relaxed and unified.

Feel the clear spaciousness,

the fresh open sky of God.

The golden oil flows down into your voice.

Your voice opens to sing and say

this one tender truth without fear:

God is flowing through me.

God is my freedom in compassionate Love.

The golden oil flows down into your heart.

Open your heart to the freedom of God.

The portal of your heart opens

and the tender bud of Love

opens slowly, so gently, fragrantly,

sweetly opening, fragile,

invincible, incorruptible Love.

The flower hangs in an empty sky,

radiant with all power, perfect in peace.

Drop into your heart's flower.

And into the deep flower in the center of the flower.

Drop, through endless flowers unfolding

in infinite oceans of Love.

The golden oil flows into your will

and your will makes its simple, unerring choice:

for openness, innocence, and wildness in Love.

The golden oil flows down into the belly

and old emotions rise up and spill over

to flow away freely in rivers of Life,

in the waters of acceptance, in the Light flowing,

out of your secret emptiness

into the world with passion,

with purpose to express the glory,

to let the Great Love flow on.

The golden oil flows down

into your sexual joy with innocence,

to wash all passion clean to be free

in the pure gift of simple ecstasy: rose buds

and milk, pearls and hot silk.

Creativity flows, joy flows, passion flows,

Love flows as one river in the river of Life.

The beautiful gift is made clean and restored.

The golden oil flows down

into your deep, fertile earthiness,

into all that is fecund and juicy, hot and lush,

through your legs and feet,

blessing every step you take, blessing the ground,

blessing existence without effort,

as natural as sunlight,

as clean as autumn wind.

Your whole being is held open, mingling,

all oily and open, with unlocked

mind and heart, will and emotions,

with tender sexual delight,

all your earthy self and the pure Spirit,

golden and spacious, white and holy,

one Life, naked and clothed,

dancing through the moment,

the unchanging radiance

in the ever-changing river of time.

 

 

 

September 23, 2002

Gotland, Sweden

 

THREE SWANS

 

The wind howled off the gray sea

in the dim light before dawn:

an autumn wind, from the east,

from Russia, from the step lands,

from the Caucus mountains,

cold and raw. The sea stretched

into a low line of dark clouds,

while the first sign of day shown to the south

on the tops of bonnets of mounting clouds,

warm and gold and reminding me of God.

Suddenly, from the south, came huge sea birds

pumping wide wings, distant and dark,

silhouetted against the wind-ruffled sea.

I watched carefully, thinking they must be geese,

but the porcelain beauty of their bearing

and the graceful turn of the lead birds neck,

and the snowy coldness of their feathers

revealed three wild swans in whose presence

I stood amazed, my mouth open

as they flew by in slow, surreal motion,

so close my heart touched

the cool demeanor, aloofness,

and regal distain of their freedom.

And I thought of a beautiful woman

who has wept all week, feeling her

fear of the sun, of human hands,

and open mouths, and suckling need.

I could not wait for the dawn. The cold drove me home

to warm my hands over a morning fire

in a small, empty room.

 

 

 

SUNSET #1 GOTLAND SWEDEN

 

The skies are electric, and hovering so huge

they threaten to fall and crush me.

Thick, juicy rainbows

hang down everywhere, like fingers of God

dipped in colors pressed from wild flowers

in warm meadows to the south.

This is my first sunset on the eastern shore.

The sky is purple and burnt sienna

and dusty gold like wallpaper in a classy salon.

The cold sea turns violet, with riffles of dark

wind-ruffled shadows.

Gray clouds curl like decorations on Greek pillars,

their bellies raw and red, rouged and rubbed,

loosing their gray veils of mist

enwrapping two rainbows, running down like liquid color

into the color-filled sea.

Minutes after the dropped sun extinguished the show

the full moon arose like a radiant face

from the darkening sea, open and pale,

like an innocent woman, a virgin, softened

by the ecstasy of just loving her.

 

             

 

September 24, 2002

 

ON A BALCONY IN VISBY

 

The air is crisp, the wind fluid.

We are held in love by nothing more

than the fragrance of salt from the distant sea,

the look in our eyes, the intent of our naked hearts.

I am melting. Don't try to fix me.

Life must spill freely from its own moist heart

into the dark hole, the howl no one can heal.

I'm rolling over. Your lips speak from a world

I must depart.

The oil is still wet on the canvasses. Your paintings shine.

I say they are airy dreams, colorful revelations

of your most tender and wounded heart,

but you say you've ruined the signatures.

 

 

 

 

WITHOUT CONCERN

 

The battered and bruised seaweed on the shore,

the broken bulbs bleeding mucous and flies,

an unknown sticky substance on the rocks

catches wet, stringy, shrunken feathers:

while above, the wild swans uncaringly fly

and the scavenger gulls look for one more meal.

But things are such because they are cared for.

This is the secret of the sea and wind.

And all things wait for someone to sing,

"I Love you", without concern for anything.

 

 

 

 

THE LAMB SALESMAN

 

This is the real and true state of my lost affairs:

I would lie meekly by, wooing and winning

the innermost innocence at the heart of all things

and then subtly, with most smooth and delectable guile

use it for my own purposes, the unerring agenda

to heal my deepest howl of errant grief.

I would parade the Lamb, and sell Him.

I would turn him over to the circus owners.

I would make him a sideshow attraction.

I would hoard the nickels and dimes.

And as they carted him away in a cage

I would look at his sad eyes and weep bitterly

that my livelihood has been bartered away.

 

 

 

 

 

THE FINAL CHAPTER

 

All within the heart he sang and wrote

until his bones grew frail with withering age

then every word was written for the wind to read

and every song composed for a birds throat

as rocks and grassy fields became his final page

to labor over out of Love's need.

 

 

 

 

 

IN AN INVISIBLE UPSURGE

 

In the upsurge

of white pearls bursting

in lightly lingering fragrance

from the fume-hole of the world,

the thin, dark rim of pure pain

is broken and crumbles

into the abyss of light.

The howl has lost its shadow

and the whole episode appears

as tragic and laughable as it has always been.

Nothing moves. I am nothing too.

And the happy consequence

proves utterly real, as Life happens.

 

 

 

 

WORDS OF TRUTH RETURN TO THE SOURCE

 

To eat and drink the words of truth

is to grow robust and free,

to laugh that we are made of dust

and be what we are meant to be:

composed of water, dirt and stars.

And when the empty winds of praise

wind through the brain's and body's fields

to make the melting soul reveal

the deepest secrets of its heart,

then words return from whence they came

the naked essence of the flame

that purifies our twisted parts.

 

 

 

 

THE DELICATE FRAGRANCE

 

God does not bind us to Himself with chains,

or ropes or even silken chords,

but with a delicate fragrance,

like an oriental, cinnamon breeze

born faintly across the salt sea.

 

 

 

 

THE NOTHING IS PACKED

 

To the empty mind, God is nothing,

the invisible, empty essence by which it is seen.

But, Ah, what an Nothing:

brimming with beings, saturated with song.

The Nothing is packed.

 

 

 

 

I AM

 

I am Pure, Naked Being at Rest in Love,

in the Infinite Naked Nothing of God.

 

 

 

 

ALONG THE CLIFFS

Gotland, October 1, 2002

 

Along the cliffs, on huge white stones,

in the straw and grass,

in the sea breeze, amongst the birds,

I thought of the blue sky in a womans eyes,

and the golden sun of Sweden in her mind,

and I felt my naked thigh stretched over the bicycle bar

and with it a woman's open vulnerability and tawny strength,

and I wondered about fish, and birds, and stars,

and wet stones on the shore and how all these things

can fill a soul with such a joy.

And I felt her presence. And I felt alone.

And the sun streaming through high, thin clouds

was half-warm, but happy.

 

 

 

NIGHT OBSERVATION: GOTLAND

 

A moth is beating, beating itself against the glass.

For a moment I saw reflected in its eye

the light that has enflamed its mindless passion,

the ethereal engine driving it to die in flame

or beat its body to death in the dark.

 

 

 

 

BEING FOUND

 

The sky, like a beautiful woman,

puts its cheek to our cheek

and with streaming fingers ruffles our hair,

but receives no kiss, no tender thankfulness.

God gives all good and beautiful things.

Thankfulness is being found.

 

 

 

 

 

TWO VISIONS

 

Did we come here as punishment

for some willful disobedience,

some stubborn rebellion of dishonesty

deep in our spirit?

Or did we choose this blindness,

this wound to our most vulnerable innocence

that we might learn to Love God

more purely, more completely

than ever possible before?

In the first scenario

we are devils needing to be redeemed;

in the second, blind heroes—all of us—

waiting to wake up from a spell

that we, for Love's sake, chose.

 

 

 

 

CULMINATION

 

The moon sits in a dark corner of a room

and waits for the sun to enter through the door.

He is her Lover, the one she has dreamt

of for a thousand years.

She pours for him wine she gathered

on the hills of Galilee when her Lover

created the bud, the vine, the swelling grape.

The room floods with light. The sun has come

to sip his wine and kiss the moon.

She disappears in a blanket of gold.

He opens the folds with burning hands

and discovers a young star.

 

 

 

 

TWO MEN

 

Two men stood on a cliff above the sea.

One was a businessman on holiday;

the other, a Love-drunk artist.

The waves beat against the rocks below them.

One man was thinking about a thousand things

he must do next week

while the other felt waves splash

inside his chest.

 

 

 

 

 

THIS IS THE PATH

 

To walk in this world with an open heart,

with burning hands open to bless,

with open eyes

seeing all beings luminous,

enlightened, hidden in clay,

lost and alone for a while:

blind heroes waiting to wake up

from a spell they willingly chose

that they might learn to Love God

more passionately and completely

than was ever possible before their birth.

This is the path of ordinary miracles.

 

 

 

 

DEATH

 

The gray swan rests her tired head on the ice

and closes her eyes to the snowy wind.

Something warm is glowing deep within her feathers.

Quietly, something like a small bone breaks in her heart.

Stirred by the pain, for a moment she opens her eyes,

and they shine like light in the ice.

Wings open just above her body

and she feels the old rise of freedom.

Slowly, her eyes darken

and are covered with snow.