Summer Storm

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           Summer Storm

 

Rain falling in the tropical night,

the annual torrential deluge arrives,

with the warm stickiness of blood,

sweeping across the darkness in waves,

pounding the soil,

running in rivulets

down every crevice,

replenishing every well,

gathering in puddles

about my feet.

 

These great dark clouds envelop me

as if another skin,

obscuring the moon and the stars,

all vision,

but within the liquid air

of this dark abyss,

the germinal seed sparks

in the germinal moment,

creation begins anew,

turning the earth from brown and grey

to vibrant greens and golds,

and in this darkness

the light is born

that will illuminate all this vividity

in the coming day.

 

I languish,

caught in this utter blackness

of this perfect eye

-this I within,

as the spiral of the storm

spins about me,

and in this moment of the moment,

I cast

all my complaints, regrets, desires

and fears from the past

into the swirling wind,

wondering,

which will return, unresolved.

And I pray the universe

to give me new eyes to see

the beauty, magnificence and divineness

of even one

blade of grass.

The Creator is the Devil

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      The Creator is the Devil

 

The Creator of the universe

is a master of disguise,

appearing

in a myriad of forms.

 

Sometimes,

he has visited me

in the shape of the devil,

a thief in the night,

in the guise of

one who has not come far

along the path,

who perhaps

has no idea who he is,

and even if he does,

does not fathom

the damage he causes,

and when he has left,

I ask,

Why me?

 

The temptation is

to say,

He should be punished.

Lock him up

and throw away the key.

To pass judgment and sentence,

For I,

am the righteous victim,

Teach him a lesson.

 

That is what we have been taught to think

in situations like that.

Close up, tighten the security,

build a new wall.

 

But if we ask,

How does one judge

the creator of the universe,

What lesson

is the creator

teaching me?

 

Maybe,

what the creator is saying,

is you are on the path.

Your possessions don´t

matter any more.

They are only distraction you don´t need.

I gave them to you,

and I can take them away.

Because you are on the path,

what you have to gain

is far more important

than what you have to lose.

 

Then,

the correct answer is,

open,   let,   let.

 

For at the end of the day,

it is I

who have created the devil.

What I am witnessing

is the unfolding of the universe.

It´s all just activity,

motion and energy flowing.

There is really,

nothing to possess.

 

I create the devil,

when I make the label,

when I name it.

Each time I feel

ill towards someone

or want to hurt another.

Good and evil,

is just a human construct,

the result of our fears of loss.

 

All suffering and joy,

give and take,

conflict and harmony,

the beautiful house built long ago

and now gone to ruin,

civilizations rising and falling,

are all just the actions

of the creator,

experiencing existence.

 

As water seeks it´s own level,

over and over again,

from sea to cloud

to rain to river

to sea,

balance comes and goes.

The moment it is achieved,

it is thrown off,

because the world we live in

is in constant motion,

what is created

is always destroyed,

for the great creator of the universe

is also the destroyer of the universe,

and there is beauty

in the fire as well.

 

Why this endless cycle of life and death,

being and not being?

 

So that each star might shine in turn,

each river might flow to the sea,

each bird might soar

through the air,

so that each flower might bloom,

and so that every soul

might discover

it´s oneness with it all,

and the love and wonder

of being

along

the path.

Other

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         How varied you are,

you,

of countless,

different forms,

always changing

from moment to moment,

now no-thing,

the illusionist’s trick,

the magician’s deception,

that you are you,

and I am I.

 

My enemy, myself,

my friend, my nemesis,

my opposite, my antithesis,

my lover, my brother, my god,

the other,

I cannot deny you,

any more than

the air which surrounds

and defines us,

the you of me,

the I of you,

and each other,

separately,

so convincingly,

and yet…

 

without the mirror of your eyes

imagining me,

without the mirror of my eyes

imagining you,

we would both

disappear.

 

The Boogie Man

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That ambiguous specter

who creeps up,

from beneath our beds

to clutch our hearts

in the darkest hour of the night,

the invader of our restful slumber,

spoiler of dreams,

so near the surface

that when we recoil,

we burst through

and find ourselves

trembling,

engulfed in fear

without knowing

why.

 

Who, we ask,

is this horrid denizen

of the nether regions

of our minds

we know so little about,

This daemon,

who would disrupt and disturb

our nightly tranquility

and play so mercilessly

on our emotions.

Why?

 

Could this visage represent

some buried and forgotten guilt?

Some pain or suffering

we dare not acknowledge?

Or perhaps

a premonition

of some unforeseen disaster,

something yet to happen?

Or perhaps

an anxiety come forth

to ward off or warn us

of some impending evil

from the otherside

of light?

 

Or does the specter represent

fear itself?

Fear

of some unspecified loss,

love or someone beloved

not yet realized.

Or perhaps, even,

the loss of something

not yet held,

only anticipated

or expected.

 

We all know

that the world

and everything in it

is temporary,

but we don´t

like to admit it.

That the moment

we grasp something,

it´s loss is implicit,

everything and everyone

comes and goes,

and yet,

we dread the loss

of anything

from the pencil in my hand

to

life itself.

 

The premonition is

that we will lose

what we already know

will be lost,

and has been

from the moment

it was found.

 

I suspect,

that as long as we cling

to our attachments,

unwilling to release them

at any time,

the boogie man

will always be there,

lurking

beneath

our beds.

The Libido Mosquito

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The Libido Mosquito

I have been bitten
by the libido mosquito
a number of times,
the first time
as a mere child,
and I’ve suffered the ravages
of the dreaded jungle fever
ever since.
The itch is unbearable,
both terrible and delightful,
there is no known cure,
other than
loving the creature that bit us,
which gives
only temporary relief.

There is apparently no immunity,
no known repellant.
They will find you.
You cannot hide.
Heavy clothing is of no avail,
they know you are naked under there,
and merely wait,
for some unguarded moment
such as sleep
when they attack
and cause wet dreams,
or worse –
(illicit and immoral thoughts during the day.)

And so,
we try to live with the damned things,
for they are invulnerable,
and hope
that no one will notice
how silly and ridiculous we are behaving,
when we are dancing crazily
and walking kind of funny,
but I have noticed,
that even when they do,
there is an uneasy recognition,
behind those affectations of horror
and knowing sniggers.

From the Moment

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From the moment of our conception,
when the illusion of our separateness
was born,
When the umbilical cord was cut
and tied off,
And we first discovered
the discomfort of our otherness
and cried our first desire,
– we have yearned.

The first paradox arose
when we longed for
re-unity with the mother
from whom we were gushed forth,
and grasping our first grasp,
clutched her breast in hunger,
to suckle the nourishment
of her love
and the comfort of belonging,

while simultaneously-

We yearned for those first tenuous steps,
struggling so desperately for balance,
that would take us
into the wonderous play,
the frightening world,
so full of promise and possibility,
danger, dissappointment, death
and pure joy,
into our singularity, independence
and freedom.

We were divided from the beginning,
when our single cell became two
and then divided again to become four,
when we were swept into the current
of our creation
into the infinite maze of the universe
to experience all the wonder
and pain of existence
– our amazement.

Down all those crooked paths
of give and take
and a thousand multiples
of conflicting desire,
through all those pauses and starts,
the pulse of life,
seeking the lost paradise
left behind,
so elusive,
always beyond reach,

all the while,
trying to understand
what and who we have become
and are becoming,
in all it’s complexity,
finding
only
fragments, a fist full of poems,
a fistful of yesterday´s ashes,
until
at last,
we reach the end of the maze
and laughing at our folly and defeat,
we find ourselves at the beginning
and know
we are
already
truly
here
and this
is it.