two poems with one heart shared with you-all

Aperture

These that are things and not things both
They pepper the landscape
The landscape that is so and not so both
I walk amongst them
The I that is not an I after all, yet somehow is

It's not that I wonder about this apparent conundrum
As in feeling troubled or some kind of loss
Rather it is there or with it that I belong
Nothing of this casts me aside
All things that I am and am not Rest here

Whose favor would I garner
To look upon this any differently
Seeing is a communion after all
That each and every one of us
Has within the very fabric of being

Ultimately there is no such thing as compromise
And yet how often is there a sensation
Of All of This somehow tangled
Around my ankles that I possess
The I that has no counterpart

As we see through this aperture
Closure is a function of clarity
Focus celebrating the visual spectrum
Saturating this field in the unseen
An exposé of brilliance and crystallization

Open Open Open

This light pouring forth as everything
needs no on/off switch
Has no sign in the door
indicating readiness for business

And yet we play at the controls
and let us play
in the true order of things
transparent, wild, open without its opposite

This is Yes without a No
Form and formless seamlessly joined
Cacophony and symphony just as it is
We are playing this tune

Let us play
Let us play
No need to petition anything
Amongst this playground

Massive Supersymmetry

decoding

natural as breathing

unseen sight

Higgs boson

unanswered question

(s)

a = morning

b = afternoon

c = evening

d = day

does a + b + c = d

(?)

apparent passage

of time

walks all over

everything

we think

($)

without time

the space

between

things would not

contain monies

(!)

as if those

spaces

did as we think

dark matter

anti matter

(*)

IT previously

not conceived of

not seen

electroweak field

strong interaction

(10−22)

of a second

disassembles

Standard Model*

shaking in its

spin-parity

(¡)

little

do we know

yet beautifully adapt

(we = cognizant)

as/within all forces

(<3)

*the so-called Standard Model of Elementary Particles

Reprieve: Song to Sestina

Happily going along, I find this,

unbeknownst to me, the sestina form

A new puzzle for the resting of mind

Chartered territory long ago laid

By Daniel historic and Daniel now.

May I have this dance? I say to myself

With nothing to do, I rest in myself,

the structure wafting me along in this

Arriving, pausing, backing up, and now

discovering, climbing into this form

that innocence, that's always been, is laid

bare, nothing to do but enjoy free mind

What comes is what comes, penetrating mind

with that which effortlessly is myself

Form and formless interweave, nature laid

before itself as the seed carries this

code, its modifying of subtle form

reminiscent somehow only of now

That which springs forth is the What Is of now

Here again, nothing to do, freeing mind

offering no thing to the empty form

giving everything to empty myself

Reminds me of walking one step, just this

then the next, each open, empty, each laid

As itself, but not distinct, again laid

as itself, but not apart from each now.

To speak of the whole seems trivial in this

kind of insight, as cliches work the mind

dry and so tired. To refresh myself

again, I climb up this jungle gym form

Surrendering without collapsing form

The formless emanates like gold leaf laid

in the thinnest of sheets over myself,

bathing me free of I, me, mine. And now

this reprieve sings the song empty of mind

to the chorus of Sestina. Just this.

An Empty, Empty form is Happy, Happy now.

Only need is to have laid out the table; mind finds its own nourishment. I find myself in This.

Stir The Pot (taste the life)

With each veil, whether opaque or transparent

There you are, such that the phenomenon

Of 'behind' a veil takes on a new slant.

You've redefined it for me in the juxtapositions

You carry, heavily, awkwardly, and some tenderly.

For 'behind' becomes 'out in front,' the evening drunkenness 

Marries with the sober mess of another day

Creating one breathtaking yet somber step

In the choreography of this life, the life

You have surreptitiously invited me to witness.

Which of these veils lay, in their transparency,

Across your heart? How do you know 

Your own heart when that which obscures lends

Its fashioning to nearly every breath you take?

What, in your own private ken, can take your breath away?

Why not let it be so even here, even now.

Regardless of what it could bring, what could

Be said of you, of the other. Melt, like the snows,

That brick of larder sheltered in the walk-in

Of the kitchen of your existence. Taste.

What is here. Taste. Join me in the life that is yours.

Join me in taking in the smells, the fragrances.

Yes, you may suffer immunity from those. Walk

Anew into your own life through my eyes,

Landing there in a freshness that is Timeless.

May these words beckon to you in the way

Your touch has softened something in me,

Even in your withholding. For touch is beyond

Flesh, includes flesh, is the origins of flesh,

Something more than the senses that sees, hears, and listens yet.

SEALED BY FIRE

I have awoken as rock to our story
It's as plain as day to me
You and I have always been rock
solid, laying against each other 
as millenia move within us
birthing consciousness into body
exquisite exhalation expanding
as time breathes through us
the inner layers resonating deeply
as fire and heat conceive new form
diamond, rose quartz, jasper, gold

Our story is older than words or eyes
our veins beg us to remember
my womb cries it's earth quake
your love rocks me full
mineralizing our tongues, we kiss
upheavaling, we fold together
emerging, rising out of the waters
our ancient forms soften, smoothed
by the rich tastes of song eternal
we move our bodies toward the sun
intertwined, resting, deeply peaceful


 ~ another animista poem from my archives ~ this is what the muse offers for this prompt ~


 25 May 1997

The Prayer of the Bear

An animista poem from my archives ~ perhaps 2006

~ ~ ~

I am a Bear, like the Great Mother, she-Bear, I rise bringing body, 

blood, wonder, and a great big Heart out into this World.

I praise the Creature within me, within each of us, like this Bear,

like the Great Mother, waiting to infuse our every cell with Aliveness.

The fury that moves through these incredible bones and sinew

is the Fury that Feasts on pure Awakeness and Vibrancy of the Soul.

This Bear is awakening in me, her Wisdom moving me, gently licking 

me like her bear cub, with her huge Tongue, the heat, the Vitality of Home.

My Walk is pure when I feel the aliveness just as Aliveness, nothing more certainly 

nothing less. My great big Paws and claws tenderly scoop the Honey Nectar.

I drink, my Tongue moving deep in my Throat, being coated with the Golden

Wisdoms of Truth, Feasting on this in the Springtime of my Stirring.

I share Her Now, for She is you, for She is me, She is the Vitality of We. 

May Her Stirring wake within us, wake within you, Continue to Wake Within me.

How Great a Tree

To the poets of epic-earth

I do not write and I write both

With you in my veins like no other

Wherever you are now or now

Morning comes, moisture in the air

At least this morning  and here

Yet morning comes to each and within

The currents, the streams begin without beginning

Your silences touch me, as if receded 

The loudness of what we do not share

Deafens, yet excites the molecules of space

What great tree do we commons in our reference?

Beyond myself, I send out a message

Not only in this, but as a hologenetic code

And something stirs, is it the simultaneity

Of the return, mutual referencing of the unseen

It's not the usual  I know

Not even like nested bowls

The numinosity that runs through us

A superabundance akin to light

Yet of its own perceive-ability and not

As victor, master or even to preside

So subtle and eminently pervasive 

That above and below, here and beyond are neutralized

The minerals in the soil are none other than the tree

It is our names for things that give the illusion 

Of separateness: yours, mine, rock, tree

Am I the concentration of myself without you

Nay

Yea

Simultaneity

One without the other and form drops away

This great tree is seen in the branching of all things

Structures of any kind: words, bones, existence

Even structure of spirit, sometimes named the Unseen

These arms reach further than the fingers here on pen

So...

beyond comprehension 

This radical

life

is so

simple that

it's beyond a

comprehension 

anchored in work-a-day

To be jobless is radical beyond

comprehension. We say in Perma-

culture that everything farms or works

And isn't that precisely so such that how 

can we use 'work' and 'job' synonymously

We are blind within What Is by filters of 

our own making --own our making 

our own making

How many

layers

deep?

What kind

of forest floor

is under your feet?

Will you lay yourself down

On that floor as a radical act 

Of awakening to What Is 

However prickly of a 

bed that is seem-

ingly bereft of 

the very

nutrients

(we are that)

that each of us

so thrive on: space

grace listening subtleties

Of being  Being of What Is

Did you ever notice that things

simply grow on their own and thrive?

So what's this business we conjure up

each and every other moment of

the day today that is simply 

the magnificence of life

unfolding as we are?

Comprehend.

You dig?

Let it 

Be

Life

Itself

Beyond.

Thank you Shareable. This poem is partly inspired by this interview on jobless living:

http://www.shareable.net/blog/the-good-life-lab-radical-experiments-in-hands-on-living?utm_content=rhythmresponse%40gmail.com&utm_source=VerticalResponse&utm_medium=Email&utm_term=Read%20more&utm_campaign=Shareable%3A%20The%20Dark%20Side%20of%20the%20Sharing%20Economycontent#.UdLwSzTTpWw.twitter

50 Steps to Thicket

There stirs an edge where bindings,

something so innocuous, falter

that the relief of stepping beyond

surprises and stuns in the gentling

The living cascading with every

open space, wallow, and weft

nothing here confines, demarcates

except where hand has led

What something has brought me 

to this place, the thicket,

measure as I will at times 

the distance that now dissolves

Tremulous whatever that was

that stalled and pressed so

firm as hardened heart

neatly savaging my own wild

It is as if I have traveled 100

miles to arrive at this place

(not just 50 and counting steps)

and in no time bowering down

This less than tangle more than

epiphany surmounts the ease 

of every confounded convenience

siphoning us to slumber in our ways

 

Ooze Too

In must must humor 
Sadly too serious
All the oozing 
of body mind soul

Car vehicle oozed
every last drop of
synthetic or other
wise dark dank oil

Somewhere at some
time oozing spotted
the ground and that
human humor took on

Overly magnificent
proportions of ooze
Can mind just be
mind running amuck? 

What crack? Perhaps
to leave seriousness
to its own and find
what ooze oozes in

Counter gravity in
some say levity it's
come to this in wait
without waiting here

Ooze just is its part 
is everything in its
must --unseen or seen
calibrated to its own

OOZE

Oh, not to be sparked except in the
Os in ooze, as in double-o ooze.
Zero, nothing, like I said, I find nada
Except word itself speaking its own.

Wizendom's Folly

skimming floating swimming
this mud stuff of wizendom
virtually invisible coating it all
stuff of stuff discerning no place
one from another no folly such
folly as that only this omniverse
universe's mud bath omnivore

partaking of us sustenance of
stars making up bodies elixir
plentiful often undetermined
yet nonetheless profoundly
material and indivisible same
subtle dividing infinitesimally
stuff on stuff cleaning stuff

follow follow no follow none
outright makings some flying
some swimming others crawl
soup as a concept or nourish me
mineralization biofilm gut deep
remembering primordial soup
bacterial fantasy climbing heights

Crowning Glory

I step out   barely
-- into the sky  as
the crowning glory
of all things myself
and not myself

For I find myself
within and between
and without these
wings, one of not
and one of all

Frighteningly so
at first but the lift
gathers and throws
me into the vastness
of this blue ocean

Learning to swim
in the sky of my being
and not run or flee
but fly as I am
-- crowning glory

My roots are freed
riding the currents
along with all that
once fettered me
when I looked down

Meeting these fresh
forces --alighting like
quantum treasures of
that which we Are
sharing now this Crack

Into that fabric of plane
existence shocking me
free of that pondering
wasteland --all that binds
and frets now scours forth

A Song of the unfolded
mystery of the most plain,
dry only of sorrows once
passed over and now
absorbed, dancing as Lift

Within and beneath
these transparent wings
blue as the sky clear as
diamonds polished by
the heart of hearts once
and only always free

The Naked Truth

How do I not love thee that What Is?
More ways than I know
And less even show.
I wish other than, impose a quiz:

Why would you, how could, and can you be
Something different?
Yet you are intent,
You have no concern to appease me.

And in love, again and again, I rise to thee.
Not through surrender, but simply, clearly to see

That you never argue a solitary thing
Neither happy nor unhappy
Singing out loud, sometimes snappy,
You emerge, blending it all with no effort and Sing!

f a b r i c a t e

f       a       b        r        i        c        a        t        e

a                                                                        t
                                    w
b                                                                        a
                            o              i
r                                  r  c                                  c
                    d          i          l         n
i                           c        i        e                          i
             n                 i          l               t
c                                  r  c                                  r
         i                                                     e
a                                                                        b
    w           o           n           d           e           r
t                                                                         a

e        t        a        c       i        r       b        a        f


         

All for Naught

One, too.

Three for five.

Sick’s seven ate

Nine tens!

Life (No 13 In Musical Humors)

Tobias Hume, 1569 - April 16, 1645; composed during the Renaissance period

Captain Tobias Hume was a remarkably unsuccessful composer in his lifetime, but the qualities that put off his contemporaries attract today's admirers of viol music. Hume's music was nearly as eccentric as the man himself; it exploited the viol's wide dynamics and ability to sustain a melodic line, in contrast to the more contrapuntally oriented lute, which the viol was slowly supplanting in popularity during Hume's lifetime. Hume filched brief musical phrases from other men's compositions and incorporated them into new pieces of widely varying moods, often with odd titles (My Mistresse hath a Pritty Thing, Twickledum Twickledum). / Hume himself was every bit as colorful as his music, perhaps more so. Despite his serious musical efforts -- he published two extensive collections of pieces -- he thought of himself primarily as a soldier. Nothing is known of his early life; he seems to have spent many years traipsing across Europe as a mercenary, serving as an officer in the Swedish and Russian armies (it was in the former that he achieved the rank of captain; late in life, he claimed to be a colonel). The end of the war between Sweden and Poland in 1629 probably sent Hume back home to England for good. He did not enjoy financial success; that year he entered London's Charterhouse, a former priory redesigned as a home for "distressed" gentlemen, and died there in 1645, after several years of issuing periodic, unanswered missives offering his services to the English king to, among other things, crush the Catholic rebellion in Ireland that began in 1642. / Even while soldiering, Hume aspired to be a recognized composer promoting the virtues of the viol against those of the lute. He published two big books of music; the first, in 1605, is full of fanciful instrumental dances and meditations and stands as the largest collection of music for solo lyra viol by a single composer in the early seventeenth century. The second, from 1607, titled Captaine Humes Poeticall Musicke, is more stylistically circumspect, intended as it was to gain the patronage of Queen Anne. In general, Hume's pieces make few technical demands on their players (suggesting that Hume himself was no virtuoso), relying instead on interesting sonorities and musical invention.   [--commentary by] James Reel, Rovi (source from Pandora | One internet radio)

Captain Tobias Hume, Passion of Musick; Life (No 13 In Musical Humors)

Playing my Hand

Mordechai 

of 

Turbulence

Momentum 

diffusion

Point 

of Stillness

Sincerity viscosity

somɹǝsault

this 
ןǝǝɥʍ

t
u
r
n
u ɹ n ʇ
s
n
r
u
t

We

a
r
e
u o
t
i

gether
-oʇ


(oʍʇ ǝʞɐʇ)


t
h
i
s
ןǝǝɥʍ

n
r
u
t
 t u r n
ʇ
n
ɹ
u
s

ɹǝgethoʇ
er
ɥ
ʇ
ǝ
ƃoʇ
t
o
ƃǝʇɥ
       ǝ
        ɹ

ǝʍ
ǝ
ɹ
ɐ

two together 22

I dreamt that I found
my blindfold yesterday
as the day was yesterday
not last night or now
or another time and
there were no eyes except
the ones I was seeing through
then as is now as the eyes
are closed while dreaming
and the body electric is

awake its awake in a different

state its most free state as


The eyes are simply one

opening into another world
That is not really ours.