The Celestial Telescope

Consciousness, Poetry, Spirituality
(Image: Breughel, “Allegory of Sight” series.)

When we adjust the celestial telescope
that is our spiritual vision,
only the slightest of movements are needed,
a turn of a knob there,
a slight refocusing of the
viewfinder there.

Just enough so that we remove the blur
and the visual defects that distort
the light
and bleeds reality of all of its
exquisite aliveness.

When we do this,
something wonderful
will happen.

Something so utterly astonishing,
it will be like walking a tightrope composed of
lambent strands, stretching out to the horizon
the terminus being an entirely new dimension,
or an numinous landscape
we had only previously encountered
in our most mystical of dreams.

We will be able to peer into
the limitless vistas of the cosmos
and know,
with an inner conviction that shatters all doubt,
that we are swimming in a living
sea,
teeming with
interconnectedness.

When we do this,
the miraculous will become
as commonplace as those
everyday things
so reassuring in their regularity,
like the comforting oscillation of our breathing
or the tides
which, with their mysterious and soothing rhythms,
calm the myriad creatures of the oceans,
into aqueous rest.

The scales,
encrusted with the weight of centuries,
will fall fast from our eyes,
and we will join in
the whirling ecstatic dance
of creation,
with an intensity and an unleashed power that
we never believed we could ever possess.

Before, we could not
take our rightful place on the dance floor,
for we were blind to the
infinite beauty
that swirls all around us,
bathing us in
an unseen light.

Blind,
we could not navigate
the stinging clouds of our unknowing,
which choked us in ignorance,
and could not find ways to quell
the restlessness of our minds.

Blind,
we could not navigate the dense shadows
to find our partner who wants to dance with us to dispel the darkness,
this erstwhile companion
who is,
and always will be,
the ineffable glory
the fiery divine effervescence
that sublime electricity that imbues all of creation with
reverberations of love.

This is the light that ceaselessly flows from eternal springs of truth,
and aches to bring joy
to every darkened corner of our world,
if we will only let it.

When we reconnect with this light,
we finally understand that
the dance and the dancer
are one and the same.

The subtle pulsating energies
that give rise to the sun and the moon and the planets
will be seen by us,
as dazzling explosions of color and of light
magnanimous eruptions in our thought streams, birthing strange and wondrous revelations in our brains
that frees us from our too long imprisonment
and we will feel
on the deepest
of all imaginable levels,
that we are a part of everything
and anything that exists now,
or has ever existed.

After the earth stops shaking,
And these transcendent jewels of wisdom are ours to keep,
a lovely peace,
borne of
a divine and majestic presence,
will gently enfold us
in its mystery and its grace.

After the storm, there is always
an all-encompassing calmness,
where you get to savor what your battles to break through to the sunlight
taught you.

We will be then be catapulted headlong into a thousand new dimensions of being
ways of sharing our precious gift of life
with all others
we scarcely believed
could ever exist.

And when this world is revealed to us
by the divine made manifest,
our joyous tears
will abundantly flow,
baptizing the very ground
upon which we walk,
with their life-giving beneficence.

Unlimited rapture will overtake us,
as we marvel at the sacredness
of every aspect
of existence,
and joy,
will fill our souls to overflowing.

In that glorious moment,
we are given the most wondrous of all gifts
because in that very moment,
when the sleep fell away from our eyes, we are given something so very precious:
the ability to see,
really see,
as if for the very first time
in our lives that are so brief in their unfolding.

Seeing in this way is like
being born anew,
and we will be stunned by the
shimmering freshness of our perceptions.

Everything around us
will be seen as endlessly coruscating waves of color,
rainbows of sentience sanctified by devotion
composed of the
kind of loving radiance
a celestial vibrancy
only found
in the heart.

Little Enigmas

Poetry, Spirituality

(Image: “Dark Sea”, Michael Manley.)

We are all little enigmas,

tied up ever so neatly

in little boxes

with the strings of our  

crippling ignorance.

So much of our light is

strangled by these cords

we whimper away in the shadowy corners

and hide from each other, 

in the musty crawlspaces of our minds,

and there we remain, trapped

prisoners of ourselves.

As we sop up the sweat of our fears, 

their rancid stench lingers 

in the fetid air 

here, and 

over there.

We are imperious lords of 

teeming mysteries 

that fester in the absence of light.

We hear the feverish tumblings of

others, who lust

to crack their dark codes.

 

These are those 

niggling fears,

half-forgotten shadows filigreed with 

acid

that insinuate themselves in the cracks of our brains

and cause our long-entrenched sanity

to crumble.

And because we hunger

to keep these soul eaters at bay

we secret them away 

to the cob-webbed dungeons

of our unexplored lands,

where we banish all

that which is not ready for the light.

 

A single metric inch of space and time

contains endless layers of mystery.

Sentient icebergs we are

drifting through the 

limitless night,

masquerading as

little oases of rationality.

 

So many layers to our secrets!

 

We find ourselves swimming in the murkiness

the sunlit surface dancing miles above our heads

tantalizing us with their shadows.

So much is hidden away in ourselves, 

and so much is hidden even from ourselves. 

 

We gasp for air

suffocating in the aqueous hell

of the murderous depths

no end to the mystery of our being

nothing as it seems

nothing is as it is.

 

Alien creatures we become

even unknown to ourselves

adrift on arctic landscapes 

our voices crying out to be heard 

And to be understood 

by a single soul. 

 

But, as we utter our words, 

they are suspended in the chill void.

 

Words frozen in bubbles of time

we try to melt them  

with an intimation of fire

brazenly stolen away from

the primordial sunrise.

 

We would do virtually anything 

to escape from the

swirling riddles that infect the 

waters of our minds,

save 

what we need most to do, which is

surrender to the mystery.

 

Let the mystery swallow us whole

let the mystery feast on our fears and our ignorance

and spit

out their bones onto the bleached shore

undigesting our 

need for certainty

and our grasping onto a sameness

that is a poor 

substitute for joy.

A Mythic Hunger

Poetry

Image: “Island of Life,” Freydoon Rassouli

Art is the delicious anarchy we should surrender ourselves to,

wherever

and whenever

and to whomever

it wants to take us.

We should do this without being

overly concerned

with ideas of

whether it will be

understood by a society,

infected with the disease of consumerism

or whether or not society will feed love back to you,

in return for what you want

to give them.

All judgments of your efforts are useless hindrances,

which block the aisle

down which our ever-awakening spirit

wants to run,

with great abandon,

and then

embrace our being.

We owe it to ourselves

to be sublimely deviant and to be creatively inventive

in ways never before seen before,

that even God herself will rouse from her divine slumber.

She will then ascend to a regal height,

and clap her hands in a thunderous roar

her giddy approval

echoing from the heavens.

How will your art will be perceived by the world?

Do you care, or

should you even care?

I think not, for the only way to be connected

with the powerful creative energies that give rise to

beautiful masterpieces of the imagination,

Is to let fall away

everything others can possibly think or care about you.

List every petty concern that you think might flit through the minds

of your brother and sister,

mother and father,

friend and foe…

Then add a hundred more,

a litany of every

possible horrible thing

anybody could ever say to you

take this list, and

burn it outside,

in the shadow of an ancient spruce tree in the woods

closest to your home.

The one that knows your secrets,

but will whisper them to no one.

and then feel a delirious

lightness as you free yourself of these worldly

concerns.

This, my friends, is the way to be utterly fearless,

in ways that even obliterate,

the fear that lies hidden in others.

Fear that exists now,

and fear yet to be birthed

fear that that lives in innumerable

unsanctified corners of time

Your unrelenting belief in yourself will leap out across

the chasm of separating the worlds,

and waves of your unimaginable power

will annihilate these phantoms

that haunt

your mind.

Anything that does not feed your longing

to become a voice for that within you that aches to be heard

must go,

for the creative impulse that beats

the heart of the universe

must remain primal in you.

Because these great works come from the soul,

they have a singular ability to

touch the soul,

Like it has never been touched before.

Art should, and must, be wanton in its desire.

it is the deep russet flame that consumes everything in its wake.

It burns away the dullness of

our complacency

and our

conformity and

our ordinaryness,

Clearing away the deadwood in our minds,

and leaving nuggets

of radiance behind.

For you see, is the divine spark loaned to us for a time,

by that force that some might call

God.

The fire that is a remnant of the first fiery dawn,

which contained all the whirling colors that will ever exist,

in a vast palette of loving desire.

We were given us the creative spark,

And now it dwells within us

An unquenchable hunger,

It is now an ever-growing flame that utterly devours us,

Leaving nothing left of us,

save that which is connected to deep channels of wisdom.

Creativity is an ache

deep within us

a hunger if you will

that knows no respite

It is an exquisite pain that awakens us to heady possibility,

The kind with a capital “P”.

But we cannot keep this heat within us forever,

for we are destined, as you may have heard,

to crumble into the welcoming dust.

Before that seemingly ignoble end, we have a duty

to hand the glowing embers of this gift over

to future generations, by using our artistic gifts to

inspire them.

Let them know, these future versions of ourselves

that creativity arose

in beauteous arcs above the grateful earth once before,

and that these voices not yet born,

to cry out into the void

can, and must, summon the same emotion,

forged from

the strange mutation of intellect

and heart.

Creativity, then, wants to take us on the wildest ride we could ever imagine.

Are you ready to go, at a moment’s notice, to wherever it wants to take you?

you can

you must

let it pull you

let it lead you

to uncover mysteries that are hidden plain as day.

Yet, can only be seen by those who have a fever,

born of imagination.

We harvest mythic treasures from the vast subterranean oceans

of our mind.

Gifts we then gladly trade to the world

in return, we receive the knowledge that our art

uplifts humanity in innumerable ways

both now, and until the end of time

Art will remain,

Triumphant.

Gratitude Unbound

Consciousness, Poetry, Spirituality, Writing
(Image: “Turning Contrast into Gratitude”, Amrita Grace.)
Gratitude brings us immense joy
when we see the delicate magic in its translucent wings
that flit quickly past in our field of attention
sprinkling our eyes with stardust, and allowing our vision to expand.
We then have the startling realization,
that we are swimming
in an endless sea of divine blessings.
Something wondrous is awakened
possibly for the first time in the painful brevity of our lives
wonder comes alive in our mind with sharpened senses, refined by grace
which gives us the power
to behold a multiplicity of kindnesses.
We become intrepid soul explorers
Intimately tracing the subtle, ever-changing geography of bliss
by expanding the limits of our vision.
We can still perceive ugly truths
when judgment displaces generosity of spirit
otherwise, the all is seen for what it truly is.
We see the cosmos as good and bounteous
every little experience is understood to nourish the soul
this, in spite of the well-meaning admonitions of others.
These bosom friends, who we hold in great esteem,
nonetheless
warn us away from soul lessons
because, friends though they may be
they lack a certain spiritual perceptiveness.
Namely, the ability to understand
that contained in even that which is judged to be horrific
is a certain divinity, able to only be discerned
by those with intuition enough
to glimpse into the mind of that who we might call God
even though we are not big enough to name this thing
that is too big to be named.
They do not yet understand the greatness of the cosmic map
These beloved companions
see only treacherous shoals, upon which,
our pitiful vessel buffeted on all sides,
by waves of unimaginable power,
will be utterly destroyed,
and our dreams with it.
We, on the other hand
see goodness everywhere
our bounteous joy expands, and our
eyes agog with a million and one exquisitely beautiful examples
that are a part of our lives every day.
Nothing but goodness
nothing but kindness
we train ourselves to perceive the hidden good
that is contained in the unfathomable depths of the ordinary.
We set out on a venture to encounter goodness
anywhere and everywhere we look.
The stones arrayed in simplicity at our feet
sing to us hymns particular to their singular place in the celestial hierarchy.
No good thing will escape our sight
we increase our joy beyond measure and see delight everywhere
when we sip the indescribably sweet wine of gratitude.
We rediscover the eternal part of ourselves,
and we wear the filigreed garments
of ecstatic awareness,
when we are grateful for every part of existence.
We array ourselves in this sort of splendor,
everyone and everything who enters our field of vision becomes a god of sorts,
but a god, nevertheless
worthy of our devotion.
And when we don these garments
we are only capable of seeing great joy, and an all-encompassing transcendent love
expressed in an infinitude of forms.

Gaia Unbound

Consciousness, Poetry, Spirituality, Uncategorized

Angelic orbs of beatific significance
Undulate in a slow circular dance
Pulse outwards from elysian realms,
Causing
Mystical energies to envelope
The earth
In a fiery embrace,
Womblike in their effects
Healing Gaia, who has been
Wounded
By those supremely indifferent
To her holy majesty
With tender ministrations,
The crimson-tinged waves of sacred love
Radiate with great power from beyond forests
Of primeval sanctity
Distant in both space and time
Trees of infinite splendor, that flourish in verdant extravagance
Their viridian spires ascending heavenward,
Cathedral-like
Springing up in otherwordly realms from whence
Fluttering epiphanies take flight
Heralding,
With ectstatic fanfare
The stupefying arrival of supernal energies
Joy incomparable
Transforms all beings with its energetic gambol
A grateful world
Afflicted with an insatiable thirst
For that which is transcendent in nature
Thirstily imbibes the divine elixir
Peace is the sublime
Benediction
And agape is the ethereal gift
That is ours if we are ready to accept it
And in the end,
Beyond the ineffable sadnesses
And bitter truths of existence
A great announcement wafts downwards from heavenly expanses
Oneness has enveloped
The world, and
Humanity,
The body forged from a billion hurting souls
Mutilated by scintillant daggers of unholy darkness
Dripping with ancient blood
(The legacy of suffering we have bequeathed to ourselves)
Has been saved from itself,
Once again.