Perhaps it is that when one feels washed overboard, afraid, exhausted, and without a raft there is something in the depths of grace for us there. Perhaps the raft is what keeps us from knowing. Blessings, sweetness, and understanding that you are not alone.
Whatever flavor of spirituality that you may tend toward there is a depth and beauty in this. All poetry is metaphor anyway. Hold them lightly or risk their death. Where there is beauty there is the perfume of truth. It resonated with my soul from that place in me that is too deep for words. It allowed me to weep. That is a good gift for a hardened sometimes stupid man like me. 🙂 Maybe my chakra thingy is better for it. Blessings on your quest for the One who is beyond all metaphor.
Lean into the wind
If it blows from behind it may topple
Like a trout, swim facing into the current’s force
To do otherwise is to float downstream
Seek out that which troubles
It is the signpost pointing the way
If the answer is unclear, then the question is too
That is what she taught me
The answer is known
It is the question that is elusive
For how does one answer a question unasked
There is no purchase, nothing to push against
Seeking answers in the light is random and blind
It is in the dark hidden places where the questions rest
A key is of no use without its mate
Collecting keys unlocks nothing and just become extra weight on the chain
The Way is often avoided, bargained with, and associated with evil
The illusion of light blinds lowering the glittering shades of darkness
Questions are waiting in the space never trod
The Spirit is there waiting to lead along the pathway of Truth
First seek the question, the lock, in the dangerous places
The key is already in your pocket
I had a crazy idea. It was connected to my soul somehow. It has been at the periphery of me for some time. It is funny how crazy dreams will manifest and change over time. I have a musician’s heart but I can neither sing nor play anything other than a few chords on a guitar and the CD player in my truck. But the crazy idea which was birthed a long time ago has persisted. I had no idea that it could ever become real. Sunday I decided to get way out of my comfort zone. I contacted some friends who are some of the best jazz musicians there are. We are going to do some experimental jazz improv along with my poetry readings. I figured that I can’t sing but I can talk. I have realized that the spoken word can be very powerful. It was and is still somewhat intimidating to think about but crazy might just be my path.
What follows is something that I wrote three or four years ago. Last January my sons were helping me start this blog and we did this one night after a couple glasses of wine. Now I’m thinking we can take this thing on the road. Or not. It don’t really matter. What matters is that we cast the seeds into frightening and new places. But I do have at least one place lined up that wants us.
The clock ticks.
It fades in and out of my awareness.
The clock ticks.
Marking Time as It winds down to finally rest in Eternity.
The clock ticks.
Independent, without regard It plucks the very strings of the Cosmos.
The clock ticks.
Time now divided makes meter possible and cadence contingent.
The clock ticks.
The fabric of possibility is woven, lining the womb that is time.
The clock ticks.
Sacred Space emerges between the beats of past and future. Seeds can only be sown in the Now.
The clock ticks.
Slumbering Soul, never at rest, seeks completion of Its’ chord unresolved.
The clock ticks.
All existence is in motion, potential, moving toward harmony or dissonance, creativity or chaos, Life or death.
The clock ticks.
The metronome beats out the call to choose or not to choose. Both require a choice.
The clock ticks.
Whether background or fore, whether conscious or dreaming, It makes possible the awareness of Plato’s Groove.
The clock ticks.
Out of the shadows Life calls to life. There is underlying order within the chaos. The pilgrim seeks that which has always been hidden within view.
The clock ticks.
The artist’s heart does not create ex nihilo but rather chooses one and not the other, manifesting particular harmonies that resonate and call them into Being.
The clock ticks.
To act or refrain from motion is the artist’s prerogative. Variation ads pigment, or not, to the evolving tapestry.
The clock ticks.
Soul becomes more harmonious; at rest in the body, powerful its resonance with the Real. Dissonance no longer a mystery to be feared but rather consciously strummed to accentuate and more clearly articulate the Soul’s growing chorus.
The clock ticks.
Oh, Traveler strain through the dissonance to hear the notes which resonate with the pattern of your soul. Choose it at the cost of all others.
The clock ticks.
The clock ticks.
The clock ticks.
Each Soul’s resolution is to cultivate and balance It’s own polytonic sound in preparation for joining the romp with all other pure souls in harmony, dance, in art, in mathematics, and all other lenses through which we glimpse the mystery of the Eternal celebration that is Life.
