Spoken-Word

The Acorn and the Oak

Standard

OH TO BE LIKE AN OAK TREE

Stepping out into a broader space
Leaving behind the familiar comforts of the rut
But, there I held sway, I was the master

Predictable, easy, except for the slow withering of my soul
Did my tricks to get my treats
But the former was confining and I had out grown it

Like a plant in too small a pot
Roots bound, tangled, seeking new earth
But to step out is to become weak again, to let go, to become a child

There was a brief thrill in the stepping out
Really it was a small thing made large by ego’s fear
But there was really no power there

Like a spider’s web it clung inciting primal fear
No power at all to resist a decision
But now the familiar is no more

Where once I was large now I am small, ignorant, and inexperienced once more
Planted in new ground hoping for the water and the warmth and the worms to do their work
The plane is large, expansive, might I grow to fill that new empty space

But the great Oak lives inside the tiny, shiny acorn
Food for squirrels or master of the Woodland
I am the Sower and I am the seed
It is not the breaking through that is the challenge

It is sitting still long enough to put down roots and grow in the new larger place

There are multiple buts in this process

But either way.  Be Groovy! 

Locks and Keys

Standard

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

Be Groovy! 🙂

Fim

Seeds Sown – Plato’s Groove

Standard

Spiritual path...

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.

Time winds down. . . tick . . . tick . . . tick . . .

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.

Consonance. Congruity. Harmonious. Original. Authentic.

The Sower

Standard

https://sp.yimg.com/ib/th?id=JN.nRaJwv0fmAapUZK7TCoa3g&pid=15.1&P=0

The seeds are sown and await the judgement of circumstance

The soil, the birds, the weeds will all have a say

The weather will be what it will

The sower sows the seeds but the Creator makes them grow

It is out of his hands now

Words, his seeds were sown into new and unknown soil

There are no guarantees, the seed must die, no strings attached

The illusions of yesterday and tomorrow call like Sirens toward the rocks of stagnation

Don’t become stranded there perishing, thinking, wishing, wasting

Action, risk, Being is required

To utterly fail is a success and is no shame, it is shame’s illusion that binds and enchants and seduces calling the soul towards slumber

Cast into Now, that space between the ticks of time, let go, no clinging

Risk the loss of a seed in hand for a hundredfold return

Open the hand to give,  empty it of the old so there is space for the new

A new garden is needed, the old no longer sustains

It has become dry, worn, and overused

Take the best seeds and cast them into the unknown

Do not shrink or draw back in the face of it

Speak your words boldly, sow them with generosity and care

Fret not about the ones which do not sprout, let them go

Look only for the ones which do, attend and care for those

Waste not yourself on what is Not

In the end your task is only to sow

Intention and creativity are yours

It’s the Creator’s grace though that shapes what will be, in accordance with the true desires of your heart

And remember that even the seeds are not your own, they are gifts too, why would you horde what was intended to be given away

Stir up those gifts, bring them into the light, sow them freely

Give them away so that you may receive back the bounty of the One who is the giver of the seeds

The Word made Flesh

Standard

Where did the music go

What does the poet do when the Song goes silent

He must wait and listen

There are empty spaces in all compositions

A foundation of silence, of stillness, which makes all else possible

Without the empty still spaces movement is random and vibration noise

Is is not a horrible thing

There is no reason to be afraid

Only wait and listen for Her cadence, Her rhythm

That is your Soul’s Groove silly forgetful man

She will return again as She wills

She is not a creature tamed and trained to do tricks for others

She is alive and wild like the wind

When She moves raise your sails and let Her fill them with Her

Ride the storms of Her, feel the touch of Her cooling breezes on your skin

When She is quiet you are not abandoned, it is only a punctuation before the next Word waiting to be spoken

When She is still remember that even your breath is filled with Her

In Her you live and move and have your being

She has stirred and taught and moved and awakened your sleeping Self

The inner world has grown and now awaits the poet’s action

Her stillness is a signal that there is Outer work to be completed, a new balance to be discovered

She moves at the will of the Creator continually calling forth the intention of you

A new creation, a path in the wilderness, a spring in the desert manifest on the material plane, awaits

The Outer life can be a trap and a trick, but so too can the labyrinth of the Inner

Her rhythm seeks harmony and balance, consonance

Her movement calls you in, Her stillness sends you out

It is never either/or but Both

The Word spoken from before the foundations seeks It’s incarnation in you