look to the heaven's pray to your gods cultures and civilizations come and go dig the earth discover their remains understand, clarify your relationship with time listen to the wind speak its wisdom there are stories, myths told of your spiritual nature allow your ancestors to speak to you from fires long ago when we lived inside nature ~ ~ ~ we live there still if only we took the time to see. read the words that are emblazoned upon your heart share the lyrics that stir within your soul view the world as a playful child and you will forever remain free
we lay under a madrigal sky
holding loosely
to a dandelion
sunrise
winged angels
resplendent in their finery
swirling
before us
the earth wakening
its vibrant pulse
resonating
within us
i held you close
pleased to have comfort
on a day
such as this.
people of the White Tiger
gather at the Holy Temple
praying for rain
Marduk, an ancient God
calls to them
requiring sacrifices
in his name
he requires blood
in return for crops
he requires blood
in return for life
a feast prepared
their captive silent
people chant
moving as one
clockwise
always clockwise
sun chases moon
death chases life
high priest gestures to the crowd
it is time
motion stops
the earth is silent
a ceremonial dagger
forged from the creator’s fire
is offered
plunges deep
into the sacrificial heart
many dances
many hearts
a thousand sacrifices
will not bring rain
continued
Marduk has died
the jungle with him
blood falls on arid earth
life becomes death
the Holy Temple falls
stone by stone
people of the White Tiger
fade into time
history
hiding their story.
the sacred river flows before me
blood from martyrs staining its shores
i search for clues amongst its rocks
finding only voices on the ground
calling to me, heeding me
pay the ferryman
i have no coin, nothing to trade
my soul is locked in time
i watch the universe expand
with the souls of the damned
a million brilliant lights
a pattern emerges
blinding me with its grace
a loving gesture
from your heart
the ferryman begins to row
directing me to take my seat
payment has been made
my journey paid for
my soul
released.
it was not so much the skeleton in the road
but the way it looked upon me
the way the curve of its jaw
followed the road
a gentle, noble slope
of what used to be a nose
i could not see it, of course
but its presence was deafening
any number of lives danced naked
on the road before me
their memories twirling in the wind
leaves on an autumn day
i could see the skeleton was missing
a vibrant bone, or two
perhaps the migrant bones were harvested
by another rider
one who understood the nature
of such things
the complexities of the dead
are not commonly known
i was fortunate to have had training
in this exact art
a murmur of my own violations
brought darkness to the scene
the skeleton, understandingly
smiled benevolently to me
a leaf fell upon me
whispering a healing psalm
i collected the skeleton
placing it roughly in my satchel
there were other bones down the road
that cried out to me
i would collect them all
if only i had more time.
in ancient times
to control food
they burned innocents
so there would be fewer mouths
to feed
maintaining it was a noble
humanitarian
gesture
we no longer participate
in such barbaric actions
as a civilized people
we recognize there is a need
for civility
no need to burn innocents
in order to control food
would the fires but cease
if only for a moment
evolving beyond
barbaric actions
victors no longer parade
into conquered lands
enslaving its people
setting fire to the
innocents
sparing them
the pain
of a slow, enduring death
humanity enacted laws
making certain
the innocents
always came first
laws that state food
cannot be sold
beyond a recommended date
or table scraps
from our many fine
and varied restaurants
cannot be given to the uncountable
mouths
needing nourishment
on our streets
ours is now a system of laws
still, we control the food
continued
the whole of Earth
has been conquered
laws enacted
we control the food
while children still starve
* * *
it is true we no longer
burn the innocents
we protect them with laws
with righteous decrees
our leaders save
those among us that need saving
it is a kinder, gentler way
to control the food
the fires ceasing
if only for a moment.
i heard the demon
speak
in my dreams
i had asked him
did he feel
the touch
of the gods
he replied;
i am all
there is to be
and with that
he entered my dreams
no more.
the history of our ancestors
is written in our future
volumes of parchment
pages of books
endless data captured
by rulers of the fury
siege machines
lead lambs to slaughter
abandoned on desert floors
their dust foretelling our demise
god’s replaced with greed
supplicants with sin
wild-eyed mystics dance
their fires glowing bright
fueled by ignorance
the righteous rule
captive people
breed in silence
we evoke images of our ancestors
writing pages of the past
editing truth
great stories will be needed
to forge a future
of our lie.
on the plains of Girsu
where writing was invented
great kings wrote their stories
tally’s of grain harvests
troop movements, all manner of information
written in cuneiform
the Stele Of The Vultures was found there
telling of the war between Lagash and Umma
two great powers of Mesopotamia
Lagash defeated Umma
we know this because
it was written
wars raged for millennia
tribes rose to power
neighbors annihilating neighbors
in recent times the region
suffered massive damage
during the US - Iraq war
the world watched news feeds
dispatches for the people
to keep them informed
a handful of scholars
lovers of history
understand the irony
of a vast, great region
spawning culture, enlightenment
reduced now to poverty
it’s modern cities in rubble
their Gods forgotten
as they forgot them.
we had grown bored
with television
each show trying to
outdo the other
each new series trying to
be more horrifying
than the other
the human condition
as portrayed on t.v.
had de-evolved
into absurdity
then we discovered newscasts
that showed cheering and jeering
Israeli’s
gloating with glee
at every missile finding
its mark
in Gaza
we discovered documentaries
made by Israelis
justifying their actions
and encouraging the death
of innocent civilians
so that Israel
might remain safe
we listened to our politicians
defending
the vast amounts of money
given to Israel
to continue
killing
innocent children
as a way to preserve
our freedoms
we sat
stunned
by this atrocity
we watched
intently
as people died
while people cheered
just when we had become
bored
with television
we happened upon the news
in Gaza.
we inhaled deeply throughout the day
as chemtrails left their
fine, lattice work in the sky
harvest was upon us
tonight the moon would glow over fields
lush and green,
giving warmth with its glowing orb
sending notice to all
that it was time
vassal servants
(most in fashionable suits)
moved throughout our town
searching
for signs of alien life
someone had posted
that soon
the Anunnaki would appear
ignoring their ignorance
we waited for dark
when the harvest moon would rise
resplendent against the night sky
lighting our way
as we harvested hope.
the silence of our children
is proof of our decay
we shed responsibilities
acknowledging
the charismatic among us
knew the way
they possessed the knowledge
all knowing
all seeing
looking deep into our souls
they saw the fire
burning
within
guiding us
sheltering us
from ourselves
and our sins
they gave us rules
to live by
stories to fuel
our beliefs
continued
there was no need
for individual
responsibility
an entire planet
could be at peace
if only
the charismatic
were followed
no questioning
their purity
despite their occasional
fall from grace
they are the chosen
the one’s who the pure
decided
could speak for all
we handed over our progress
gave up all of our rights
to them
their narcissism quickly swept
beyond trite religion
spilling over to politics
leadership
at every level
was handed over
to them
the faithful
flock
to the cause
of righteousness
the charismatics
allow an out
for our responsibility
they are the glimmering
behind a mad man’s eyes
the proof
is easy enough to see
the silence
of our children
is proof of our decay.
i want to be a warrior
for christ
wield a mighty
sword
axe
and shield
learn the appropriate
psalms
the correct
verses
that allow me to
kill
in the name
of God
i want a mighty
steed
one worthy
in battle
one who will not
flinch
or hesitate
one who knows
my every move
can feel me
shift
and respond
in kind
carrying us both
to glory
and victory
in the name
of our Lord
i want an enemy
vile
rife with evil
one who’s very
essence
defiles
humanity
as i know it
calls to my heart
in the dead of night
hovers in my dreams
and walks amongst
the faithful
under a crescent
moon
you were born into
a life of love
a life of beauty
kissed by the gentle
nature
of angels
sent to watch over
your blessed soul
the defeat of the seasons
does not resonate
within you
you will never know
the simple pleasure
of watching a headless
chicken
prance about the yard
you cannot have
comprehension
of a belly so
starved
for food
it appears bloated
and fat
as if you had just left
a banquet feast
your world
fortunate enough to
gild
the darkness about you
shields you from the
enemies
that remain
shadowed
during your time
here
in this place
i admire your innocence
your good fortune
gives me hope
many of us
long
for such a life
as yours
we catch glimpses
of such
beauty,
fleeting moments
of truth
give us all
strength
continued
to defeat
our enemies
with practiced eye
i watch you walk
in regal posture
through life
while i
and those of my kind
must hone
our skills
destroying our enemies
learning to slay them
one by one
until the last
enemy
destroyed
shall be our own
death.
we stuffed crocodiles
using them as messengers
to God
lighting bonfires at night
we watched for shadows moving
on the waterline
priests chanted incantations
messages of hope
dancing to the heavens
communicating with God
through crocodile messengers
was a sacred act
wasting not one piece
of Gods
holy presence
blood from harvesting
these holy warriors
were carefully stored in urns
buried, deep
in time they would reveal
the purity of our actions
our communication
with God
our sacred rite.
no drugs needed
though truthfully they were used
to get me here initially
we have lost the ability
to touch that which we were given
by the gods
so many eons ago
when they gave us
the gift to hear songs
of the ocean
to feel the rhythms
of our earth
they heed us leave our bonds
and be free
it is the ashes of our ancestors calling
their embers burning bright
within our souls
i call to them now to guide me
climbing past the sky
diving deep below the seas
keeping course with the
illumination before me
i can see
everything.
it took me many years
to master the art
of flying
a master here
a master there
one taught space
one taught air
i met a woman who taught me
to fly below the ground
it was difficult at first
not easy seeing
below the dirt
rocks
roots of trees
my patience and practice paid off
i’m now able to fly
whenever i choose
i feel the breeze upon my cheek
my breath begins to shallow
a warmth envelopes me
and in an instance
i fly
It’s Not A
War, Is It?
we saw the burned children
from our errant
missiles
their charred
flesh
blackened
faces
they spoke
not a word
their eyes
bright
piercing
still held life
it’s not a war
is it
we watched the family
down the street
fall apart
the mother
father
losing jobs
could no longer
afford
to keep
the kids together
we saw them huddle
one last time
before they shipped out
to relatives
across the nation
it’s not a war
is it
we heard
the soft cries
of a newborn
starving
exhausting
its tiny
body
in a quest
for nourishment
no mother would give
abandoned
at a fire station
rushed
to a hospital
where it would
die
alone
placed
in an unmarked
grave
continued
it’s not a war
is it
we read in the paper
and then online
of congressional
and presidential
staff
being added on
to the rolls
of employment
the current
staff
was not enough
to handle all
the necessary
catering
these politicos
require...
it takes a lot
of people
to wait upon
our masters
it’s not a war
is it
it used to be said
that pain
sacrifice
were always
part
of war
there would
always
be casualties
no way
to get
around it
but for those
children
blackened
charred
there was
no war
not even a
military
action
the family
whose father
would
eventually
take his own life
whose sanity
destroyed
when he could not
provide
for his family
his job
continued
farmed out
across the globe
to a small child
in a faraway land
making furniture
for much less
than he was paid
were they
collateral damage
of a war
that wasn’t
a war
after all
the motherless
child
nameless
homeless
dead
despite all
our society offers
is this child
not a victim
in a war
that is not a war
after all
we reassure ourselves
in so many ways
it is not a war
is it
we believe it
as everything
around us
dies
losing
what little
humanity
we have left
we finally begin
telling ourselves
in that moment
as the end draws near
we begin to understand
yes, it had been a war
all along.
silver silence
from a small
brass bell
when set to ringing
by the breath
of a moth
rings forever
to ears in tune
rings for a moment
to those
that are not
’
‘
It’s Not A
War, Is It?
we saw the burned children
from our errant
missiles
their charred
flesh
blackened
faces
they spoke
not a word
their eyes
bright
piercing
still held life
it’s not a war
is it
we watched the family
down the street
fall apart
the mother
father
losing jobs
could no longer
afford
to keep
the kids together
we saw them huddle
one last time
before they shipped out
to relatives
across the nation
it’s not a war
is it
we heard
the soft cries
of a newborn
starving
exhausting
its tiny
body
in a quest
for nourishment
no mother would give
abandoned
at a fire station
rushed
to a hospital
where it would
die
alone
placed
in an unmarked
grave
continued
it’s not a war
is it
we read in the paper
and then online
of congressional
and presidential
staff
being added on
to the rolls
of employment
the current
staff
was not enough
to handle all
the necessary
catering
these politicos
require...
it takes a lot
of people
to wait upon
our masters
it’s not a war
is it
it used to be said
that pain
sacrifice
were always
part
of war
there would
always
be casualties
no way
to get
around it
but for those
children
blackened
charred
there was
no war
not even a
military
action
the family
whose father
would
eventually
take his own life
whose sanity
destroyed
when he could not
provide
for his family
his job
continued
farmed out
across the globe
to a small child
in a faraway land
making furniture
for much less
than he was paid
were they
collateral damage
of a war
that wasn’t
a war
after all
the motherless
child
nameless
homeless
dead
despite all
our society offers
is this child
not a victim
in a war
that is not a war
after all
we reassure ourselves
in so many ways
it is not a war
is it
we believe it
as everything
around us
dies
losing
what little
humanity
we have left
we finally begin
telling ourselves
in that moment
as the end draws near
we begin to understand
yes, it had been a war
all along.
they can hear what is in my mind
reading my thoughts
a dime novel
an old encyclopedia
discarded newspaper now wrapping
today’s fish and chips
technology is ever changing
raccoons harvest the worms from our yards
powdered coyote urine is invented
to keep them away
a million dollar industry sparkling
in suburban sunlight
bags of urine hang from trees
Christmas decorations in May
news anchors repeat stories
found in my head
sharing time with traffic, weather
there is a four hundred
and eighty-pound woman
who now wears a size ten
continued
she’s been on most all
of the stations
her thoughts are no longer
her own
i’m fairly certain that powdered coyote urine
hangs in her yard
scaring the raccoons away
they head north, to the headlands
newscasters do not report on this
people want political stories
they want what is in my mind
an entire nation lies waiting
the anticipation increases ratings
when raccoons migrate the story is dead
it is only a story if the outcome is predictable
we are running out of news
the election is still
two years away
media executives read my thoughts
i give them access for a nice bowl of ramen
they tell me as the noodles are poured
the four hundred and eighty-pound woman
was really a ruse
but it was more believable
than powdered coyote urine
that’s the problem in reading
the thoughts of people
you never know what to believe.
the necromancer entered our town on a fine
winter day
pink eyes glowing against a beautifully
torrid sky
clouds of fire
burning through
the morning mist
his otherworldly appearance
a comfort to the old woman
who had summoned him
to speak for her son
a gentle child
who had passed into the night
there was unfinished business
between mother and son
words left unspoken
unshed tears
yearning to be free
the necromancer began
his incantations
a long, pale finger
circling the air before him
we watched breathlessly
as the air before him danced
with fiery colors
the innkeeper’s daughter fell onto the floor
her body violently shaking
rivers of sweat
puddled about her
the old woman lit
a long expired candle
with dreams of Xanadu
a voice, barely a whisper, called
from the innkeeper’s daughter
instructing the old woman
come closer
the necromancer appeared to glow
the room smelled of mold,
rot, and death
we all strained to hear
the words meant
for the old woman’s ear’s
a clap of thunder shook us
to our core
in an instant, it was over
the innkeeper’s daughter rose
with not a memory
continued
the old woman lay sobbing
on the floor
i reached out to touch her
she turned to me and smiled
saying her son was in the land
of milk and honey
he was in paradise
the necromancer was no more
a small dove remained in his place
the clouds parted, their fiery brilliance
illuminating the dove’s flight
the smell of death
of decay
was replaced by the smell of rain
on a mid-summer day
we returned to our tasks
about the village
each of us stealing
glances
at the sky
each of us knowing
that magic
had entered our village
that day.
Antiquities
lost in the desert
drowning in time
we stood upon the shore
of the Crescent Sea
choking on minutes
coughing out hours
we kept looking east
for the Gardens of Anubis
finding Terrapin floating
in a sanguine sea
our memories of alabaster
eggs decoded
we stole anxious moments
that dreamed to be free.
numbers stream
in news feeds
statisticians
invoke
apocryphal statements
so many dead
so many more to die
the taste of
burnt flesh
circling the globe
becoming war zones
where once were
gardens
nature
people
life on a bright
sunny day
the color of
earth
grey
the wealthy
the poor
dead
in a land
that is silent
charred
bereft of life
a statistician’s number
on a screen before us
as we sip
our afternoon
tea.
all around us rained death
we looked towards
another sunrise
unwilling to see
the blood before us
our masters exact
a heavy toll
roads are paved
with the blood
of innocence
their tolls paid
with money made
from the flesh
of the damned
choosing to ignore
the death around them
searching for a sunrise
in a blood red sky.
in an age of deceit
stories appear in our sleep
sacred accounts of spiritual battles
Valmiki appears in dreams
lines of Vamanas behind him
carrying scrolls of devotion
Narayana now sleeping
his foes defeated
will he rise again
drums of God’s roaring
great torrents of flowers
raining down
has the forest reappeared
bringing Ravana back
to the magic Lanka held
or are we in endless samsara
Yakshas walking the land
laughing as we are blind
they call out to us
delivering riddles
of immortality
giving pilgrims hope
that fire will purify
those who know truth.
the world’s largest army
ever assembled
lives in squalor
they are homeless
living far
beneath the level of
decency
roaming
searching
for a merciful land
there are no weapons
to further their cause
no leader
to direct and guide them
they move about the world
traveling to countries
opposed
to their plight
seeking asylum
from the ravages of war
from hunger
and the political greed
that chains them fast
history has documented their struggles
gilded tomes written
of their plight
Gods are silent
prayers
unanswered
an army of warriors
faceless
in time
they have marched
for ages
they are marching
still.
come bear witness
on this day of redemption
the day the unwashed
come clean
the day lambs
devour wolves
the righteous
falter
cripples
leap
the body of Christ
No longer nourishes
the souls of Pagan Gods
his blood
dried
withered
is but a stain
his memory faded
in the hearts of the faithful
abandoning honor
for a chance
at absolution
the future has passed us by
we are but a moment
a glimpse of truth
that can never be
we create fiction
to suit our nature
Gods
to soothe our pain
redemption
is upon us
no need for religion
today.
the land is green
the soil is rich
fertile
water is abundant
air is pure
we can see for miles
past the ridge
a great divide
tears open the land
looking deep
into the chasm
we can see all manner
of life
drifting
floating
on currents of air
it is here
where the earth breathes
filling the heavens above
with its wondrous beauty
that we first begin to dream
small dreams at first
then larger
ever larger
until the dreams become life
and life becomes the dream
a world united
one people
one planet
under a sun
giving life
to all
there is life
here
there is beauty
our land calls to us
enticing us
fueling a spark within
igniting our passion
there is a comfort
here
where we are
dreaming
living
there is no mystery
no samsara
only soil
rich
fertile
for those
willing to see.
i dreamt of women shooting fish
with crossbows
large, Pacific salmon
a few trout
a handful of large mouth bass
they asked me to help
reel them in
offering to filet them
for a reasonable
price
war paint i applied
earlier that morning
contrasted nicely
with the crow
i wore on my head
it spoke to me
quietly whispering
coded phrases
from memories
of another life
understanding the wisdom of birds,
crows to be exact,
i heeded his words
and helped the women
reel in their fish
the river they fished
would be replaced by fields
then houses
then roads
finally, a mall
a great, gleaming orifice
built with reflective glass
inside its sterile walls
a debauchery of senses
shielded its truth
the crow leaned closer
no longer speaking phrases
from past lives
reminding me to pay
for an especially large filet
it had been generations
since last he ate
his people vanishing
with the fish
with the river.
before tonight’s reading
i must shop
for tomorrows meal
with great envy i will listen
to poets
read of laughter
love
their affection for
drink
family
merriment
a lover in the night
whatever it might be
they will all proclaim
their joyous participations
in this earthly realm
i long to understand
such moments
i have shared
a few
moments of joy
births of sons
shafts of sunlight
the mastery of
a two wheeled vehicle
these moments
peeking
between the curtains
of life
leave me inspired
perhaps more
shall be revealed
i take great comfort
in rare moments
such as these
i live
for moments
such as these
in all honesty
i do not readily see
the joyous occasions
my fellow poets
engage in
continued
i witness
instead
death
pain
suffering
the remnants of children
left smoldering
in the wake of an
errant
missile
the life of a stillborn
left to rot
in the dumpster
by a mother
too young
the depth of sorrow
in the eyes of a man
who has just lost his mate
of fifty eight years
the taste
the smell
the essence
of death
stays with you
long
after you
have left it
these sensations
assail me
while others see
visions of joy
i allow darkness
to envelop me
it has always been
this way
as a small child
it pained me
to have affection
it pains me still
to feel the soft touch
of another’s hand
i envy those
who see the remarkable
beauty
around them
but it is not
for me
continued
i cover my body
with totems of illumination
allowing the pain
to flood over me
i find solace
in these moments
the pain of the markings
encourage freedom
from the darkness
i control
this pain
unlike the other
which i cannot
i pay the grocer
for my rice
for my zucchini
a young mother
at the market
slaps her child
to quiet him
i take note
after tonight’s reading
it will be time
for more illumination.
we write prophecies
upon the skin
of flayed heretics
using quills forged in war,
blood caught
from innocents
bled dry from atrocities
too soon forgotten
use skulls
of our vanquished enemies
to keep and hold
this precious ink
quickly, now
write the prophecies
illuminate their tradition
before the blood dries
making it useless
mundane
our cause is virtuous
the path before us voiced
from the providence within
our leaders shall advance
guiding us
with tomes of prophecies,
illuminated visions
ordained to the righteous
upon a heretics
skin.
we had become the product
of our grandfather’s dreams
as he had become
the product of his before him
the desire for riches
handed down
generation after generation
their only goal; to obtain wealth
what began as an industrial
revolution
evolved into a mindset of achieving
an endless array of riches
soon, an entire planet
was consumed
by these desires
of ever increasing wealth
schools stopped teaching
of nature
our connection to it
our need for it
vast highways were built
magnificent craft ruled our skies
behemoth vessels sailed our seas
even space, became less of a frontier
devising intricate ways
of gaining money
was a mark of
success
understanding the cycle
of birds
was forgotten
no one spoke of it
acknowledging the power
nature could wield
was dismissed
as ancient superstition
continued
what began with
our forefathers dreams
ended in nightmares
for our generation
where some had achieved
vast wealth and riches
more and more of us
became homeless and poor
though we thought ourselves
modern, even enlightened
we had been destroying our planet
in our quest for advancement
instead of feeding the hungry
clothing the poor
we developed thousand dollar smart phones
to make avatars of ourselves
instead of understanding
where did they place the magic
they took from us
did they hide it behind
the mountains
did they place it
above the clouds
i went to look under the sea
but it was far too heavy to lift
so i asked a homeless man
swimming by the shore
do you know where the magic went?
he told me he did not,
then asked me for a towel
i was hesitant to lend him mine
as it had been my favorite for some time
but i thought if i lent him my towel
perhaps the magic might return
taking my towel he looked
thoughtfully into the distance
i thought i saw magic, once,
but then bureaucrats stored it in a warehouse,
they secured the doors
with laws and encumbrances
this revelation came as news to me
as i had been searching for quite a while
he asked me for a cigarette,
or perhaps some money
i felt around, deep in my pockets,
and gave him a dragons tooth
i told him to use it wisely,
for it was the last dragon’s tooth i owned
he smiled and offered me a seashell
and a fine, polished stone
i thanked him profusely;
it was a beginning, a start,
at finding magic once more.
You know the feeling well
the feeling that overcomes you
sending you to the ground
holding on to great clumps of earth
as you become afraid of the size of the sky
understanding the immense nature
of life itself.
‘
’
having finished my morning ablutions
i was toasting a fine piece of rye
eyeing my nearly empty pantry
with a longing for fresh fruit
i had not felt in decades
he came upon me silently
gently rapping on the threshold with his gnarled hand
my three dogs snoring gently
as he bid me good morning
are you the Vicar of this church
his faint voice asked
at one time, i replied, but that was long ago
when God was still alive
so it’s true then, he gasped, God has died
he began to weep and moved to a small
wicker chair, his frail limbs navigating
as though he were
a marionette
no, my friend, i rushed out the door to help him,
i meant his spirit is no longer alive
continued
he carefully surveyed
with a practiced eye
all that was before him
and these dogs, he gestured with his hand
what of them
perplexed by the question
i stared for a moment
not certain how to reply
he continued on
asking questions of me
gesturing at times with his gnarled hand
a wry smile from his eyes
caught the morning light as he
sat about discussing
the value of water
have some, here, fresh from the well, i offered
he again gestured to the dogs
does the water matter to them
i suppose it does, i answered
as it does to all living creatures,
he replied
you keep water from the well
to use when you need it
to water your dogs
and perhaps grow some fruit
you are Vicar in a church
where God has died
yet, still, you keep water
for you and your dogs
upon ending this statement he rose
and began to walk off
where are you headed, i asked him
i live on the far side of the lake, where the laughter
of children dance lightly across the water
i came to see if God was still alive
i did not mean to alarm you, i said in earnest
it is his spirit that died, not his body. no one lives
on the far side of the lake
continued
God is still alive,
he stated
in spirit and body
talk to your dogs,
drink the water you give them
i watched him vanish
with a wave of his hand
my dogs still snoring
my rye toast cold
a faint sound of laughter
could be heard
from across the lake
rippling, dancing
delivering faith.
ashes are piling at the door
there is a silence that screams
in the night
we wait for sunlight
to illuminate the day
monsters in the dark
always retreat when there’s light
i offered you a rose
from my garden
it complimented your lips
such a long time has passed
since we’ve felt each others’ soul
is it the times we live in
the fears we’ve yet to conquer
we once offered each other love
to bring light to our darkness
i can no longer offer you a rose
only the ashes
from a sunrise.
we built our walls from stones
harvested from the fields we tilled
hard, solid rocks of history
ingloriously lifted from their eternal rest
when outsiders came to our walls
they were able to climb them with ease
in our haste to secure our lands
we neglected to build walls as tall as the sky
so we returned to our fields
tilled the soil until our furrows were deep
unearthing our history even further
we stacked rocks upon our walls, its weight crushing
our walls stretched high into the sky
blocking out the sun
after years of constant shade
large parcels of the land went dark
outsiders were still streaming into our land
simply following the walls to the sea
they came into our land and began
helping us dismantle the walls
in our quest to keep us safe from those outside
we had neglected to house and provide for those within
at first, we were resentful of their help
this was our land, our soil
but they brought with them wondrous machines
the likes of which we had never seen
together, with these outsiders
we were able to provide for all our people
with the walls now gone, we became, over time,
one nation, one people, one land
until one day we built walls from stones
harvested from the fields we tilled.
i shot a hole in the sun
drove my car right through it
no hesitation
came out the other side
tires smoking
my cigarette lit
illuminating
the blonde at the corner
in the black mini-skirt
with white fishnet stockings
the poor, hungry vet
lost in a war
long since forgotten
illumination appears to me
in the strangest of times
is there room enough
in a space filled
with such ego
to send a message,
morse code
if you could
i have dreams of desires
dreams of delusions
what is it
that you dream?
right when we least expected
the blinding light of salvation flickered
in that moment we were able to see
clearly
esoteric discussions as to whose God
was correct, whose beliefs were pure
all became suspended
in that moment
there was a unifying peace
the subtle dread of eternal souls
living in harmony
was removed
stories of winged angels
magnificent in their brilliance
became forgotten
we forged new books
from the ashes of our desires
for immortal salvation
a powerful language emerged
one that filled us with joy
faith, had been shown to us
in that momentary flicker
salvation
was not the goal after all
no need for discussions
or intrusive religions
holy men from long forgotten times
were no longer needed
to instruct us
elegant cathedrals and mosques
no longer necessary either
with our sight regained
we understood faith itself
was to be our salvation
faith in each other
the illusive answer
and all we need do
was simply believe.
On the beginning of my sixty-first
journey around the sun
a holographic universe appeared
as i was sipping
a cup of bitter
mushroom tea
the great Marduk stood to my side
i saw his father, Apsu,
dream of killing his children
i watched as Enki,
slew Apsu while he dreamed
Tiamet, the goddess-mother, enraged at her loss
set about to kill Enki
and the rest of her children
but Marduk shot her with Imhullu
splitting her into two rivers
the Tigris and Euphrates
flowed from her corpse
as Marduk formed the heavens
with her now-dead soul
the voice of God resonates
with a tone
somewhat familiar
somewhat alien
do we heed its call
turning towards it
devoting it to memory
recalling its grace
in our hour of need
i don’t have that answer
perhaps a walk along the sea
a brisk dance in the sand
would serve us well
i have recorded his voice
come soar with me
i will play it for you.
continued
there then appeared a beautifully crafted mirror
its edges adorned with ornate carvings
from precious metals, designs
the patterns spun my mind
forcing me to look directly
into its center
a Golden Pakarra upon my back
stretched out his mighty arms
Garuda rose from my shoulder
a great panther pulled back his bow
his arrow at the ready
the arrow flew past my ear
Garuda’s wings taking the Pakarra
to the heavens
the Pakarra smiled
benevolently
sounds of rain, faint, as if from a distant land
could be heard as the Pakarra started to speak
a dazzling burst of color flew forth from his lips,
his mouth, his soul
i felt rain fall about me
the unmistakable sound
of a teaspoon against a cup
brought me back to my kitchen
where i sat stirring the bitter tea
with an old, silver spoon
an understanding washed over me
in that one specific moment
i immediately understood
all i need ever know
a lone, blue feather floated to the ground
it spoke to me as it lay at my feet
granting me wisdom
to understand;
We are all travelers, on a magical journey
What else is there to know?
my skin is still wet
from the ink of ten thousand needles
my flesh
warm
swollen
soft scents of liniment circle me
wrapping me in their healing embrace
colors firm as the skin swells
the image clear, precise
another offering has been made
to the ancestors
they send me letters to read
as the artist works my skin
the letters take my mind away from pain
i reflect upon these letters from the dead
answering them quietly
i write back to them
my replies written
with blood from my skin.
where sunlight begins
past the ten heavens of Enoch
there is a pallor
upon the faces of our children
would that we bring
some light to them
just enough
to allow them to breathe.
thousands of years later we debate
with our politics
with our religion
with our mass hysteria
the value of aborting a fetus
without letting that fetus
that child
know life
while in the Fertile Crescent
thousands of years past
where they interred their born
and unborn infants in jars
lovingly preserving them for all of time
the ghosts of those infants
weep.
in the Fertile Crescent
seven thousand years before Christ
long before Constantine held his empire together
with state mandated inclusion
of a new Christian religion
long before Popes, Cardinals, and Bishops
ruled our eternal fate
people made containers from clay
with which to bury infants
both born and unborn
archeological sites provide evidence
of these burials
infants found in containers
some developed, some not
adorned with items to help them
navigate the next world
sealed jars enabling a family to keep close
for all eternity
that which was lost to them
there is a fair wind blowing
calling us to raise our sails
the land we have called home
for so long
is no more
prophecies of this day go back
to when our ancestors
began the story of our life
generations have come and gone
many wars
many deaths
outside of technology
little advancement made
we still hunt each other
with guns, with spears
with our closed minds we seek out
those among us who dare
to think for themselves
it has been this way
for millennia
the strong overtaking the weak
rich overcoming the poor
a proper hierarchy
with policies designed
to better our lives
still, the desire to hunt
would not abate
rules were put in place
more rules followed
the simplest courtesy
became the most stringent
insult
our population became offended
by the very notion
of independence
screaming out for change
we burned our cities
desecrated our history
there is a fair wind blowing
calling us to raise our sails
it is time for us to go.
Mescalito offered us a sunrise
in the dark of the night
showing us colors
that brightened the sky
deep purples, blood-reds
a frosted yellow that was
as oblique and wandering
as the burnt orange from collapsing stars
an eternity forming,
marking a path to a small
tidal pool
far from the ocean
i brought some of the water home
using it to water her peonies
not too much, i could hear her say
just enough for dolphins to grow
she was peculiar that way;
always growing flesh
when flowers
would simply not do.
there was no need
for individual
responsibility
an entire planet
could be at peace
if only
the charismatic
were followed
no questioning
their purity
despite their occasional
fall from grace
they are the chosen
the one's who the pure
decided
could speak for all
we handed over our progress
gave up all of our rights
to them
their narcissism quickly swept
beyond trite religion
spilling over to politics
leadership
at every level
was handed over
to them
the faithful
flock
to the cause
of righteousness
the charismatics
allow an out
for our responsibility
they are the glimmering
behind a mad man's eyes
the proof
is easy enough to see
the silence
of our children
is proof of our decay.
where are the masks
that hide us from inspection
keeping us alive
in this dystopian dream
mine was left on a shelf
as you walked into the kitchen
yours was wrapped in furs
kept in a closet
the masks allowed freedom
to do as we pleased
we could move forward in society
never needing to expose our weakness
they allowed fluidity
in an otherwise concrete world
i dreamt many times
of losing my mask
it was frightening to consider
the ramifications
you told me your dreams
your fear of closure
did you hide the masks
to continue the game
i would not blame you
if you did
i would not hold you
at fault.
speak to me
empty your mind
there are only friends here
as Ba’al has blinded his enemies
they come to him
through your dreams
leveling forests
vacating seas
you were right to seek my counsel
for these are ancient ways
practicing this magic
is ancient as sand
there is much to discover
truth is a fleeting moment
all-father, El, guides your dreams
all-mother, Asherha, guides your soul
you wear the mark of Yahweh
believing it protects you
i will tell you,
El saw the birth of your God
Asherha, bringer of life,
was the midwife
Ba’al was trusted
to guard God’s soul
many people claim the status
of knowing a one, true God
this should come
as no surprise
the desert is filled
with the bones of religion
i tell you this in earnest;
there is no need for doctors
your mind is cluttered
your thoughts in disarray
empty your mind and speak
with the clarity of ages
Ba’al is there for you
accept these things
the demons are false Gods
come, let us slay them together.
of dreams, of dreamers
for the former breathes
the movie
the latter tastes it
savoring the dream’s vastness
delving deep into its essence
searching, longing, for a moment
of beauty
of truth
the dream
is the plan, the course
upon which the dreamer
travels
the path upon which
the dreamer
finds their end grow near
the path that shows
the dreamer
how to continue
the dream
man
dreams
his dreams
showing
him
life is nothing
more
nothing less
than a path
how the path
will always be
the dream of heaven
while heaven
will always be
the dream
of man.
songbirds had gone silent
many years back
the soul of our land
auctioned off
no bids were offered
no one could be bothered
a man of religion cast holy water
yet none could walk to a new land
sounds of the world
had gone deaf upon us
in the vanishing twilight
a shadow crept across the land
none were exempt
from its capricious shade
i heard a rumor that money
was to be recalculated
a spotted lizard scoffed
said they were nothing but lies
yesterday’s ruins are now
shelters from the storm
sorrows and joys
a fleeting memory
a soft sax in the wind
i would gladly shout a magic spell
if only i had the time
we seldom speak
of forbidden history
leaving relics to decay
their usefulness lost
on a civilization
holding little regard
for icons necessary
to sustain history
aged scribes wrote texts
illuminated with designs
for a noble cause
they once sent us seeking
mysteries
no longer amusing
to a deadening republic
the eye of Horus
appears within a cup
in a small cafe
a gilded bowl
is now a container
for spare change
we stumble upon
delightful visions
heralding
forgotten stories
the cycle of history
is a tricky thing
we survive the day
quite nicely without it
no longer interested
in Holy Grails
we dismiss these visions
as ancient superstitions
the words of prophets
are merely
clouds in the sky
no need for God
when science
rules the day.
‘
’
we planted prayers
deep in the ground
watered them
nurtured them
waited for the right
moment to harvest
sent them out on winds
across the land
hoping to heal
our world’s divide.
in the Thar desert
they dug foundations
for housing
installing roads for people
the new construction would bring
a twelve thousand year old blast was discovered
its radioactive memory still intact
charred corpses from a time before time
filled the earth with their ash
the Mahabharata tells of a great battle
where a great weapon was sent from the heavens
a gigantic messenger of death
reduced to ash an entire civilization
the entire race of the Vrishnis and the Andhakas
turning a once lush valley
into a pile of sand
where they tried to build houses
many thousands of years later
only to be shut down
by a nuclear blast
history had forgotten.
I
the gods promised us
their favor
all we needed to do
was pray to them
for our salvation
II
a heavy wind came upon us
driving sand into our eyes
we took refuge
in the Valley of
a Thousand Thoughts
III
we waited, patiently
for the return
of the crescent
moon and the gifts
it would bring
IV
capturing a moment
of evolutionary change
the priests directed us
to gather together
as many lambs as we could
V
a convergence of the minds
was not be found,
too long had we heard
promises
from the gods
VI
in that moment
of anarchy
we regained our past,
tied it to our future,
and wrote our history
continued
VII
the weak among us
were given strength,
the strong among us
were given visions
to aid our journey
VIII
a large fire
burned for days
until it blackened
the sand
beneath it
IX
looking to the skies
we spoke not a word,
uttered not a sound,
in unison
we ascended to heaven
X
there are messages
left in clay pots
directing our descendants
to forego whatever gods and idols
they might create
XI
there is not a need
for mystery, nor religion,
it will only give rise
to the destructive power
of greed
XII
this was the message
our children carved
for the future,
carving it
with the tips of their wings
XIII
it is a message
that is best served
daily, with a
splendid cup
of Turkish coffee.
who are these politicians
that require constant feeding
leveraging our grandchildren’s future
so they may eat
juicy steaks
plant a garden
water it with the tears of the starving
build cardboard castles
under overpasses and bridges
light up the night
with prayers of forgiveness
that scrap of meat
you throw away
could easily feed hundreds
if only the world
were blessed.
there is always more to you
more that you can do
it lies within you
locked away
waiting to come forth
there is no mystery needed
no further attachments either
dig deep, go beyond your fears
let go of expectations
and simply do
give hope to those around you
by doing what is true for you
each day we are given
the chance to know the greatness
that exists within us all
though few will accept
its existence
do not despair.
open your heart to Vishnu
appearing as Matsya
the great fish-god
give praise to Suvannamaccha
the mermaid princess
lover of Hanuman, mother of Macchanu
daughter of Ravana
she obeyed her father
destroying the great causeway to Sri-Lanka
where Sita sat captive
waiting to be returned
to her husband, Rama
feel now the compassion
that Suvannamaccha felt
for the warrior ape Hanuman
defying her father
she ordered her mermaid brethren
to complete the road to Sri- Lanka
allowing Rama to rescue
the goddess Sita
pure, as a dahlia in bloom
but the mighty Vishnu
now appearing as Rama
questioned Sita’s purity
throwing her into a pit of fire
she emerged unscathed
proving her purity, for all of time
it was decreed that day
that as long as there was
water in the seas
mermaids would forever
sing the song
of Suvannamaccha
and her love for Hanuman
that allowed the great Vishnu
to once again
appear whole
appear pure
as a dahlia in bloom.
i offered him twenty bucks,
the guy at the end of the bar
offered twenty-five
the alien and the guy
at the end of the bar
agreed on thirty
the bartender went to pour us all
another drink
when a flash of light appeared
we were momentarily blinded,
my gin knocked down
to the floor
when we could see again
the alien had vanished
leaving nothing but his stories
i stated i was sad to see him go
the guy at the end of the bar muttered,
we never discussed interest
the bartender’s only concern
who was going
to pick up the tab.
there are no exits
on the extraterrestrial
highway
no speed limits
you can travel
as fast as you can
i met an alien
who traveled the highway
often
spent most of his youth
cruising the universe
searching
he never truly explained
what he was searching for
but he was searching
last time i saw him
he was trying to pawn
five golden rings
said they held the keys
to the mysteries
of the universe
we had overcome many obstacles
learned to work as a team
not so much as one
but as you, and i
when they came for us
we were prepared
we slipped away
to the caves
where we had supplies,
weapons, a safe place to be
watching from a distance
we saw the smoke
caught faint flickers of flame
as our home
burned
from the safety of the caves
we looked over the lake
but only at night
lest we be seen
you swore you could see the bones
of our dog
glistening under the water
the image flooded us
with memories
it was last summer when he died
the earth much too hard
to dig a proper grave
so we weighted him down
with bricks from your kiln
and slid him into the water
funny, how little events in life
leave such a mark
society might fall
yet memories of a dog
remain.
i want to put down my guns
stop the constant war
make love our religion
open up the doors
i want to erase the anguish
take away the pain
give to those that take
break the cycle of regret
i want to take you with me
let us turn and walk away
this fleeting life is our only vessel
let us not waste another day
where are all the poets
the artists and musicians
are we to be led by politicians
and their corrupt media, too
there is a place i know
where we can find
a land of grace
a land sublime
i want to take you with me
let us turn and walk away
this fleeting life is our only vessel
let us not waste another day
man’s nature here is forever dark
filled with corruption
filled with greed
there is no religion left
money drives our need
i want to take you with me
let us turn and walk away
this fleeting life is our only vessel
let us not waste another day.
i found myself
one fine morning
having coffee with the Buddha
fresh lemon cake
drizzled with frosting
sat on a plate nearby
requesting cream and honey
the Buddha prepared his coffee
with utmost care
taking my morning brew
black
i sat and watched his preparation
two large bumblebees
hovered around the lemon cake
never once landing
it was still early morning
the mating sounds of birds
filled the air
i regaled him with stories
of frog princes
and gargoyles
he lifted his robe to show me
a massive tattoo
of hummingbirds and lilacs
we sat in silence for quite a long while
until he cleared his throat
asking for another cup
i told him i had run
out of honey
would sugar do
smiling, he lifted a piece of lemon cake
placing the frosting in his cup
telling me as he did so
the universe provides.
it had taken me a while
to climb the mountain
but now, as i stood waiting
arms outstretched
the murmuration enveloped me
i felt myself rising
an insane flurry of movement
tossing me into the air
dandelion fluff in the currents
of a summer wind
deep within my mind
i pictured Mount Kailash
it’s towering presence
calling me
leading me home
the murmuration shot upwards
the roar of its wind
deafening
it felt for a moment i
was falling
but that was not the case
we turned sharply
to the East
soaring past valleys
farmlands, arriving quickly
at the ocean’s edge
i found myself wondering
if the Guge Kingdom had itself
been lifted by murmurations
that carried the kingdom
to sacred ground
the Golden Pakara upon my back
whispered to me
an ancient sanskrit riddle;
which strong man
is not affected by the cold
i knew at once the answer
but could not formulate
the sounds
my silence
was deafening
a rinpoche i had revered
in another time
continued
laughingly asked me
why was i silent
when the answer was simple
the murmuration dropped me
upon the sands of the ocean
i felt the sun’s warmth
upon my cheeks
it’s rays soothing, healing
a beggar happened by
who then became a monk
he looked inside me
to find
the riddle’s answer
he pulled out a scroll
from deep within me;
the man with a blanket
is not affected by the cold
smiling, he showed me
a way home.
days are for sleeping
storing energy
keeping an attentive ear
open for intruders
nights are for howling
barking at the moon
reciting poetry
that set the skies on fire.
so many things to worry about these days:
will global warming destroy us all by 2033?
was the election rigged?
are all elections rigged?
is the RONA going to destroy mankind?
was it created in a nefarious power grab for
world domination?
if so, does it come with a warranty for 2033
because, you know, global destruction?
will we ever have a true and impartial media?
did we ever?
can global markets continue to create currency
based on the premise of thin air?
is air even thin?
the list goes on and on
sleeping aids are being produced
at an all-time high
do you lay awake at night
thinking of where we are
in terms of universal recognition?
does any of this affect you at night?
or none at all?
as for me, i lay awake at night
sometimes in a cold sweat
wondering if the caterpillar i squashed
on the playground when i was seven
was the caterpillar a messenger
sent by God
to determine if i am worthy?
Nut, the sky goddess
appeared to me in a dream
asking for my help
in resurrecting
Osirus
eons had passed
the underworld filled
with uncountable souls
their collective dreams
guiding our fate
it was time, she said
to set Osirus free
her grandson, Horus
handed me a potion
he who is benign
and youthful
should rise again
having had no training
in the art of
resurrection
i politely declined
due to my ignorance
a moment of time
passed between us
i could sense
the edges of my dream
unraveling
a week later
at a rummage sale,
quite early in the morning,
i spilled my coffee
upon an old man
incarcerated as he was
imprisoned in a gleaming wheelchair
he immediately leapt up in laughter
declaring his appreciation
for setting him free
his body glowing
no longer aging
he took my hand
directing me
to a green, Volkswagen Rabbit
handing me the keys
he commanded i drive him
continued
until we found Anubis
who was waiting
at a strip club in Jersey
it was quite a ways
i stated, to Jersey
we would need provisions,
supplies
for such a journey
the underworld needs
a better falafel, he replied
with that he vanished
his only trace
an image of him left
on a discarded Pyrex bowl
pink, slightly chipped, two bucks
my alarm going off
i wake to find morning
smiling towards a new day
i find a note on my night stand stating
thank you!
Love, Isis
we found a hole in the universe
past the nebulae
beyond black holes
a thin column of light appeared
but only as a flicker
perhaps even an afterthought
several prophecies from dubious messiahs
attempted to guide us,
in the end, we were on our own
i recall looking back
seeing our planet
for the first time
it shimmered in the glow
of celestial destruction
an illumination amidst the darkness
we sped toward the opening
a column of light
reaching out to us
a distant sound
akin to thunder
shot up to us from our planet
continued
encased in its sound wave
we surfed beyond
our wildest imaginations
there were only
a handful of us
that made the journey
we crossed its threshold
felt the opening
begin to close
a brightness shone upon us
three suns
nine distant moons
the opening closed
we saw before us
our new planet, our new home
there was talk among us
wondering if the devastation
was complete
were we alone
we asked ourselves
would there be more
coming through the portal
there had been no warning
no indications
of our destruction
a woman spoke in Hindi
telling us the Vedas
had prophesied this
an old, withered Shaman
grinned as light
filled his eyes
a small child
grabbed hold of his hand
asking if this
was heaven
the Shaman spoke softly to the child
no, my child,
these are but visions
of a merciful land.
our shackles bind us
holding us captive
as we stumble along
with little grace
chains, centuries in the making
some gilded, some with a fine patina
chime with those crafted
from pot metal, from iron
the sound is rapturous
yet foreboding all the same
so many melodies played out
as we lurch forward on our path
infrequently there arises a unified cry
for a moment
we are one, headed together
down a common road
but quickly
a misplaced step ripples through the crowd
soon, there is no longer
a unified melody played out
the rapturous noise returns
if only a conductor
adept at arranging
the sounds of shackles
were to be found
but which conductor
one that is familiar with gilded chains
or perhaps silver
yet still, one that understands cold iron
rotting skin, chaffed from bondage
leaves our bones exposed
yellowing on the arid earth
upon which we tread
decay lingers
long festering
we adapt to its scent
an errant nuisance
in past times we were guided
with whips, sharp jolts of pain
directing our travel
along the road our masters chose
continued
these days
we stumble along aimlessly
some going left, some right
a few attempting to lead
though most follow
no longer in need of direction
our shackles lead us
onward
no longer a need for a master
for there are no classes
to contain us
we are now
one people
forever bound
by the shackles
we have forged.
your sacred heart
illuminated
the night air
revealing dreams
of Naga Kings
their serpent tongues
flicking softly
against our skin
our embrace
our passion
fueled their wings
an ecstatic moment
filled with bliss
as our bodies
soared
through time
in that instance
melding together
i understood the love
ancients spoke of
when they wrote powerful
sagas
of beauty and devotion
freeing our souls
to become one
with God.
‘
’
when doves fly west
to greet the rising sun
might there be
peace
at last
in our holy land
Buddha bought a shirt shop
on the Boardwalk in Venice Beach
created tee shirts with catchy slogans
donating the money to UNICEF
Krishna wanted in on the action
selling shirts that read HINDU’S MATTER
gave the money to foundations
building temples to Hanuman
buying their lunch from a falafel cart
they sat on the beach, waiting for nirvana
reminding tourists
to pick up after their dogs.
we create evil in our culture
through political machinations
handing our fate to inglorious narcissists
purporting to lead the way
lining their pockets with wealth
given them by loyal subjects
who adoringly feed their need
our river runs deep
with false prophets
lighted pathways
blind us further
scientists now tell us
a catastrophic event forever altered
life on our planet
evolution has directed our destiny
ever since
i wonder when i read these
claims of devastation
what will they say of us
far into the future
will the sampling be corrected
to fit the older engines
will our journey to evil
accurately be portrayed
or will history remain an avalanche
as it often times does
masking our collapse
with footnotes to heaven.
in the City of Souls
they pass the time
polishing bones
of martyrs
the process is a slow
tedious affair
sins of man
seldom clean well
at night the darkness
becomes illuminated
with the glow of
redeemed bones
this story is
handed down
between corpses
and the living
not everyone knows
the entire story
only a piece of it
to share
it is best, this way
to know only a piece
it keeps them safe
no need for secrets
some people believe
God keeps secrets
hiding them
in the winds
i believe the bones glow
to show us a path
one that eases our journey
into the City of Souls
where the secrets
of God
may be lost
forever.
his mind was diseased,
we all told each other this
his judgment could not be trusted
he believed people should walk about naked
swap sexual partners freely
elect a ruler as king
and call it a day
he even considered human sacrifice
an honorable tradition
while the rest of us struggled through life
he journeyed through it
with a spring in his step
a twinkle in his eye
i was closest to him
accompanied him on many adventures
he believed castles should be built of sand
thought that women should be in charge of the world
though men should be deemed kings
to keep their egos intact
he thought everyone deserved a room with a view
overlooking a garden
to remind us of where food came from
or a view of
a slaughter yard
to help keep the hunger for meat
at bay
he shared his wisdom with everyone he met
strangely enough, he was met with favorable response
everywhere he traveled
people did not care about governmental affairs,
he would tell me
they much preferred to have free cable television
and as much sex as possible
whenever possible
it really was that simple
he ran for political office to change our lives
told me he would win by a landslide
as everyone had grown tired of the same
political charades
continued
he would offer a new game
with new rules
new prizes
the people were ready
for a new administration
on the day he was assassinated i was with him
sitting across the table
drinking tea
i saw his head snap back
watched the blood stream across the room
leaving bits of his skull and brain
upon the wall
his face frozen in a wry smile
i tend to his wisdom these days
defending him when they say his brain
was diseased
that his judgment could not be trusted
i was there, i tell them
i saw his brain spilled out
it looked just fine to me
and he was the one, i would point out
that dictated where i should sit
to drink my tea
oddly enough,
no one ever disagrees.
end of days began with little fanfare
no live coverage
no breaking news
i had prepared a waffle with berries
a small amount of vanilla mixed
into the batter for a sweeter taste
the morning sky glowed in the West
it was the first indication
of our doom
rolling shock waves from the blast
had crippled communication systems
for hundreds of miles
EMP bursts further assured
there would be no communication
no warning
gradually, people could be seen running
in the streets
disoriented
confused
continued
a slight whistling sound could be heard
racing through the air
then silence
i took one last bite of the waffle
an exceptionally sweet berry
accompanied it
blinding light engulfed me
i could not see
though i could hear
the screams of children
the screams
of their parents
end of days had found us
religion could not save us
peddling miracles for profit
had ended
we were next in line
for evolution
the fittest would survive
in a hundred generations
stories of the great purge
would spread across the land
our fates relegated
to comparisons with the Great Flood
of biblical times
one bright, Sunday morning
our world
was changed
our history to be written
further in time
however they see fit.
there is no way out of here
except for the path of the heart
there is no illumination
to show the way
no road maps or lengthy dissertations
from fractured souls
not even a glimpse
as to which is the true
path
we learn so many
truths
along the way
taught so many skills
in the end will it matter
the truths learned
the skills taught
when we wander in
to the promised land
a lifetime’s journey
all in preparation for
salvation?
eternal life?
bliss?
will we find the path
was not of the heart
nor of righteousness
but of emptiness
awakening, as if from a dream
that promised
a brighter day
lift back the veil of illusion
welcome home
come, stay awhile
the fire will keep us warm
i believe it is your turn
to feed it wood.
should i be afraid?
the question repeated over and over
its source emanating from a translucent
lavender cloud
i need to know, am i safe?
the Olmec shaman next to me
motioned to pass the sacred vessel
while the tea was still fresh
many lifetimes have come and gone,
are the Adumu prepared?
shimmering, the once translucent cloud
now shown with a brilliance
that blinded me
a knock on the wall echoed painfully,
the sound raucous in my brain
i knew your shaman in another world
many lifetimes ago.
paint from the ceiling began falling around me
staining the shirt i wore
for just such an occasion
no novices allowed, not this night
we were all experienced travelers
i saw the dead, as they lie in the streets
of Mohenjo-daro
walked amongst them as the flesh peeled
from their bones.
an amulet was placed around my neck
its powerful magic
soothed my pain
we are all brothers, walking through time
it is sinful to forget our past.
continued
rubber people smiled benevolently
as the sacred vessel journeyed between us
it was daylight now
but in our land
there was only the Moment
i would ask for communion
from a priest with no face
my nerves were steadying
the paint no longer peeled
a beautiful sunrise shone forth
illuminating our sacred land
the voice began fading
it too had found peace
the only sound to be heard
was the word never spoken.
old men, old women
their minds frail, lame with age
leading a country
filled with youth
hope, promise
directives given
with no thought for the future
hearts filled
with memories of a distant time
debating
amongst themselves
will it be beef barley for lunch
or perhaps some simple greens.
thirty two blood moons have passed
since the Secret Of The Golden Flower
came into my life
Lü Dongbin, poet scholar immortal
brought Taoist beliefs of living in harmony
with the Tao
to the people of the Tang Dynasty
all those years ago
attempting to heal
a fragmented culture
by giving them
shall we take off our clothes
losing ourselves
living
for the thrill of the hunt
there are nightmares out there
in the dark
in the shadows
it is a perfect place
to hunt
can you smell their fear
it is all around us
in the bars
on the streets
in the cafe on the corner
men, women
politicians, doctors
priests, lawyers
the night shift
clerk
they are all in the game
aware of the moment
they too are on the hunt
holding their breath
until the prey is finished
the deed is done
come, let us dance
naked
and revel
in the kill.
standing on the edge of a knife
we hear the trumpets call home
their sounds echoing through valleys
reaching deep
into the souls of our fathers
searching madly
for a time where confusion
might lead to rest
and for a moment
peace might return to our land
where animals hunt food
giving order
to the nature of things
birds building nests
reproducing their numbers
with a joyous acceptance
of the master plan
nature, in all its wisdom
saw fit to leave this wisdom
from the thoughts of man
the knife’s edge is sharp
many centuries have been devoted
to maintaining
its pristine edge
generations have devoted
their lives to perfecting
the balancing act
we’ve all come to endure
trumpets herald a beginning
to times that cry out
for a blade without edge
their sounds reminding us
of the hatred that rises
when change is brought forth
fires have burned
societies have fallen
we heed the trumpets call
to dull the knife’s edge.
look to the sheltering sky
watch for the faceless man
follow him home
he will nurture you with
stories of another age
there, in his presence,
you may share your secrets
do not be ashamed
he already knows
what your heart has revealed
countless times
when you prayed
to your god
i have sent messages
with leaves that fall in autumn
snow from a winter storm
rain from a bright, spring day
sunbeams in the heat of summer
you have never been alone
spirits of our ancestors
dance around you
they hear your cries of joy
feel your pain with you
share your love
with the faceless man
look to the sheltering sky.
we planted groves of hickory,
ash, birch and maple
in the valley where we buried
our warrior monks
a timeless supply
of bows and spears
with which to kill heathens
in that other life
we planted groves of oak
forests of pine
with which to harvest wood
to build churches, cities
we created a land of peace
where all might offer prayers
to the monks who fought valiantly
to achieve the lords peace
minstrels sang of great battles
many tapestries were woven
depicting our lands awash
with rivers of blood
mounds of bodies
rotting in the sun
created rich fields
from which to yield crops
warrior monks and kings alike
live on, endlessly
upon aged parchment
gathered, to preserve our history
a history blessed
with the deaths of heathens
so the righteous among us
might come to know God.
we went where dreams go
in the harsh light of day
traveling light, bringing only
the necessary items to complete
our journey
taking nourishment from our id
our ego riding rough-shod
on worlds of our making
where colors voiced sounds
with crystalline clarity
delivering symphonies awash
in a brilliant spiral of visions
our eyes held captive
merging thoughts from youth
ideals from death
giving structure
a cadence
of life visited daily
an escape from the vagaries
of conscious thought
a butterfly landing softly
upon the muse within us
presenting us moments
from the cocoon we spun
with silk from our dreams
we went where dreams go
to find solace from the wind
that brushes against us
longing for the moment
that releases us
from time.
does it lie on the path leading
to where dreams die
i read about such a road,
long ago, in a journal i found
the text was weathered from years
of reading, but the glyphs were still intact
there was mention of a crossing
between time, but that is all i can remember
the journal was written in many tongues,
many strange symbols spoke to me
i had the sensation of flight,
the rhythm of movement
distant colors grew until
i could see the universe rise
i have searched quite a while,
looking to find the road to freedom
perhaps it is in a dream,
calling me, taunting
i have seen where dreams die
i will look for it there.
we spent the night making blood tea
following ancient ways written in the wind
i immersed myself in holy water
casting out demons as the sun rose
prophets appeared wearing alabaster eyes
piercing deep into our souls
a muted egret’s cry searching for its mate
played softly through the morning
i taught you to shoot, out in the meadow
where the swans liked to lay
the blood tea gave us wisdom
to kill with our hearts, not with our minds
later that day, as the sun began to set
we feasted upon memories of our gods
there was a promise of a clear night sky
you asked me to hold you, wondering
would the wind would tell us stories
of a time when we were free.
in a time before time
before Marmuk and Yahweh
walked the fertile valleys
that would soon turn to sand
before Anu and Enki molded
the creatures known as human
mixing earth mud
with the blood of Igigi’s
the great vahana of Vishnu
burst forth from his egg
a raging inferno
who could block out the sun
he flew through the heavens
in search of the Naga
the serpent gods of evil
who ruled throughout the land
his mother, Vinata,
were enslaved by the Naga
to set free her bondage
he need bring them amrita
Lord Vishnu offered Garuda
the magic amrita
the nectar of immortality
the bird warrior sought
we did not have correct clothing
for such a grand idea
imagine, a re-creation of the universe
drawn in time
before us
there was a moment
when all felt right
we each took a turn
engineering a line
the more artistic of us
supplied circles
soon, the geometry of life
danced before us
it was sublime
i happened
to look away
for but a moment
would that i spend a lifetime
to see it dance again.
continued
Indra, god of the sky
joined in with Vishnu
but only if the great Garuda
would agree to his plan
Indra gave Garuda amrita
to give to the Naga
at a special place
at a special time
before Garuda offered the Naga
their blessed amrita
he pleaded with them first
to release his poor mother
the Naga agreed
and untied Vinata
but as they did
Indra swept down
he took back the amrita
the nectar of immortality
leaving only a drop
for the Naga to drink
as they licked in vain
to attain immortality
their tongues split in two
and they shed off their skin
Indra and Vishnu took the Nagas’ power
decreeing they would forever crawl the world
and they would forever
shed their skin
they gave Garuda
immortality
allowing his kin to forever be
sworn enemy of snakes
all birds would forever
fly free in the skies
searching below
for the evil, accursed snakes
and Garuda, for his service
was given immortality
becoming the trusted mount of Vishnu
until the end of time.
i dreamt of you
those many years ago
when schools of fish carried me
across the raging sea
a crescent moon beckoning
in a turquoise sky
your image remained
long after i had washed ashore
delicate hands reaching down
to calm my fears
a kind smile lifting
my broken soul
in that moment
all was pure
the knowledge you imparted
resonating through me
on nights when the wind
churns the water
into an iridescent foam
i see the turquoise sky
gleaming through the clouds
your memory holding
a taste of salt
crosses my lips
an errant tear
seeps down
it is enough to sustain me
opening a path
where dreams remain.
pure
and simple
let no mark
stray
from the perfect
path
focus
upon the line
till the path
parts in two
realize
the middle
replenish
the dream
relinquish.
it has been many lifetimes
since the star people ascended
leaving us in charge
of earth mother
keeping alive
the wisdom
they brought us
but too many of us
have strayed
from their teachings
where once all
worked together
here
on earth mother
now
only a few
keep to the old ways
those who do
continue
the traditions
taught us long ago
so many lifetimes away
of sending energy
and life
deep into the soul
of our great
earth mother spirit
we spend our days
patiently studying
the illuminated drawings
our ancestors left us
showing the way
to the heart
of earth mother
we spend our nights
searching the sky
waiting for star people
to hear our hearts
to return to earth mother
we are in need
of their wisdom
continued
so much damage
so much war
our great earth mother
is dying more
each day
the star people
taught us
to live within
the eye of the lotus
we take refuge
in their wisdom
it is there we wait
patiently
for their return.
with your eyes
is void
one must practice
correct form
align your fist
to your heart
align your heart
to your mind
align your mind
to your breath
align your breath
to become strength
open your heart
to the strength
within
move in its circle
dance with its passion
it is then
that you will see.
David A. Boles has worked as a Publisher, Writer and Designer
since 1982. Founder of the alternative literary and visual magazine,
Primal Urge, he went on to develop Cold River Press in the early
1990’s to further promote regional writers and artists. His press and
focus eventually grew to international levels of publishing with the
anthologies VOICES and QUIET ROOMS. He has published,
designed, edited and written numerous books, magazines, articles,
ads and periodicals. His publications, graphic design and artwork
have won him acclaim in a nearly forty year career.
A lifelong student of Magic and Spiritualism, he holds a degree in
Psychology, and a Doctorate of Divinity in Theosophical Studies.
Living in Northern California at his beloved Lake House with his
wife, Mrs. America, and numerous animals, he chronicles his
devotion to the ancestors writing of ancient mysticism through his
Coyote Series, a four book series of epic poems that detail the
spiritual and mystical wisdom of the ages.
VISIONS OF A MERCIFUL LAND (first printing), is published in an edition
of 200 copies.
Text: Body is Minion Pro, 12pt leading 15pt. scaled 115% horizontally. Poem
headings are in Baskerville Old Face Caps, 17pt leading 19pt, stretched 125 per
cent horizontally with a +50 tracking. Page numbers are 10.5pt Adobe Caslon
Pro, printed white on a seventy five percent background tint.
Inside illustrations are titled Sunrise, Ishtar, Lotus Mandala and Begins. All were
created digitally by Bodhi.
Back of book illustration is The Golden Pakara, by the artist Zhang Shengwen of
Da Li, a kingdom in China, in the year 1180.
Cover: Cover Art is by Bodhi. Titled PEYOTE SUNRISE, it was created entirely
digitally using Photoshop and Illustrator. Book title is based on Engravers MT,
modified, beveled and airbrushed. Small titles are in Exotic350 Bd BT, stretched
and air-brushed. Back Cover photograph was taken by Mrs. America. Blurbs are
in Minion Pro 10pt leading 12pt. Cover design and manipulation is by Bodhi.
Bio Photography: by Mrs. America.
Paper: Interior pages are printed on 60# white 3.7 Caliper, 541 PPI. Soft Cover
is printed on 12pt Cover stock 541 PPI and gloss laminated before binding.
Printing: Text was printed on an Oce 6250 digital printer. Cover was printed
using a Xerox Versant 3100.
Binding: Book is soft cover perfect bound.
Other works by dave boles:
Do Aluminum Chickens Eat Metal Feed?
Media Dissertation Of A Balding Man
A Small Answer To A Large Question
ALIVE IN AMERICA: Politics,
Psychedelics & An Illuminated Monkey
CABO DAYS
4th Floor: Paranoia, Depression
& Other States Of Mind
Confessions Of A Black Ink Junkie
15 Days To Slow The Curve -
One Mans Journey Into The
Heartland Of Absurdity