spiritual language poetry & writings

notes toward a cosmic folklore- XII

 

 

An inheritance not of but by absence can be held in trust

indefinitely but not forever. Time now to bring it all home

(steady heart required) for whether heart be empty or heart

be full those pieces of us still needing recollecting (from

between these lines) are the real heroes of our tale (eros

and chaos, thou art that) as you stir this poetic medicine

into certain myths to live by (while seeing the sparrows in

the trees and hearing the whispers in the breeze…?). …In

our dream Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. is talking to his

wife about hope, while a very similar man—writ large in

the book of ‘mystory’—is building the heights by incremental

steps, not minding success but going for greatness, knowing

it is ‘great’ to be alive!

 

 

Having rushed to the front, put on a bluster and been seen

straight through; having competed for glory and made for

the high footing in the eyes of heaven; having in the mind

turned circumstances into options that one alone has chosen;

it’s time once again (yes, returning in cycles) to mingle in the

chaos and the flourish, for what will come next, forming the

basis of a civilization(?), comes from influencing, relating,

mixing, and remixing, when the goal—having no unity, far

from reconciling; while being worlds apart yet still, as a line

drawn, a line walked, a line crossed, learning one’s way

toward it, toward morning, as a way of being (there for others)

—is to give back… taking, thief, off old shirts and putting

new skins on your back, being no hero within this wasteland

but just circling and circling great with child, doing Mother

Love’s groundwork (with stardust one’s compass) for the sake

of the dream of the earth, with our eyes watching God— of

nature born and of nature returning…It was no mistake, you

realize, that God (to you) said, To be given and to be made

is the Word. But pointless to talk inside the box… How can

one say anything by just looking at what one sees? Speak

slowly about love engendering form, love-engendering form.

Right, homey? Ho-me…Home?

 

 

When pace is speeded up, the pathways in and out of a text

coalesce, but the individual words more or less are lost.

When pace is slowed down, interestingly, it opens up myriad

other ways the words of a text can inter-relate. What we know

begins and ends, and in between is our story. Or is it our

mystory?…(Want to know how it’s done? Embrace any yes

like the sun. Begin celebrating the power of blackness in the

heart of whiteness, like a sun within a sun (or the color purple…)

Then out of the fires of Mother Love will come all those partial

views fathered whole at last, like the foolish heart knowing full

well what its name is, while being eclipsed, for the moment,

by the wise heart that has no name.)

 

 

 

What? You are surprised by the eros of everyday life turning

up at your side? That time (of guilt) is gone now…this rhythm

science—learn it and use it, for life, for the voices to come.

Let your meetings with this culture inspire awareness of the

lessons the body (on awakening) can teach what the soul in

her sleep knows, as far as your I can see…The sweet chirping

out on the ledge are sparrows spelling out in close-held notes

the messages you will need to hear up ahead, where we already

can hear you, Mr. Teacher, in a language that only pupils

learning to choose (chastened, not chased away) know how

to speak through the fires of Eros that still and all ways are

burning bright in the light of this world, the language that

says: Whatever you need to learn, we can teach you.

 

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