Doors of Perception

“There are things known and there are things unknown, and in between are the doors of perception.” ― Aldous Huxley

This morning in the portal by the lake
my heart exults. New visitors appear:
a cinnamon singer–I came ill-prepped,
dashing back to the human realm for books
and binoculars. Oh, brown thrasher, sing
our true connection. From this moment on
inform my now with highest intent: love
bypasses the television-controlled
lethargic worried minds fatigued by non
sequiturs, an incessant house sparrow’s chipping.  I sit with birds, we electric
beings on the brink of discovery,
awakening again and again to
new creation always buzzing, humming
sacred unknowable unmoving light.

 

Featured image of a brown thrasher found here.

Come Awake Love

if we look
with kindness on all creations–
to the one in the mirror, say,
hey, I love you with every molecule
of space, in every twist of time,
with passionate ignited soul

I love you like the breath that
refuses sleep. Come awake, come awake
love. And in this predawn opening gambit:
sacrifice sleep now. Insight-

seeds land where I’ve been weeding
every morning, diligent
respect. Whispering as I expose
each deep root, thank you, for
saving a different me. Bask in the light
that always comes after darkness has scoured
forbidden places with its pitiless claws.

 

To Be Clear

To be clear, I am far from stating that the material world does not exist.  Rather, I propose that what we think of as the real world is a holographic consciousness construct that–in all ways at all times–is subject to modification by our consciousness (or unconsciousness) of it.~Potentiate Your DNA, p. 70, Sol Luckman.

To be clear, I corroborate
starry-studded hope. The great
scheme permits a shift
deteriorates these rubber
stamps that once defined
a quirky campaign purely
designed to control us,
shut our inspiration down
before it’s found.
Wait.
That’s opaque.
Words lead
astray. Our hearts
know truth when we can
sit aground, intuit,
follow every trigger
to its source as a matter
of course. Everything changes.
The bigger gift appears
inside the rift
of our exchanges.
Mumbo-jumbo yet again.
Bafflegab gobbledygook.
In essence, I applaud your juju
all the power flowing through you
transmutes the lies
and obfuscations
into clear sight, wordless
roots of transformation.

Inspired by:  Permit, Rubber, HopeShut, CorroborateCampaign, Scheme, Quirk. and Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt to start my post with the first three words of the first full sentence of the book closest to me when I sit down to write.  (That sentence is the quote at the beginning.)  I was overambitious today, trying to use all of the past two days prompt words in this stream of consciousness post.  Braving my inner critic to hit publish even though it does appear to be mumbo jumbo.  Creativity needs to be released.  So be it.

 

Past The Program

Four ducks swim past the point,
hens intent exploring

newly exposed land. Teals guard
both entrances to the bay, dismiss

me in this perfect calm, the tranquil
sky filled to capacity–what will be

the tipping point to start the storm?
My friends and I discuss hunger and

how we misread our bodies’ cues after
so many decades of television programming

addiction to sugar. Wistful for a child-
hood we never experienced. What if

our mothers hadn’t been sold a magical
formula superior to her milk? We long

for sweetness in the corrupt society
fed by distorted lies. We doubt our

super powers; everyone else seems so
much more qualified, selling their

patented knowledge. In his perfect camo
feathered along the fall grasses, one

mallard watches, capturing my attention
while the others dive hidden from view.

Just so I sit, my old
woman façade obscuring our descent

into the true depths of being
where we find each other, sweet-

hearts bursting essence strong
beyond the flimsy stories of separation.

Inspired by: Hunger, Capacity, Wistful and Corrupt.

What is fitting

Thought is subversive and revolutionary, destructive and terrible, thought is merciless to privilege, established institutions, and comfortable habit. Thought looks into the pit of hell and is not afraid. Thought is great and swift and free, the light of the world, and the chief glory of [wo]man.~Bertrand Russell

The extroverts here only see the remnant
of the woman I once sewed to survive.

On my odyssey to awaken from the
societal spell, I borrow sanctuary.

And how it infuriates them as I mine
for salvation in the depths

of the mountains of disinformation
where they dwell in fear.

They worship the super villains
flocked by teams of press agents

and lawyers. This slowly waking
poet poking holes in the story

has no place or time. They cut
out articles on how to get a job

–trade away thought and
energy to make things the populace

will buy in the morning and
discard come nightfall. Holding

the model as a beacon, a siren song
luring me to the harness

with the promise of oats and hay,
someone benevolent to ride me.

I turn to the magnetic intelligence
always available

what is present now
an embodied being

dreaming my self
awake, aware right here

Inspired by: Remnant, Odyssey, Borrow and Infuriate.

The Look Time Can’t Erase

Each with charm to sway are staring eye to eye.  They dare not look away.~Joni Mitchell, Edith and the Kingpin.

Deep in inner space, I finally
cease to castigate and just
say I don’t know. I’m tired
of the kingpin swagger, the lord
high muckety-muck’s dilatory
stroll through the rapt
mapped territory.

The face of my disconnect
appears, blurred edges,
confused.

A strain of nightly music,
dreamcast and obscure,
I’m sure reveals some
powerful insight. If only

I let go of these cold hard
perceptions I call reality.

A glimmer of gold
invites me to descend.

The truth is

I am numb and that’s
okay. I sit with what is,

curiously falling

into the field
with my clear intention

to be here
just as I am.

Inspired by: Nightly, Kingpin, Strain and Dilatory.

My Old Friend

I end each day in silence
clearing the path of ripples

from every stone that smashed
my surface, on my way down

sitting in a sacred space.
Finding the way through the

drama and unexperienced emotions
to this place, deep and wide

and dark, pulsing, magnetic.
And there I dwell into

clarity before I sleep.
At daybreak, silent once again,

as if my dreams had opened
long thoughts, to be respectfully

regarded, fading fast but
sometimes lingering or pulling

me into a poem’s magic.
And though I warn the people

that I live with, they can’t help
but think me rude,

eyes glazed at a hint of
chatter, running out into

the morning, into upon
a secluded chair, settling

quietly to the morning serenade
children squealing, birds

on every branch, traffic humming
into the background. And when I

open my eyes, I am regarded
by a lizard, stone pose

until we scamper into the day.

Written for the Stream of Consciousness-Saturday prompt of silent/silence  (must be stream of consciousness writing, meaning no editing (typos can be fixed), and minimal planning on what you’re going to write.)  The no-planning part is easy, but I love this particular prompt because it highlights for me just how many picky little edits I do to even my spontaneous morning poems.  Not for this prompt, though, scout’s honor.

Spin A Good Yarn

There really is an old white

guy in the sky

watching, judging your upload

of data in your devout

twittering, posturing,

measuring the difference 10 years

carves on your features.  He asks

you to acquiesce to the pursuit

of a two-dimensional ideal

photoshopped version of you.

Always searching, just missing

the mark, where all hopes

are pinned.  Far away from

unbearable trauma

dogging you like a loyal pet.

I can do better.

I can learn new tricks.

Your ancestors have woven

a neat trap where you hang

helplessly in your want.

All the hidden power forgotten

like female names, the women in whose

wombs life surges.

As a last resort, you sit,

too weary to fight.

You notice these skeins

of connection glinting,

pointing a different direction,

the way of aches and wrinkles,

dissatisfaction all here

deeper into the pain —

No need, take these pills.

His voice droning like a sermon

you’ve been avoiding,

running towards some version

of how things would be if

you could only change.

And the women in your heart

lead you in this darkness

to the divine core.

You release the dream

to include

and allow yourself

to be here.

Inspired by a treasured 1912 photo of five generations of my ancestral lineage (and the awesome yarn art filter!) and Devout, Acquiesce, Resort and Note.