To Be Me

How can I be other than how I am constituted?
Am I not human and in humanity thus rooted?
And writer, speaker, poet, teacher unpolluted?
Will I deny this and be something convoluted?
But I am not a plumber, engineer or drummer;
I am not a manager or trafficker or chancellor;
And I am not a cabdriver or piper or sea diver;
But I am what I am and want to be what I am,
God help me, and to be the better of what I am!
To find my fit in this bit of this world I inhabit!
And I hear a still, soft voice saying, ‘You will. . .’
And with that I cling to a hope rooted in truth,
To be all that I am meant to be for all to see . . .
To be me

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Puch Hole in the Darkness

Why so sad and forlorn, when you were born to be a charm;
Born to be the arm of encouragement for others bothered
By so many alarms and the bells of hell; to speak peace,
And increase joy and confidence, for every boy and girl,
And to hurl away the bite of fright, pestilence of night,
And wraith of day, never to stay, but quick-leave forever
And ne’er return to burn spirits of the innocent so bent
Down by burdens of care, ready to drown in sea of dismay;
Yet here you are to show another way to much brighter day;
Why forlorn, then, as if there’s no reason you were born?
Have not each one of us some serious reason ne’er to fuss?
Have not each one of us some purpose in this circus of life?
Have not each one of us some reason from season to season?
Grow not weary, but show this dreary world very clearly
Your meaning in being who and what you are, like shining star
That you are, and were always meant to be, ere you were sent
From womb of heaven, bright shining, to be one more light…
Candle unhidden; put atop pole to punch a hole in the darkness!

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Note: Originally published in September 2015, this poem is an encouragement to never give in to the darkness that so often surrounds us, as well as an inspiring reminder that we have infinite worth, value and purpose.

Journey of Life: Song Question of Sélená

Can you wed to me body, soul and mind;
And thus forever the two of us to bind?
Ride upon my breath of life-giving scent,
Till you become in my arms like an infant?
Can you clear mirror of your inner heart
To see my heaven in all life in every part?
Love and care with no selfish despondency,
In ever-consistency, rhythmic constancy?
Can you bear to be the child of heaven,
For me your being to enliven and leaven?
Give me your masked, bankrupt knowledge,
In exchange for my wisdom in due homage?
 
 
Giving birth and nourishing life without strife, without possession;
Shaping, molding, guiding and directing without any reclamation;
Serving, though so superior, without expectation of acclamation;
Gently leading in love as Shepherdess, without any domination…

This is my way, the stela of Sélená
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Note: Inspired by Lao Tzu, The Tao Te Ching 10

Memes and Bull S**t “News”

Australian prime minister tells Muslims to leave;
And atheistic geophysicist now comes to believe!
His Holiness Francis claims Jesus born of Satan,
Lays blame for pain on God since Christ was torn
From Mary’s womb till he was finally put in tomb!

Radical rock star turns and burns the president,
While residents of small town overturn all laws
On guns and do not shun arming every teacher,
Principal and preacher, and reach no more crime
In little to no time, and every church bell chimes!

Blood moon rising is not surprising to prophets;
It’s the end, and so-and-so will no longer suspend
Any judgment: Beast has been hurled in the world,
And Antichrist is steady, ready to take his throne;
Already Rome’s been taken and shaken to the core!

By the way, did you know the low state of Kuwait
Strives and thrives on selling poisoned flowers
That make all sniffers cower, and this is how they
Plan to rule the earth under sharia law so cruel;
Of course, they’re tool of the devil, satanic bevel.

Neville Chamberlain really had a Chinese mother,
And Irish brother; meanwhile bully Palestinians
Are harassing poor, weakened Israelis even more,
Which is something we all really should deplore,
Because at core Arabs are wicked and heart-sore.

You haven’t heard the news yet?
Bet you haven’t read the memes!

Oh! And be sure to thank the asses who pass along
What rightly and tightly belongs in the stinking trash!

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Beautiful Boy, Be Not A Man

Oh my beautiful boy, be not a man, you are young;
Your life has barely begun, your song still unsung,
And there’s nothing wrong with those lower rungs;
Don’t be so anxious to climb up to the slimy grime
Of crimes, quicktime rush, and hush of pantomimes
Wearing masks, hiding behind facades with rods
Of business-as-usual, golden wads, and by all odds
Never ready to die but live in the lie of being alive
When their hive is ill-begotten, and ever-so rotten;
But you, child so meek and mild, need not succumb
To any scum or grown-up strum that thrums away
Every night and day… No! Please laugh and play!
Stay child, wild and unbeguiled, free and unreviled;
Stay this way, and ne’er mourn each day of youth,
For in truth if you sleuth to uncover and discover
What misery lay in the bay of adulthood, you would
Ever remain as you are and bar the process of age
With the turning of every page of time till chime
Of fare-thee-well rings and angels sing for you,
Bringing you home with tome of joy and happiness

Oh my beautiful boy, be not a man, you are young;
Your life has barely begun, your song still unsung…

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Lying Whore Caught and Exposed

For nothing is hidden, that will not be revealed; nor anything secret, that will not be known and come to light.
— Yeshua of Nazareth, The Gospel According to St. Luke 8.17, trans. World English Bible (WEB)

In this dark world, few can see. Like birds that free themselves from the net, only a few find their way to heaven. Swans fly on the path of the sun by their wonderful power; the wise rise above the world… He who transgresses the central law of life, who speaks falsely or scoffs at the life to come, is capable of any evil.
— Gautama Buddha, The Dhammapada 13.174-176, trans. Eknath Easwaran

What is most important is what happens within: Look to what is pure; hold to what is simple; let go of self-interest; temper your desires…  Whether government or person, if you are not tranquil and honest, the normal flips to the abnormal, the auspicious reverts to the bizarre, and your bewilderment lasts for a (very) long time (indeed.)
— Lao Tzu, The Tao Te Ching 19 (part.) 58 (part.), trans. Brian Browne Walker (Note: Parenthetical Mine)

You think you’re so clever with hook and bait
To satiate desperate man’s robust carnal lust;
But pretty smiles cannot hide your lying eyes,
Miles of night travel, size of your emptiness,
As you’re bought and sold, and told what to do
To please the paying pappa (or mamma), laying
Open wide, turning from side to side, to abide
More degradation, in inhumane depersonalization
That never ends so long as your willing to spend
Yourself — your body — without any reservation
Or hesitation … and so you cast another line
Into the sea of desperation with such cunning,
And some give way to foolish belief all for relief
Of lonely agony, actually swallowing your story,
Heading for calamity, but what a humorless irony!

You yourself are calamity with no amity in life…
You’re life is rife with deep pain, and never gain
Of serenity and still less any real self-identity
With amenity; you simply exist as a commodity
For exchange in the marketplace of living meat;

Ah! But you have an expiration date, not too late;
What’ll you do when you have no one to screw?

Many times I’ve seen you before, pretty whore,
Who always wants more, so you’ve gotta score,
But how much do you get to keep as you leap
From bed to bed, or wherever, in never-ending
Cycle of the hex of loveless sex with no feeling?
And are you still the star at the high-brow bar,
Pub and ‘gentleman’s club?’ But the nasty scrub
Is waiting for you for the bottom of the barrel
Where nothing is sterile, all fraught with peril
… but it is even now, though you blind yourself
And bind your mind to the kind of fantasies you
Spin and weave for the desperate man to believe;
What will it be like, though, when the fat spider’s
Caught in her own web of deceit, all to be eaten?

You cast out your line again, for sure, to begin
Reeling in another catch, but this time you’ve
Been caught by one who never bought your story,
But also by an exceptionally sympathetic person,
Who hates to see you further worsen your condition
When vibrancy delightfully rises to meet and greet
One ready to embrace true beauty and duty of life,
Chase after grace rather than what is crass and base,
Lace humility, charity and mercy into knot of love
And wisdom…

There really is no condemnation here,
Just pity and tears over the ugliness that dares rear
His dread-wretched head thru facàde of attraction
That excites lust-reaction, and not more; it’s poor —
Poverty stricken, without soul, enough to sicken —
And you could be so much more, but who am I to say?
To stay within my own concerns rather than bemoan
What course another has chosen is best and blessed;
But then … you did cast your hook and bait my way
To wait for me to bite such trite and silly rubbish,
So maybe it’s not out of line, after all, for me to opine
And announce such fine news: You’ve been caught,
Exposed, not bought by another decomposed soul
Swimming in closed bowl of misery and loneliness!
Perhaps it’s time you find another fishing hole???

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Just Another Spade to Play?

So, is unexpected beauty making me the fool again?
Is this the gouging tool; just another spade to play?
Am I falling again, crawling toward another mirage?
Is this another barrage of dreams that’ll fade away?

Model image of beauty;
Coddle my lonely heart;
No audile sensations;
No twaddle in revelation,
Throwing myself open without hesitation.

So, I willingly wade into the swamp of lies again,
And begin to hope this is not a trope to rope me in,
And I know better, but I show myself like a babe
Under cascade of weighed hopes and all I’ve prayed
When it’s no more than just another spade to play.

Friendly friend request;
Show of amorous nest;
Answer my soul’s behest;
Longing to be blessed,
Knowing I’ll end up again the jester dressed.

There’s no expense for her to make such a pretense,
With sharp blade in hand; another spade to be played,
And I lower all defense, throw away my commonsense,
Entering dense fog of intense emotions for a shade;
There’s nothing more than another spade to be played.

So have I strayed before with heavy price to be paid
… when that spade is played.

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Ma’at and the Pyramid of Truth, Part III

Cars sped down Main Street, leaving rubber scars on asphalt wearing under the tearing of the inexplicable race of people who had no ability, or sense, to better pace themselves for the sake of their own health and well-being, apparently not seeing the destruction of such flurry and hurry upon themselves as well as others. Ma’at leaned close as she screened the pointless madness and carefully preened her boy-love appropriately for such reckless scene.

She, too, was dressed for the time and scene, and I was no less impressed. Ma’at was overwhelming in magnificence with no need for extravagance nor any grandiloquence; she could simple be and anyone could clearly see her stunning beauty. “Ah, look!” She pointed to an elderly Greek priest, so obviously humble and meek. “Theophilus, venerable Theophilus! Old now but never cold; his name means ‘lover of God,’ and thus his claim to local fame, but he could just as well be named Faroqh, meaning ‘truth,’ for above all he loves Dyēus of truth and love, yet in all truth Theophilus loves love above all, for truth and love call to one another, and bind themselves together in unbreakable bond in Dyēus. And so this is Theophilus, truly heaven-sent, now bent with age, this wizened sage.”

Walking deliberately with careful gait, Father Theophilus did not long wait at the thick-wooden, double doors to step inside onto sheen marble floor of the gold-domed building with sharp cross atop that seemed to prop the very sky. “Yes, my pup, you would do well to drink of his cup, for he learned long ago to walk the Noble Path in sacred silence, with talk of only what is sound and pure, profound and sure. But in learning the burning pain of this world, he was enlightened to the truth that these clouds of pain are what give rain of joy.”

She wove her arm in my arm, and talked while we walked. “And in dispossessing himself of all, he found himself in possession of all, and so in dying to the lying of worldly pleasure, he was reborn to adorn the world with heavenly treasure. And so in him death took its last breath, which freed him from the endless cycle of futility to live forever in happy humility, and more, to live to give grace in every case and place to every face. In this, he travelled further along the Noble Road toward celestial abode, though Buddha of long ago, flowed freely, and showed in his day the higher way, and glowed with radiance without variance of truth.” We continued walking down the side walk, bustling with people hustling here and there and everywhere but seemingly nowhere, past a pair of drunks sharing a park bench with stench of alcohol.  “There is trouble everywhere; you don’t live in a bubble… What would Lao Tzu do here and now, and how?” Question. Hesitation.

“Did not Maftet show you the tower built for power, sitting in the blow of snow and ice, place of all evil and vice?” I nodded. “Look around you; here is a profusion of towers of confusion, and what would Jesú say today? The might of light penetrates the darkness, which cannot harness its brightness. And for all the people scurrying and hurrying in and out, about their business worries, those buildings loom large in the city like empty tombs. But watch! There is an intricate nautch of goodness, flowing throughout the frenzied madness, celestial dance envied by angels. The old woman selling her flowers is herself a tower of joy, and the boy with the papers, too. The middle-aged man opening his bistro is a veritable maestro of  generosity and honesty, as well as the street sweep, who keeps in his heart more gold than the old banks along these streets so replete with greed. And look at the little girl meeting the need of the homeless man; she’s not rich like the bitch passing by with irritated sigh. That small angel is giving in silence her whole allowance today, what she was going to use to pay for a tea-party tray. She comes from a healthy family, though by no means wealthy. She simply loves and gives because that’s how she’s been taught to live, brought up in the way of virtue from day to day.”

Ma’at turned me to the right, holding me tight. “And look there at the precious boy with golden hair. They call him cripple, but I tell you he stands tall and walks through life with longer strides, stronger than most anyone with legs that hurry and scurry. He has no money at all to give, like the angel-girl, but he can hurl more treasure from the depth of his soul with pleasure, blessing all life around, even the least of beast, with yeast of kindness and hope, mildness and wide scope of happiness that drives away all loneliness.” Her eyes were sparkling and dancing as she turned me to face her again. “You see! Don’t be so sad! Yes, there is bad in the world and you see it abound all around you, but if you’re not careful you’ll miss the bliss of heaven that leavens even this district that evil would otherwise constrict. Look around you, and you’ll see goodness in bloom and plenty of room for more; only open the door of your heart, my love, and let it flow like a river of silver and gold of untold worth … all you were given from birth.”

One long, strong kiss and … home again.

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Note: First image from http://www.pixshark.com; second image from awakeningthegoddesswithin.net

Ma’at and the Pyramid of Truth, Part II

“Tell me, little man, is there reason for any season of joy for the poverty-stricken? Especially in the face of those who sicken with their greed and insatiable need for more and more material wealth, and rule the nations with imperial stealth, hiding behind corporation names, playing their economic games? At least in ancient days their ways were more open and honest; Pharaohs and Caesars had their barrows pushed through narrow streets of town and village for silver and gold to support the crown. They offered no apology for their gross ethnology; in their warped cosmology, they declared themselves incarnate gods … not frauds nor even flawed.” Ma’at held me by her side, tied by her arm, gazing out at distant pyramid amid dust and sand.

“Yes, there are far different kinds of darkness, surprising as that may seem, comprising an oxymoronic reality, but really rather banal, not surprising,” she looked at me and slightly smiled, lightly ran fingers down my back. “There is honest darkness, born of pride and ignorance, kept in stride by fools who rule with iron hand, and demand complete submission from their whole population … yet their reign is very plain, nothing to feign … or so it was so long ago, where you really rather belong.” Shocked look; balk at her talk; nonsense. Ma’at laughed. “Maftet already told you, you cannot hold your thoughts inside; they slide out of your mind as easily as your mouth; you cannot bind them from me, you see… But, yes, my dear, your heart and soul are near the days of ancient ways far more than this … this world of covert worlds where empowered cowards so overtly rule, but from behind masks to perform their tasks of cruelty with incredulity.”

She turned and pressed me close to her breasts, and with sweet incense-breath, eyes to eyes where there’d be no lies, asked, “What would you rather: Genghis Khan of fearsome scourge, undaunted courage and physical brawn, who at least showed mercy to those who cowered and bowed in his presence and agreed to pay him obeisance? Or the suit-and-tie executive, who’ll not sully his hands when he can bully-by-hire, and lynch by his henchmen; who abides in tall towers and hides in lush office with plush furnishings?” Hands at the side of my head now fed with more truth; fingers gently brushing back my hair with fair look — sympathetic, empathetic. “As I told you before, though, all is not bad; all is not sad. Your heart is so tender for your gender, but that’s your splendor. So you need uplifting by shifting of our focus, am I right? Of course,” she laughed. “Yes, in the sight of truth, I’m right; that’ my greatest might … so I’ll comfort you like lover to succor your soul.”

Ma’at sat down, gave playful pat, and pulled me into her lap, resting my head upon the boulder of her shoulder. Sky hole with swirling clouds again appeared, twirling through the world till we neared some poor scene of huts and hovels, mutts and smuts; scarcity of food and crude-dressed people. Among this rabble and all the babble two foreigners stood… “You know of these two; their names and faces have won acclaim round the globe as they travel in charity, and live to give.” My head nodded in recognition and appreciation. “They provide food and clothing without loathing; proposing better plans for farming without harming the earth; building homes and schools, supplying tools; constructing streams and pools of clean water for mothers, fathers, sons and daughters. They help and adorn without scorn, for they have borne the responsibility of their blessed ability to do so much more than merely score another profit on the harlot market.” I smiled somewhat wild with joy. It couldn’t be helped or held back; it was like an attack of happiness overcoming my sadness.

“You see, my dove, there is still love in the world; yet, too, you must know the world has changed, been rearranged by strange dæmonic mange. There was in ancient times when right was right, and wrong was wrong, and ne’er a song was otherwise sung. Now so much has been turned inside out and upside down, where wrong is right, and right is wrong, and the song sung is discordant and mordant.” Instinctively, very distinctively, my arms tightened round Ma’at and would not lighten the grip. “Ah, my child-lover, hover here and don’t despair; send evil Moros back into the air! There is hope in the world — have you not been shown? have you not known? — and selfless Elpis visits especially the destitute and poor to shore up their spirits within the limits of their lives, minute by minute … and most of them are really not torn and so forlorn as you might think! At what seems to you the brink of despondency they drink from a cup of peace of which the rich know nothing!”

“Then all is not lost in the wicked frost that covers our world?”

“No, my dear, and that I will show you…”

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Note: First image from goddessofthemonth.mystaiofthemoon.com; second image of Ma’at from www.ravenmoondesigns.deviantart.com

Breaking Down the Walls, Part II

You. Who are you? And when they say ‘you,’
Is it You they’re really speaking to?
Or the silly, vacant ‘you’ that’s not true
To You as the ‘I’ you are, so far removed
From the vacuous him or her leaking words
In empty speaking, so impersonal, because
You are different, aberrant, indurate …
But ‘they’ made the ‘I’ you are the scar
That scares them into distant uncaring,
Wearing fake smile while malice bearing,
Tearing you asunder, while they blunder
Through theology, etiology, skewed biology
In endless tautology of doctrinal calumny
From their twisted psychology, and so they
Never really know you as the genuine ‘You’
True to who God made from sod and Spirit,
Not flawed, but an art that awed all angels,
While creation sang and heavenly music rang
At you, the new ‘I’ that Eye saw and smiled,
New child, unique and sweet and mild; but
Who beguiled you into hiding the ‘I’ you
You are ~ bright star, radiating so far ~
When you live in charity, pine for clarity
And truth, spirit youth; in loving dedication
In union and communion with Lord and companion;
To spread your board with feast for the least
Of sisters and brothers, fathers and mothers?
More walls to tear down, or drown under frown
Of condemnation, though you live like Jesus
Who frees us; no more stalling at the walling!
Time for the ‘I’ you are to be You ever true
For them to clear-see and know, but ne’er again
To be just another sick brick separating you
From the world around, bounded in sheer fear;
Time for liberty from captivity; for every ‘I’
To be a ‘you’ to you, for you to be You, too!

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