Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts

25.5.19

8- Poetic Justice

8- Poetic Justice
Writing has always been a creative outlet for me.  I love the way words can be shaped into short poignant arrows that get straight to the point while carrying an emotional impact.  This naturally attracted me to poetry and song lyrics. Having grown up in a musical family with relatives of some note in the industry, learning to play the guitar and write songs was as natural to me as gardening is to a farm family. Poems and lyrics seemingly flowed through me as if I was merely an extension of the pen in my hand.  Of course, I only wrote when I was moved to do so and this tended to be during times of inner reflection or personal distress.  Writing was a comfort as much as a joy.  Only in retrospect did I come to understand it as a powerful portal for tapping into the higher/expanded awareness that I am!

In my mid-thirties the profound metaphysical experience I wrote about in the story Creative Intervention introduced me to the nature of creative energy itself as a portal for illumination and healing.   Because of this experience I came to understand my previous writings in a new light.  Sprinkled like fairy dust across my life, the transformational energy of the things I had written years before in the form of blank verse, had soothed and comforted me through broken hearts, dashed hopes and shattered dreams.  Inspired words had led me away from devastation and awakened me to insight and revelation.  I can’t emphasize how bewildering it was to look at a finished writing and wonder where the words had come from.  For years these poems simply appeared on pages as if I was taking dictation.  Retrospectively I realized this was no small thing and I began to intentionally use creative energy to understand the deeper meanings of life.  

Eventually I directed all of my creative pursuits to spiritual awakening and personal understanding.  Those around me, seeing my artwork,  always urged me to take it into the world, make a career of art and promote myself.  For a long time I was conflicted about this.  I knew I was an artist because I simply couldn’t avoid the impulses to hone my skills and create.  But I had no real desire to make a career in the arts.  The larger complexities of who we are and what we are doing here never leave me.  I am quite amazed that this doesn’t gnaw at the very fabric of most individuals, but acutely aware that it doesn’t.  How seemingly gifted and bright individuals can get so involved in a world that they don’t even know the origins of beyond myth and story truly amazes me.  Science has a ridiculous protocol that focuses on solving the riddles from within the riddles themselves, and religion is so blinded by it’s agenda based origins that it can’t even see the deities it worships are as conflicted as the worshipers themselves.  What came through my conscious engagement with creative energy were validations and illuminations that moved me closer and closer to the answers I personally sought. Interestingly they also flowed with wisdom to ensure I didn’t put my findings on others.  The poem, Out Of The Woods is a good example of that.

OUT OF THE WOODS
We are not
wandering together
lost in a dark, dense wood.

We are,
each of us,
the dark, dense wood
in which we are lost.

The sooner we stop listening to
those calling from the edge
of their perceived freedom,
the sooner we will discover
our own.

It is an inner path....solitary
but with common perspectives
that fool many into believing
it is a shared journey.

Unfortunately, knowing this doesn't mean
I am out of the woods yet....
but remembering it keeps me from
calling to you from the edges.


I share this little piece to emphasize two things I have come to realize.  First, using symbolism to illustrate my perspective, I hold that there is only one self awakening from a dream or notion of separation, but there are as many journeys as there are individual points of view. In other words, all of the individuals in my human experience, including myself, are in reality, fragments of the one self we all share, each holding different perspectives.  We are not suppose to all think alike because we each bring a different perspective.  Sharing and embracing the differences in our perspectives facilitate an opportunity to heal the one self of all it’s misperceptions.  But this is the really cool part, and the second thing I want to emphasize, when I awaken my personal misperceptions through compassionate non-judgement, I awaken from the dream of separation altogether, regardless if anyone else does or not!  Because the dream of separation doesn’t really exist!  I have come to realize that my enlightenment is not contingent upon anyone else awakening.  This is why, as the poem says, there is no benefit in calling to others from the edge of my awakening.  It is of no benefit to me in spending my time focused on the dreamers or the dream!  If I were writing this book, creating inspirational artwork, or teaching classes believing that you needed me to awaken you, I’d be spinning my wheels.  Anything I do inside the dream of separation because I believe it is my calling to heal the dreamers, is the dreams trick to keep me spinning in the belief of separation.  If instead I write and teach as part of my own awakening process, my focus is on awakening, period.  When I awake, the dream disappears and separation no longer exists. 

I do not creatively express myself for recognition or following.  This is why a career in the arts never called to me.  I create because creative energy is a powerful tool for aligning the physical and non-physical aspects of my being for the purpose of personal growth and enlightenment.  I follow the inspiration to write and teach about my experience because writing and teaching are portals for my own awakening.  As I share my inward journey I am as curious to know about yours.  But not to compare and argue which is right or wrong!  Rather to revel in the midst of a fellow traveler healing yet another aspect of the one self we each represent.  In this we get to enjoy the dream together as we joyfully shake ourselves awake from it.  

I have found that aiming my creative energy toward the deeper questions of life and my personal conundrums always leads to resolution. This is the type of creative community I’d love to see emerge, instead of one focused on awards, recognition or getting lost in the distraction of making ‘stuff’.  But that will only emerge the more we tire of the dreams we spin and long for deeper understanding.  I played in those arenas of awards and recognition enough to experience this crossroads and it ushered in a huge turning point in my life.

As an artist encouraged to participate in the art world, I saw how it functioned.  How it keeps the dreamer focused on the dream.  Recognition, awards, accolades and accomplishments are powerful voices calling out to a limited self-perception.  This is true of all systems in the dream world, not just the art world.  At one point there were two voices in me vying for attention.  One wanting to be validated within the dream of this world, and one that longed to awaken me from the dream of this world.  I knew if I chose the art world I would be feeding the voice that lived within the dream; the ego.  I saw how insidiously the art world fed this voice, moving the individual between various degrees of success or failure.  Wrapping individuals up in reaching for more, better, best.  I saw the class system at work as well.  The leaders and the followers.  It was a grand game and one I could see myself doing well in if I focused my energy there.  If I fed the voice seeking recognition and accomplishment it would indeed flourish. I had already experienced a taste of it and it was certainly captivating.  But I didn’t want to be held captive.  I also knew that if I did focus my attention there, eventually I would not be able to hear the voice attempting to awaken me from the ego’s dream; freeing me from captivity.  I had to choose which of the two voices I wanted to follow.  

The choice wasn’t difficult but it was isolating.  The art world was a huge, exciting community for those driven to create.  The spiritual community focused on awakening from the dream of separation is not only minuscule in comparison, but it is also not necessarily aligned with an artistic community.  So, for a while, I did my own thing while occasionally playing with others in the art world.  Then I dropped the art world and purely focused my creativity on my own awakening.  

I believe the art world, like all systems in the dream serve those within it.  Those playing there will only stay as long at it does.  It is like church or anything else for those truly on a spiritual journey.  We only stay as long as we are being fed.  Asking myself what aspect I was nourishing made all the difference in my choice.  Respecting creative energy enough to hone incredible skills, then focusing that energy as a tool for accessing a portal for illumination and healing is the path I have most enjoyed.  It is the one I share because I learn and awaken as I do.  Writing, painting, sculpting and stitching are the lenses I use to peer deep into the mystery.  What I find there are always aspects of illumination waiting to be born.  I have been told repeatedly that when it comes to spiritual matters there are some things we just can’t know.  I have come to realize that is because there is not a ‘we’, there is only an ‘I’.  It has been my experience that when I focus my creative energy toward a spiritual truth I want to know, the answer is always revealed!  I have also come to understand that this is the truth ‘we’ must each discover for ourselves.  

1.4.19

Wanting It All

I want to be held...
not captured.
Set free...
not abandoned.

Oh to fly...
with my feet on the ground!

Fears

It is his caution
that has captured me.
The way he moves
slowly closer.

He has tied me
to pages like these.

Trembling...
Afraid...

That he may leave me here...
That he may not.

23.2.13

Well Enough Alone



What if everything really is perfect?
What if my little ideas
about what should or should not be
are the only problem?

For all our rants about right and wrong
the closest I've ever experienced anyone move
toward genuine love for a stranger
was in the face of complete disaster.

911 shook New York to it's core,
and rippled across the world...
dropping me to my knees in the process,
filling me full of all I ever feared I was...
Then wrapping me in all I ever hoped I was.

The hatred and the love

In those moments, and for days afterward
we were one people....our hearts broken open,
united in a kind of humanity
born of tragedy.
Seeing the truth of ourselves as we couldn't otherwise have seen.


What if evil is the hide and seek game we play with ourselves
in this illusion we call reality?

A Well Seasoned Life



Spring slipped into my dream last night
young, innocent and alive
it played with the strings of my heart
then gently drifted into summer's longing,
sticky hot, and filled with passion.

I held it in that place between sleep and dawn
for quite some time,
only to awaken in a bed of autumn,
Winters chill just beyond the window.

Out Of The Woods



We are not,
wandering together,
lost in a dark, dense wood.

We are,
each of us,
the dark, dense wood
in which we are lost.

The sooner we stop listening to
those calling from the edge
of their perceived freedom,
the sooner we will discover
our own.

It is an inner path....solitary
but with common perspectives
that fool many into believing
it is a shared journey.

Unfortunately, knowing this doesn't mean
I am out of the woods yet....
but remembering it keeps me from
calling to you from the edges.

Black Sheeps Wool



Regret is a garment
tailored to perfection
with shame based threads
and martyred seams.

Better a coat of Black Sheep's wool
shorn from choices foolishly brave
in the face of tsk-tsk tongues and wagging heads
than an imposters parade.

At the end of life you will find yourself
waiting with open arms. 

The Lost Girl Poems



On the top shelf,
in the back of my closet,
there is an old box.
Inside, hand scrawled notebooks
and typewritten verses bear witness...
to innocence lost and love gone blind.

These are the lost girl poems;
my youth spilled across pages
yellowed from age.
And while they're not very good
it doesn't matter, because I truly was.....
Good and faithful...
filled with a kind of hope
that naive girls spend on reckless men
....until we see our riches tossed aside like loose change.

And even then....some of us stay a while longer.
Addicted to the combination of alcohol and testosterone, I imagine.
Beautiful bad boys, lost inside what appears to be full grown men.
Or maybe it's the inherent ability to see a pain so deep
we will forgive them anything.
I don't know.
I learned lots of theories about why women stay
.....after I'd gone.

In the end it was my poems that saved me.
And maybe that's why I keep them....
memory lane memorials to my survival.
It's hard to lie to yourself in black and white.
The good and the bad line up perfectly,
one eventually outweighing the other.

So my children, if you dig that box out after I am gone
don't believe a single word....
believe all of them.
See them through the eyes of youth
and the heart of hope.
Compare them to your own experiences
and maybe you'll find me there.....I did.
Before that I was as lost as anyone you'll ever know.

And maybe that's why these scraps of paper and tear stained lines
have been included with every move I've made
in the nearly thirty years since they were written.
They are a testament to how absolutely lost one can be
before the finding finally fells them.

They are like old diaries, for me.
Road maps to here,
and a passage back to the beginning.
I am neither proud of them or ashamed.
They are an honest account...
travel journals from an inner journey.

At the end of my life feel free to gather them up with these...
the tidy books of my later years,
and set them all ablaze....
my cremation complete.

Or keep them and share them with your babies someday.
Tell them this is what they come from....
hearty, reckless stock that gave love everything they had....
and  then gave Truth more.
People more invested in how they felt on the inside
than how they looked on the outside.

Anyway, they are there,
in an old box on the top shelf
in the back of my closet.
When I am gone I really don't mind you throwing them out.
For me to do it would be nothing less than sacrilege.