Archive | August 2019

Underbelly Of The Crab

Extreme Emotional Turmoil

We’re to know what we don’t want to know what we do.
This concise definition of hell is complete
And effective an antidote to anything
That defies explanation. This mantra can bring
Clarity to the chaos and make it look neat.
Though its nature is fluid, we can see right through.

Everything is connected. The stars and ideals
That we’ve made archetypal through countless eons,
And events correlated and recorded well,
All configure collective subconscious and tell
How things may come to pass and how one’s life responds
To the Clock of the cosmos. This way, the soul heals.

One may not have belief in this practice at all
Nor the least bit of interest. It works anyway!
Infinite are the probable worlds that exist.
Lines of truth intersect all. Not one world is missed.
Fate and free will are integral forces at play.
Who can know what may happen? It’s anyone’s call.

 Cancer’s are often crab-like and look like the moon.
We’re a nation of phases reflecting outward
To reveal to the world our true face at all times,
And our dark underbelly that speaks of our crimes,
To ourselves and to others. Those whose lives we’ve scarred
Will someday see some justice. I wish that were soon.

With our Mars squaring Neptune, we can play the fool,
When through bold self-deception we sustain our needs.
As Saturn squares our Sun, we pay highly for fun.
Mercury’s opposition to Pluto is one
Aspect of our group thinking that most surely leads
To world class mis-attention and much ridicule.

Moving More Matter

Conundrum of Movement

The reason that the universe is hard to know
In its absolute realness is that it’s not real.
It exists to contain us and is made of thought
To maintain the impression we in spirit bought
As The perfect illusion. Our senses conceal
What the soul knows as spirit so that we may grow.

Everything made of substance that senses behold,
On the tiniest level, is nothing but pure
Mathematical formulae… truly abstract.
So, compounded abstraction is taken for fact.
We embrace the preclusion that it may endure
Until some better breakthrough is due to unfold.

Unfolding is a movement of things, as they are
Synchronized in connection and interwoven.
It expands subtle fabric that spirit has made.
It is by our design that true sight is delayed
Perhaps until returning to where we had been.
With such manner of movement, one can’t go too far.

Having thus been created from nothingness, we
Are made of the same building blocks nature provides.
To add to the confusion, we make it make sense
Through the rational process and some scant pretense.
Each, as part of the whole, is the one who decides
Their own place in reality and how to see.

A Virgin Puzzle

Mutable Earth

Is movement of matter a matter of movement?
It’s the quest of those mutable to rearrange
Things into simple structures that can grow complex
At the whim of the crafter. All things are subjects
In my cognitive kingdom. To who am I strange?
To determine what’s movable is time well spent.

I wish I could move anything. Some things I can’t.
They require special skill or much talent or both.
I can’t learn to move all things. No one can do that.
But a few things I move well. I have them down pat.
Some things move far beyond me. I’ve taken an oath
To stay focused on one thing and make it my chant.

Words are easily moveable as they exist
In the sea of the intellect. Simple creatures,
They obey their commander with dutiful grace.
My intent rains upon them. They fall into place
And perhaps could be of value to schoolteachers.
Would the world be at ease were that notion dismissed?

Am I proud I’m a virgin untouched by the seed
Of the animal circle? I’m well interlinked
With all motion existent throughout the cosmos.
The mind is not a womb for the world to prognose
Lest the self and the word become too indistinct.
Life proceeds as a puzzle wherein I am freed.

A Beautiful Story

Natural Variety

Vegetable buying in marketplaces makes
For an opportune time to meet folks and converse.
The product is important. The talk is sublime.
Sharpening bargaining skills can be done full-time.
In wholesome interaction folks love to immerse.
The communion in commerce can yield few mistakes.

A man once saw a vendor. Impressed by her light,
He became taken by her. Soon, pairs of eyes locked.
They both burst into laughter. The man asked of her,
“Why are you doing this? Aren’t there things you prefer?”
She then told him her story as he remained shocked
Throughout all of its telling while feeling contrite.

She got sick. In the hospital she was for days.
She was not getting better. She thought she would die.
As the days turned to weeks and months, nothing did change.
Friends and kin folk and doctors all felt it was strange.
Then one day, she just up and went blissfully high
With no sign of the illness. Who then does one praise?

She’d long since lost her day job. But fortunately
She’d sold veggies since childhood. It made perfect sense
To do that for a living. She now blesses all
With a life-changing sickness from which to stand tall.
We can self-diagnose and thus spare the expense
Of an outside solution that can’t really be.

Cleaning Inside Out

The Sacredness of Ritual

Living life well means that we must keep ourselves clean
On the outside and inside. Our dwellings also
Must be kept clean and tidy. In filth and debris,
One cannot feel delighted nor can one feel free
From a sense of confinement. The shame won’t let go.
If ignored, the uncleanliness makes the heart mean.

What occurs in my life is determined by me.
With my senses, I determine pleasure or pain.
Therefore, senses need shelter and clean atmosphere
So that healthy decisions are perfectly clear
In the mind free to make them for optimal gain.
Any life is lived better when lived consciously.

To take charge of the seat of my experience
And to go into blissful states is possible
Only if I am disciplined. I generate
The experience that best determines my fate.
Any way that can cleanse me indeed is helpful.
I don’t like feeling dirty. The guilt is intense.

Why Am I Here?

Struggle For Existence

All of life on this earth is sponsored by the sun.
Without it, evolution could never take place.
Women’s bodies and water are linked to earth’s moon.
They would never bear children were they not attuned
To its movement. All is, as a function of grace,
A perfected geometry craftily spun.

Laws of physics are finite yet stable and strong
To ensure a reality we can believe
Is as real as no other, imagined or not.
Can we learn any more from them or are they fraught
With inscrutable essence? To them, I’m naïve
In my quest to gain knowledge. Yet, here I belong.

That which comes into being is from that which was
Of another reality now quite unknown.
It evolves to peak balance and stays there a while.
Something of such enormity none can defile.
A brief speck in the cosmos, I am not alone
Among earthly inhabitants of the first cause.

For The Next Scheduled Horror…

Hoplessness

The country is a Moon Child. Emotions run deep.
And when brought to the surface, our temper can flare.
We’re suspicious and moody… often insecure
Yet, tenacious and loyal with heart that is pure.
We can be sympathetic. We are known to care.
We place value on family. We often weep.

Many fit this description, and we are all prone
To be somewhat too generous. Our will to trust
In a functioning government makes us all fools.
We tend not to make trouble and play by the rules.
We’ve obeyed them forever. The next horror must
Generate some reaction. Too much we condone.

Is it that we are powerless due to disease
Of a cancerous nature? The malignant growth
Is to vastly unknowable. All sources lie.
Is it wise to take cover or give love a try?
We have done each and neither, so if we tried both
Would we take too much comfort in our expertise?

Can we stop the next butcher? They grow like the weeds
And are just as aggressive. They get their support
From we who can do nothing but take to the streets
As perhaps we are meant to. Inaction defeats
No condition of any kind. We are, in short,
At the mercy of ourselves entrapped in our deeds.

The Base

Base Place

When I first learned the word ‘base,’ I though that it meant
As Webster had defined it. I was but a child.
So, I could not have known that most words do evolve
And grow new layers of meaning for some folks to solve.
How does such a benign word become so reviled
By the bulk of the nation? Why such strong dissent?

Just what is this new meaning revived from the old
Black and white ways of going about the business
Of preparing the basement for some future war?
Does this new base support something most would abhor?
Helter-skelter a bomb shelter folds under stress
While upholding a structure who’s foreign controlled.

One may get to the base if one falls through the hole
In the floor of the living room. Yet, once down there
One can see all the clutter and filth and take heed
That we come to our senses and realize the need
To replace most our leaders with those who will care
For the base of the whole nation… heart, mind and soul.

Darkie Season

Clear and Present Emergency

Background checks do save lives. Moscow Bitch must agree.
That’s why he won’t allow them. The breeders will breed.
And we can’t let that happen. Soon this nation will
Be infested with colored folk. White folk must kill
To prevent the invasion. The way to succeed
Is by bribing the senate, and most thoroughly.

Armies need army weapons. They do the most harm
In a series of instants, so let them be sold.
If I were president, I would give them away.
My elite subcommanders would do what I say.
Is it true that a massacre can be controlled
By the use of one’s rhetoric and true alarm?

I must look at my hatred. Our teacher-in-chief,
Knowing not that he’s doing so, offers the hope
That I don’t focus on him. He is but the sore
Of a wound suffered long ago. Never before
Have I re-felt such venom because of this dope.
This remains a hard lesson. Am I due relief?

No such thing will I know of unless there’s a change
In my way of perceiving all that must take place
As a function of being in this human form.
I perceive human hatred a recurrent storm.
Those who cannot believe that we’re all of one race
Are a lesson in my life, although that sounds strange.

Destiny Mastery

Desperation in Episodic Failure

Destiny and calamity… equal are they
In my haphazard living. It seems that I’m stuck
In the crack of a sidewalk or some nasty beast.
From the path made for me, I pray that I’m released.
Those of my kind are those who must depend on luck.
So, the question is… How do I change come what may?

Destiny is a cop-out. It is an excuse
To explain all the nonsense amassed through the years.
Consciously or unconsciously, as I behave,
My own patterns entrap me. I become a slave
To my bad software programming and to my fears.
That’s the truth about destiny I may deduce.

If I can gain mastery of life energies
That control mind and body, the science can be
In accordance with Spirit. What have I taken
Into proper perspective that I awaken
To the truth that my destiny is made by me?
No one else know that better. I’ll proceed with ease.

The Choice Of Depression

Lonliness, depression, hoplessness...

I once met an attorney who thought she was good
All because her first case as a prosecutor
Was a suicide. She fought and won the damned case!
It would seem that some lawyers are fit for disgrace.
So, if you plan on leaving, you may be in store
For post-death litigation amid spirithood.

Things are screwed up with life. Isn’t that bad enough?
If I get depressed I’m amplifying the fact.
It’s my responsibility only to be
In a state of wellbeing most naturally.
If I get pissed at something, the way I react
Does determine my psyche and all of that stuff.

Do I choose my insanity? In ways I do.
The expression, “I’m mad at you!” is not benign.
Both subconscious and willing, it can get results.
Often times though, it ends up evoking insults.
I degrade my wellbeing when I piss and whine.
I indeed am my doctor. How so this is true.

It’s My Pleasure

Welcome to Reality

It’s My Pleasure. It’s not that I want to relate
To the general populous. I speak my truth
From a place where few humans are willing to tread.
I spend much of my time there. To most I am dead.
In the place where my heart lives, am I that uncouth
As to let those outside it determine my fate?

I relate to my darkness. I see it play out
In what is called reality. Myself I see
In the lava of hatred. Its volcanic ash
Has the taste of my writings retrieved from the trash.
But, again, It’s My Pleasure. I’m willing to be
The small voice from the darkness. That’s all I’m about.

It just feels good to do this. I know it makes sense…
Quite a bit more than spending time eating the war.
Unaware of the soundbite, it knows not of me.
To be grateful I’m unknown is not to be free
From a darkness that I have encountered before.
If I write, who will read me? I toil in pretense.

It’s My Pleasure… a saying uttered in response
To someone having said, “Thank you for what you do,”
Is a strong held assumption that I make with ease.
Army weapons could silence me. Who would that please
In this place become third world? That could well be you.
Does it matter that my speech is clothed in nuance?

Cosmic Geometry

Cosmic, Geometric Unity

It is not about twisting the body in ways
That resemble a pretzel. It is not about
Getting thin, fit or healthy. It’s Geometry
Of the body and cosmos. The nice perks will be
Granted to us by nature when there is no doubt
That our attunement with her has enhanced our days.

The cosmos is a big engine… powered by what?
Surely it can’t be diesel. The enormous roar
And the huge carbon footprint would kill us outright.
Does the Engineer chuckle as our minds take flight?
The body made of flesh can be just a bit more
When the door to our cosmos can remain unshut.

Being each a small cosmos, in replicate we
Are much like the antennas of old TV days.
Such contraptions must be moved to just the right spot.
If no right spot is found, then no signal is caught.
We may download perfection in ways that amaze
And delight the small cosmos, quite as it should be.

On Missing The Point

Attention To The Missing Point

Tell me… What do you see on this surface of white?
Give this its due attention and take it to heart.
It must all come from you. Not to any degree
Do I want to persuade you to how that I see.
What does it look to you like? …An ill-conceived start
Of a useless endeavor acted out of spite?

You can’t say that it’s nothing. I put something here.
Though it may not be visible, you were witness
To my having hand-placed it here moments ago.
So, I ask now, What is it? We’d all like to know.
Do I make a vague point here? Or need I digress
To that which cannot be the point, just to be clear?

“It’s a tiny black dot,” certainly some would say,
Or a spot or a full stop or a period.
Your impatience would grow if you were prodded on.
You’d complain, “What’s the point, jerk? Our interest is gone!
Are you paranoid that there are not myriad
Things to call a damned spot, friend? You mess with our day!”

That’s precisely the issue. The Whole Empty Page
Is the thing of importance – not the tiny spot.
With our focus on little things, big things we miss.
All that we know is nestled in enormous bliss.
The story of existence has us as its plot.
We act out our star roles on a minuscule stage.

Facing Death

Death As An Entity

It’s a constant companion. My mortality
And I are a tight couple. A bleak honeymoon
In a TV reality played out on earth
Had begun at the time of my subconscious birth.
And for me… Will it come late or maybe quite soon?
Facing Death, the departing are conscious and free.

I will not have this sharp mind forever, I know.
Time and nature dictate that I will suffer loss
Perhaps in a mere decade, or sooner than that.
I’ve done well having gotten obliqueness down pat
Long before I’d returned this mind back to the Boss,
Even though I still feel I’ve a long way to go.

People generally believe that they won’t die.
“It will happen to others but never to me,”
Seems to be the erroneous tape that we play.
The spiritual process is the only way
To address the reality that I will be
But a brief time in this form. On that I rely.

The Mark Of Great People?

Fountainhead

It has done us some harm to sustain the belief
That we can’t be in heaven while still on this earth.
What it does is effectively let us forget
We can do much for ourselves with minimal sweat
To achieve what is best here and true to our worth.
Heaven is stolen from us, and we are the thief.

Much of heaven in this life means plenty of rest
But not too much. The body can take what it needs.
Exercising and eating well… All can be done
To maintain the life game and to score a homerun.
We succeed not through misery because our deeds
Seen by others seem those of people who are stressed.

Consciousness is a candle. In each the flame burns
Bringing that which is unseen into better sight.
As each candle gets closer, the light grows in size.
It illuminates everything. All become wise
To the Dark Psychic Forces that lean too far white.
Those who stand with integrity ease our concerns.

Dark Matter – Dark Energy

Interplay of Dark and Other Forces

It’s the beleaguered baryon brought forth and bathed
In a soup of some essence known only to God.
Of the whole soup, only a small bit we can see.
What is most of what’s not is called Dark Energy.
How do they know it’s not then? It seems rather odd
That we’d managed the big loss quite largely unscathed.

What becomes a Dark Matter is not to be seen
And is labeled mysterious. It interacts
With no resident substance nor energy source.
It holds big things together by some unknown force.
Standard exotic particles are browns and blacks.

Can a dirty old theory be made to look clean?

Who are the vast majority? Who are the few
Grossly visible and in great need of control?
Can dark forces be sorted out to the degree
That quantum resolution can set us all free?
What we make of this Dark Matter is of the soul.
What we can’t wrap our minds around often is true.