Contemplation #12-Self Importance Towers Devour and Bury…This


SELF IMPORTANCE TOWERS DEVOUR AND BURY…THIS

(a short piano, strings and timpani piece based on Kundalini Yoga breathing for release of negative energy, or release of anger, the sound is HAR HAR HAR (thank you, Mandeep Khalsa) which is similar to HUT or HUD, and yes to Chuck Jones and Disney cartoons on the funny side of life, and to bring love we must expel anger)

Hope you dig it. Forgive the visuals as I am awful with photos and videos where my passion from birth is for poetry, food, music and philosophy. In those I am in peace.

The series on Contemplation and Meditation is long and I have never really counted or categorized the music together which is not laziness as much as it is that I seem to write on these elements more than others if not nature and love.  I added a track and changed dynamics and various elements of sound yesterday, 4.12.19, so this is not the final version.

 

 

Breathe To This Now, Just to Breathe to Be


Breathe. To breathe.
. As the hours and night passed filled in thought and dressed with lucid dreams, I woke up and the first word, first thought was “Breathe”. I opened the page and was about to comment on ‘be here now and be love now’ which I do believe is my being now, but then I remembered my Zen teacher from long ago who kept telling me to breathe, to take all the shit In my mind, exhale-inhale and move into the now. This applies as well to my Kundalini thing where the first movements and sounds are of breath doing it’s lung thing and refreshing all that is “I” until the cosmic connection takes place and words disappear into the thing here, this thing now, this that is Breath that is to Breathe and be here now not be here now then breath but to breath move this life in and out of me. So yes, ‘breathe’, I wish I had written that one word just as my Zen Master taught and said he does not care if Gautama taps me on the shoulder that in the moment of exhale nothing must take away from what it is to be which is “Breathe” then be love now. Sometimes I wish to remember be here now which is to Breathe, simply breathe….

 

 

I wish I had the money to be ad free on my site because the ads ruin my words

 

Rilke Poems in French, here it is Poem #53


Je ne peux pas m’engager ‘a accepter ses idées frivoles. Jamais, jamais, je ne l’obéissance pas un meneur, cela ne mène a rien.
Rereading Rilke’s poems in French. It was a masterful exercise in testing his knowledge of the poem and if he could communicate th senses of things felt in French as well as in his native German. The same stands for us, the readers. We must allow that Rilke was just wanting right simply of things felt. But the desire to analyze is always there so it does take an effort not to fall for the pretentious inclination to work a hermeneutic on them, but he tell us not to waste our time, just let the poem be.
This is about the poem itself. Forget any worldly relations because that will muddy the clarity Rilke was looking to place into his writings, not about Alma Mahler or the pre Raphaelites, this is the poem, the 59 poems, then the prose poems in French. No outside world. No gossip of who and what as this is Rilke seeking refuge in his last writings, near last writings. The Duino and Orpheus works drained him, and the publicity wore him out. Works in French is refuge.
I think he went beyond, beyond into an even more mystical and touched by the Heavenly Host as he sought God throughout the ways of language, in how we think and compose, how we think in a second or third language.
The beauty and spirituality is at times wavering between worlds of 2, 3 and 4th dimension.
Exhausted after the peak of excellence which pretty much drained him in Sonnets to Orpheus (my favorite of his collections) and the Duino Elegies (really neck and neck with Sonnets to Orpheus, but man, to write with such elevation and cloud touching as he did with his German sonnets he needed to do something in small ways of experience and things felt, so he used the French language to write of small things of the senses and almost by accident, of the mystical. 53, for me is one of those which begins as a lovely experience among rose bushes, which I relate to in many ways as I have always planted several different roses and Lillies around and in the path to the stairway entrance to my home. At one time I had 14 different kinds of rose and it was an ongoing marvel wonder and precious thanks to the Lord for such small beauties and inspirations.
Roses and lilies engage me physically and spiritually. So, I guess it is natural in terms of how I relate to a poem that I chose 53 to challenge our balance of being pretentious and being in awe. I am both. I seek to be held in awe of Gods gift of this earth which we so readily seek to destroy, and then for some we offer up our roses to the angels to decide. Yes, the wisdom of experience in things felt as sensory and No mind do elevate the soul.
If one is confused by the questions then no answer will ever offer consolation and the other will continue to live in a fantasy of made up imagery and conflicted slander and gossip rather than just looking upon the question and finding this is where stands the soul of the “I” or of the “other”.
It is so hard to be held transfixed by the most elemental of things. Now, the use of the “I” in my description of this pleasure in the text and in the relative meaning is not limited to me, but to all pronouns: I, me, you, yours, ours, theirs, they, them, us, he, she, You, They, Us, Me, Mine, I. All may be used and the meaning of the question and beauty of the answer reveals that it is in the question we find the true self. “but when will we find ways to be equal to the rose?”
The Greek poet Sappho asked a similar question in one of the fragments found of her poetry and it began:
“after so much giving I am exhausted.
where, my love, where are the roses for me?”
We, the reader, find so often that the poet, the writing, the poem itself asks where is there something in return for all I have given, and the poet must accept that what is of the poetic heart is not as it is for regular people except in time of reflection brought on by tragic or heroic events. For the Artist this question simply is a part of the lamented life where we wish the isolated life of the Arts were at times giving us a more social life just to be able to talk with others, to love others and to be free to enjoy conversations without boundaries. Yeah, the critical examination almost removes the delicacy of the poems intention in the first place:
“…
mais comment arriverait-on
a egaler une rose?”
“But when will we find ways to be equal to the rose?” and if we keep up this pretension of roses and tenderness will we then corrupt the angelic touch upon this moment? Right. There are those things written which just are as they exist in the poem, a moment felt and the fear of its being divided up and crushed under the pressure of cynics pen and paper.
Rilke poem Francais, #53
“On arrange et on compose
les mots de tant de focus,
mais comment arriverait-on
a egaler une rose?
Si on supporte l’étrange
prétention de ce jeu,
c’est que, parfois, un ange
le derange un peu.”
In English:
“We arrange and we compose
words in so many ways,
but when will we find ways
to be equal to the rose?
If we keep up the strange
pretension of this game,
it’s because at times an angel
deranges it a little.”

Morality in the Neo Fascist Anti-Constitution American Dictatorship


AS WE BECOME SUBJECT TO NEO FASCIST AMERICA WITH ENTIRELY NEW RULES OF ANTI-ETHICS AND ANTI-CONSTITUTION AND ANTI-GOD, ANTI-MORALITY, CAN I BE A MAN OF FAITH AND CONTEMPLATION, OF HOPE AND LOVE, AND STILL BE AN AMERICAN?

This is one of those things I will delete or hide from timeline in this day or next. After enough writing and thought I ought to reach a satisfactory point of exploring this in a lighter and even deeper content of my soul. If I do maybe I can speak more wisely on the subject, but as things go this is a form of revolutionary thought and action. Point at me and tell your children do not be like him.

Any pronoun can be used, be it I, me, you, her, him, she, he, it, us, them, one or ours, is perfectly applicable to what I write. This Is not just about “I” or “me”. This is an important point as key in an introduction: any pronoun can be used and I use the “I” as a means of expression that makes it more easily understood.

I do wish some kind of comment, but expect none. If there is one who is in search, who finds the life the saints both East and West. Who considers the lectures of the 5th and 11th Buddhas, and importantly the songs of Milarepa as well as the books of the Law, of the Prophets and the Apostles, then you are one with whom I am search of commerce, commerce being a wealth of mind, the exchange of words and life, of actions and meditation which looks and asks ‘how can I become a better person?’

Many times I have sinned against my soul by impatience. I meditate and sing to God as I exercise and lean towards gathering energy and wisdom of the cosmos as a way of helping with my tendency towards impatience when faced with corruption and injustice. Yes, I am flawed. I asked “what is patience?” Then I ask “what is the culmination of events which leads me to be impatient?” What goes beyond our desires and becomes a phantom, a being without shadow or definition? How can I go beyond the many folding veils of deceit and lie in order to feel safe in country and safe in mind?

Must I defy the words of Christ and of the Prophets and give into the current great Lie? Must I give up my beliefs, my ongoing understanding of how to unite Catholicism and Mahayana Buddhism in such a manner that the way of Peace, of Love, of Hope, Of Fatih, Of Compassion is corrupted by hate and misunderstanding?

Must I go against all that I believe and strive to communicate as this great Hope and Faith in the Godhead is daily faced with an American government which commands we go against Fatih and peace, and place hatred and violence in its place? Must I LIE to be a follower of the Trump doctrine of hate and violence, must I beat up journalists and reporters, must I condone slave labor and sex trafficking in order to get along with nations that do?
Must I be silent and just go along?

Thomas Merton, for whom I believe is in Gods grace and died being brought to Him as part of the heavenly host, was martyred by bad electricity while meeting with Buddhist leaders to discuss the ways of likeness, of how the philosophy of life to over come desires and free ourselves of suffering, who was anxious to demonstrate through action and writing that the Mahayana and Catholic Christian, Scripture, are more alike than they are unlike. The salvation does come through the sacrifice and the blood and water of the Crucified Son of God, and we do reach towards the commands of action and faith. I can read and meditate on God and the supernatural nature of Christ to the end of my days without becoming closer to God because of my isolation. I can meditate and think through the 8 Fold Path and the way as taught in the Sermon on the Mount which we know as being the deliverance of the Beatitudes to the world. This was revolutionary. It remains to be revolutionary.

If I am to live I Imitation of Christ I must keep changing how and what I do and think. I am always pulled back into the path either by reading the essays of our Popes and Saints, and blessed writers such as Scott Hahn and Thomas a Kempis. The Agony in the Garden is eloquently explored and detailed by Cardinal Ratzinger in such language that you can feel his hand guided by Archangel Gabriel and his love by Archangel Raphael in his magnificent and lush with holiness and grace book “Behold The Pierced One”. You cannot read this book without being changed.

The same but in different manner of composition and direct speech is found in the pamphlet by beloved and so meaningful to me, Saint Padre Pio of incorruptible body 62 years after his return to the house of the Heaven, “Agony In The Garden”. It is maybe 10 pages but in meaning is as long as my life. I read each in time connected and keep going back to read passages when I am afraid and lost.

In “Does It Matter”, a book on our relation to materiality by Alan Watts his five page chapter “Planting Seeds and Gathering Fruit” The quality of change and of surrendering to a divine Will is the fertile seed becoming fruiting tree and sustaining life even when the winds of humanity and mutability to the earth is greater than we can take, then we must give in, we must plead mercy, that we are so small, we are but a speck in the tail of a comet yet we must learn and find wisdom to pass on to others so that our mistakes do not become their mistakes, and that the good and holy we have learned becomes a part of the lives of others who are wanderers and searchers towards becoming better in soul, mind and actions. If we are not striving we are not bringing to fruition the teachings of those greater than ever we could hope to be, so we take the teachings and are always in a state of becoming.

At times it hurts, it hurts deeply as I kneel before the Eucharist and am immobilized. It has felt as if St. Augustine is holding me down in place until I understand why and how my sins brought me to this place. I am held until I am given the slightest understand such that I may write and speak in a manner that best embraces the Light and the Truth of Being. I am always being towards. I wish I could be otherwise. My desires are at times mightier than my will, but I do not always, in fact rarely, act on desires that are in opposition to the great Teacher and Teachers of mind, morality, ethics and God, the Godhead, the collective consciousness of the world. When I see evil take over our nation as if gobbled up by Mammon and the words of our government are crumbs dropped by sloppiness of the evil one, of the army of Mara, the Whispers of Lucifer. I speak of this in the manner of a country blues guy from the 30s and 40s.

I wish I was eloquent enough to communicate the teachings and how we may apply ourselves in this early 21st century. I am such an easy target because I think so much on the page and wish for someone wiser or as curious and in love with God and the teachings of our great teachers East and West. So I write essays hoping for communication or that I may reach a conclusion in which I find myself in the way of the Holy. It is so easy to look at me and my life and call me a disgrace and shameful. I understand this will to power by denigrating me to a lowest caste in the American caste system. It is so easy to make fun of me because I speak openly of my experience and crazy actions. I say if it makes you feel better about yourself then please do so. Please repeat, please chant the darkest moments of my life as if a spell to lower me down for an easy kill and to make yourself feel better by being so powerful as to crush a man when he at his lowest point. Well done. But do not add self reflection to ones action, do not seek self actualization because by crushing one who is a searcher, who wishes only the love of God, and to be devoted to becoming a better man, then do not look into the mirror for you will se only the face of the devil, the face of evil.

Can I be an American and a man of Peace and Faith?

What Is This Land?


What is This Our Land Becomes
What is this where I have tumbled
What is this where I have been denied
What is this my life and labor
This thing that was my heart and love
What is this where waters flowed
And now rubber tubes clog and litter
What is this I looked upon and adored
Only to find it eaten and destroyed
What is this my work left behind me
So undone unfinished desired and waiting
What is this I tried so hard and found
Dead in the leaves of the gutters above
What is this knowledge denied and rotting
That for thousands of years was designed for now
I held my hand to feel the rough edges
Gone now are my knife calluses soft
And cumbersome where once they raged
What is this when I walk alone unafraid
And still in search for a challenge
Who are you in my garden today
You who would rise up to snatch my life away
What is this I believed for so long
My love of faith spat upon by of course the faithful
Where are you when I speak of my love
Who am I when desire and the sexual
Are fed to the dogs waiting outside the door
And so I know what this is when life rests
And says no more so I accept who I am
See this flesh wilting from my bones
There is little else to smell but rose and jasmine tea
The smell of cigarettes makes me want to vomit
I cannot stand the stench of tobacco and addiction
Long freed from needs of drunkenness and the wild
I was still looked upon as if sparks would
Fly from my fingers and all around bursts in flame
What is this I have called my family who scowls
When I know just how they see me
Wishing I was no longer a man better dust
And a marker with just my name
A thing to be forgotten left lame and rotting

Poem: Material Essence


 

 

 

 

 

MATERIAL ESSENCE

A Pot left sitting in the grass
On the roadside
A four lane intersection
Lights and roars,
Talks and shrieks,
All things being what they are
The Pot sat silent
Till one day it grew
Two legs
Stood and walked away
To another place
Being a pot it needed to be used
So it found a home
All filled with dirt and tomato seeds
It became itself
Finally
The absence of being long gone
And far away

Prose Poem: Look Me In the Eyes Judge Me & A Part Of You Not Me Dies


I said I don’t know how it is happening, this rolling through hidden, painful diseases, migraines unfolding over the years suddenly, calmly, admiring the sun casting shadows over the horizon edge into the elms, oak, maple and yellow pine, thinking this is beautiful, this is sparkling and bending into a kaleidoscope with Isaiah steaming and proclaims He shall not be broken…

Darkness. I don’t know. I was sipping orange blossom tipped water and then I awoke in a bundle, water all over me, time what time? There was no marker beginning and ending.

I looked at my right leg, my leg, knee down and around my arch and ankle back up again in splotches of gorgeous purple and saffron bruises.

I stare. I cannot stand. My entire body was stretched and beaten, reformed and disassociated. It was a seizure. I was terrified. Five more in a few weeks. So I told my neurologist. I was afraid to speak. But I did. Thus began two years of barbaric tests and medicines. Time to time they still return, shadows pulling me to a cavern Of night. A cavern Of bright souls singing from Psalms and sometimes chants, songs of Milarepa as I swim through the Bardo and again awaken. My lip swollen, tongue bleeding, I know where I had give and reflection makes it a whirring set of waves of fear. Few things are stranger than never knowing when they will emerge. Seizures. Meds no meds many meds new meds murderous meds then meds work ok looks good let’s cut back What? Ok so I do and click Jello legs and hello floor. Scratches. Bruises. Gazing into the wooden floor and hoping here nothing was broken. Deal with it. Give warnings when Lyme’s takes new forms old forms beware stay back it strikes do not touch me the muscles more powerful than the steroids they were injecting. Life. Deal with it. I said Doctor, the only thing that really worked without burnt bay leaves and thyme in my mouth without side effects killing me or making me wish it would was medical marijuana. Thank you, Georgia. Lack of legislation for medical for Lyme’s and all the disorder leaves me tsk tsk tell me no drama so fuck off it hurts keep personal effects out of my definition. Through cancer through the many legged Lyme’s nerve damage disc disorder white blood cells contour and dominate into another gate of hell and idiots try to place blame on divorce and I cease speaking into that void. I lived. St Padre Pio St Raphael St Patrick and the 8 fold path. And so as Lyme’s rises as it does now stay on track understand that all this pain is not a choice.

So I laugh find a way Rise. This is Lyme’s. A strangers sneeze could kill me. So benefits are cut and SNAP goes down to $15 a month I ask do I starve or face the hydra headed threats of death in my veins and dna. It does not matter between Medicare and the state I wonder who will pay for my ashes. Look me in the eyes and say you understand That is all I want Just understand.

SONG ABOVE THE CAVE OF MILAREPA (2nd draft line changes)


Meditation Song Above the Cave of Milarepa
A darkness upon your soul rises.
There are many paths
A darkness upon your soul rises.
There are many paths
A darkness upon your soul rises. There are many paths
A darkness upon your soul rises. There are many paths.
I meditate where the Lord places me and all evils return 
to laugh at my trials.
I meditate where the Lord places me and all evils return
to laugh at my trials.
I meditate where the Lord places me and all evils return
to laugh at my trials.
I meditate where the Lord places me and all evils return
to laugh at my trials.
The first with rotted scalp and beautiful face says his
prayers and meditations
are folly.
The first with rotted mind and fallen face says his prayers
are all wasted
and drawn from lies.
The first with love for the Great Deceiver tells me my prayers
could be turned to ways of disordered mind and deceit.
I say no.
Leave me or listen. You have the choice. 
Listen. 
Demon flesh is not sexuality.
It is destruction of self.
God gives us compassion I say. I can only wish they find
the 
path that leads to God and frees them from this demon flesh.
God gives us compassion I say. I can only wish the find the
path that leads to God and frees them from this demon flesh.
God gives me compassion I say. I can only wish you find
the 
path that leads to God and frees you from this demon flesh.
Love, I say.
When is it not enough? We must Love. 
God does not waste his love, he maintains
and holds strong for 
any who come to him, who contemplate upon
the Sacrifice.
God does not waste his love, he maintains
and holds strong for
any who come to him, who contemplate upon the Sacrifice.
God does not waste his love, he maintains and holds strong for 
any who come
to him, who contemplate upon the Sacrifice.
 God does not waste his love,
he maintains and holds strong for 
any who come to him, who contemplate upon
the Sacrifice.
Choice. We are given Love. But evil rules our land.
Evil dances across the land and the fallen worship hatred, 
here stand the enemy
and the will to love is yet even stronger…
Evil dances across the land and the fallen worship hatred,
here stand the enemy and the will to love is yet even stronger.
Evil dances across the land and the fallen worship hatred,
here stand the enemy
and the will to love is yet even stronger.
  Evil fucking evil dances across the land and the fallen worship hatred,
here stand the enemy and the will to love is yet even stronger.
I know who lies.
I know who lies. What names you choose is up to you.
I know who lies. Our dharma is our choice we build upon….
I know who lies.
All that is solid melts. I pray my eternal soul 
melts and flows endlessly flowing
in and out of Life’s plan.
I know who lies.
They dream on in phantasms of a dirt soul and only of ends,
never the continuation of action and reaction.
They dream on in phantasms of a dirt soil, only of ends…
never the continuation
of action and reaction.
They dream on in phantasms of a dirt soul, only of ends,
never the continuation of action and reaction.
In all our oceans
and the streams that feed them life changes
and adapts, many die, as will we
.
In all ahr’ oceans and the streams that feed them life changes
and adapts,
many die, as will we.
In all our oceans and the streams that feed them life changes 
and adapts, many die, as will we.
I see the finite and hear their shallow heartbeats, thinking sin
and salvation does not apply to them.
I see the finite and hear their shallow heartbeats, thinking sin
and salvation does not apply to       them.
I see the finite and hear their shallow heartbeats, thinking sin
and salvation does not apply to them.
It does.
It does matter.
It does matter for all we do is wrapped in cause and effect.
It does matter for all we do is wrapped in cause and effect.
It does matter for all we do is wrapped in cause and effect…
It does matter
for all we do is wrapped in cause and effect.
You worship deception and a larceny of faith.
You worship deception and a larceny of faith
.
You worship deception and a larceny of faith.
You worship deception and a larceny of faith.
Thinking it a win to deceive those who offer trust, all you do
is dig deeper
into coal mountains, death your lover.
Thinking it a win to deceive those who offer trust, all you do 
is dig deeper into coal mountains, death your lover.
Thinking it a win to deceive those who offer trust, all you do 
is dig deeper into coal mountains, death your lover…
I know. I must repeat. I must chant.
I know it is easy to say anything at all and not believe a word.
I know, I, it is easy to say anything at all and not believe a word.
I know it is easy to say anything at all and not believe a word…
I know you.
I repeat because I see you. 
I was you. I destroyed that “I”.
Even as I pray and meditate you think new ways of harm.
Even as I pray and meditate you think new ways of harm.
Even as I pray and meditate you think new ways of harm…
I know your lies.
They are known. Leave me dark spirits.
Many paths. One God.
Shut up you gossips and fools!
Giving over to the home of Siddhartha, hammered singing bowls
Of seven holy metals that ring then vibrate me in to sleep and Awake!
I sleep upon the floor where I console and sing, feeling your
song vibrate through me, I love you my friends, I love God who 
makes it possible to love my friends and family.
I sleep upon the floor where I console and sing, feeling your
song vibrate through me, I love you my friends, I love God who
makes it possible to love my friends and family.
I sleep on the floor where I console and sing, feeling your
song vibrate through        me,
I love you my friends, to love God who 
makes it possible we love friends and family…
Holiness shimmers through each ringing bowl as I stretch
my aging flesh across these thick, slow barley and bamboo mats.
Holiness shimmers through each ringing bowl as I stretch my
 aging flesh across these thick, slow barley and bamboo mats.
Holiness shimmers through each ringing bowl as I stretch my 
aging flesh across these thick, slow barley and bamboo mats…
I see the growing thunderheads,
heat lightening…..strikes.
Oh, I stretch because I see so much beauty, so to love,
 so to thwart the minds
who think to fight for life is sadness,
 but that is to have it wrong, so terribly wrong,
we live to live,
 to strike back demon Mara’s devils and those gone to fight Ezekiel,
for beauty is daily and daily reward we live as grace as eternal.
 To strike back Mara’s grinning evil and risen dark angels, do it!
New paths for beauty and skies seen like ocean tides as wind.
Each path begins from suffering and evil, and each path ends
 when skies are sky
and beauty becomes us; not as struggle town
but as gift, each path begins where Life has suffered, yet pure
heart and pure intention is not enough to paint sunsets orange.
Never stop, always never ever stop, for if we do then it has ended,
and with ends come dreams of was, when what we need are times
of is
and then
the works of yet to be. I could say, to the glory of God
I cannot help it,
this compassion I love. I beg, in your own wisdom
to understand we must scare the demons away as Milarepa sang,
to enchant the devils as Ezekiel fought that they die this very day . . .
And yeah, that’s it . . . yeah, that’s it.
(and this crew for conversations with my beloved friends,  the table I dream of as last meal and conversation because you all inspire me. My dream of life. They each wish to be unknown but here no links condemn them to me for my wanderers life.)