I Was One

When I was One, I couldn’t walk yet,
so I just sat at the open door
that leads to all worlds at once.
No one taught me exile and longing.
I rested unfathomably at the silent
core of all that is possible.

The world was just as crazy and full
of bumps as it is today.
I just hadn't learned to label them yet.
It was all a continuum of
lumpy wonder and grace, Om-made
bread pudding with honey.

One taste and the coral rose of September
would whisper to the February plum bud,
"We are so lucky to be confused!
Let's feel each other’s toes
down where the mushrooms grow!"

All my senses were made out of fur.
Every moment was a blessed Fall
into some delectable imperfection
that allowed me to wondersmell and
tastetouch my way up the viridescent stem
whose tiniest flowers are the stars.

I followed the blackest rainbow
into the golden void
because I wasn’t looking for that place,
I was looking from that place…

Why not begin your life with a final
benediction, here, in the hollow
of the fruit, where all journeys
end like tongues of delectable fire?

Gone To Seed

Listen friend, how much time do you have left 
on this planet to learn the secret 
that has never been kept?

Taste and see! Your tongue will rise above 
the knowledge of good and evil.
 

It happens in your spine, in a myriad 
vast little worlds of nectar  
fizzling up in the ferment of meditation.

Face the truth: there's a wild unpruned apple tree 
unfolding pink buds in your hypothalamus.
It's the door to the bee tavern 
where women go to converse with their serpents. 

You could ascend to paradise by sinking 
into that muddy meadow,
get lost and learn what Jesus and Muhammad  

and other mad poets have been giggling about
for thousands of years

Since reason makes you thick, here's a hint:

Each cell of your belly button is a wine cup.
Each synapse in your brain is a thirsty tongue 
yearning for sugar that comes from the heart; 

your spine is rooted in a buzzing garden 
gone to seed, vines clustered with uselessly
beautiful rubies.
That insect-sound inside you is the moon
and planets clanging at your birth,  
gonging at your death; 

and this earth that you call such a problem
is your own effervescence

in the sugar of emptiness.

All Light

All light is God.
But not all light is the same.
The light that shines from your heart,
from your eyes,
from the wise darkness of your tears,
is your own rainbow.
Its fountain is deeper inside you
than the Pleiades
flowing in a trillion shades
of transparency
to kindle the earth
and give away a heavenly secret
when you smile.
 
Collage of my poem by Rashani
Painting by Mirree