thinner than a spider's silk
yet charged with the power
of uncreated light
the spindle of your heart
to entwine the stars and string
the galaxies, winding
horizons of time
into a diadem that glitters
with all possible worlds,
a rosary of splendors
dangling through the soft spot
in your crown,
passing down your spine
into the heart of its arising -
the lifeline you throw yourself
each night while some small part
of you feigns sleep -
Just give it a pull and be bejeweled!
Listen to the chime of
this sparkling veil of bells,
knitting heavens and earth
with a single strand of delight
into one garment, your body.
* Star Formation Region IC 1396, Courtesy of
Canada-France-Hawaii Telescope J.-C. Cuillandre/Coelum.
Astonishment is a thankless task,
and it pays so little,
but somebody has to do it
or this green world will harden
with ruthless certainty
into money, religion and steel.
Dear one, it is not so much
Through words and deeds,
but through your eyes,of your speechless lips,
the glowing breath
the glowing breath
and the radiance around your body
that this work is done.
A net cannot catch water; mind cannot catch silence.
When blackness murmurs with light, do you need to inhale? The moon only appears to hang on a plum branch.
Let your next breath be the effervescence of emptiness; the Self floats in each cell of flesh, the body in the Self.
Don't try to understand this; just let the glow between your nerves be a crop of stars hanging above you in the orchard of prayer.
To wake up is a ceremonial drowning, every threshold dissolved in a single sensation: the grape into nectar, the nectar into a fine mist, the distillate into bewilderment.
True inebriation is clarity; crush the moon in this dance, your feet oozing a ferment of sweetness.
Leave it to the raven to scatter your seeds; only the darkest wisdom sniffs the difference between wine and death.
Most people fear the end with each exhalation; that is why their breathing is never complete.
You have the privilege of dying now, your lungs filled with burgundy.
Don't struggle upward like a swimmer for the sun; that's not how baby's are born.
Be the infant who knows from the first exultation of air that this is the last day.
Everything has its cost; not even the grace of the Mother is free.
What is the price of her gift? Surrender.
All night, be a constellation, turning with the majesty of a pearl-encrusted corpse in the ebb and flow of the void.
All day, keep this secret hidden in your smile.
* Painting: 'Umbilicus' by poet, artist and friend Britt Posmer
I have never seen a "white" man.
"White" is an abstraction,
the color of nothingness.
I am oak, applewood and dandelion.
Make a barrel of my bones
to flavor your wine,
but don't call me white.
You are not black.
I have never seen a "black" woman.
"Black" is an abstraction,
the color of emptiness.
You are banyan and mahogany,
mango and olive.
You are cocoa bean,
kinnikinnick and kola nut.
Both of us are dipped in honey.
We are tangled in the same
dark places, born upward
toward one star by
love's voluptuous hope.
In sweetness, loam, manure
of the dragon,
we have common roots.