Life, Love, and Being (Part 2): Meta Times and Poems

8/8/2019 Life, Love, and Being (Part 2): Meta Times and Poems

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Life, Love, and Being: Meta Times and Poems

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L i f e , L o v e ,

A n d B e i n g:

M e t a

T i m e s A n d

P o e m s


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COPYRIGHT 2010 by Austin Patrick Torney

[email protected]

(Video on YouTube; prefix ‘TOL ’)

An Exploration of the Joys of the Human Condition

And the Astounding Secrets of the Universe and the Mind Through the Life of a Loving CoupleEngaged in the Ultimate Relationship,

Across the Centuries and into the Future.

Wild Roses

I cultivate wild roses in the spring.Do I try to tame them, breed them, subdue them?

No, I encourage roses wild and free— The wildest plant’s the one that’s most alive.

Her leaves are coarse and brown at the edge,For they contend for life near tree and hedge.

I develop wild roses in the spring— Such we taste the first sweet breath of summer.

I hold thorns in my hand; I hurt, I bleed.But I don’t let go; I hold her tighter.

The winds come, the rains fall, the storm passes; The breezes caress her—she blossoms forth.

Now she unfolds to all, and so discloses That there is new life among the roses.


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LIFE, LOVE, AND BEING:

(Part II)

META TIMES AND POEMS


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—— META TIMES AND POEMS ——

Vassar Library

This is ex-Brother Peter, Named at last, dear reader,

Writing from a quiet balcony alcove, Within Vassar library’s gold, Where I am here oft mistaken, For a saintly Irish monk taken,

Since I usually sit in the warm lightOf a stained-glass window bright While illustrating and editing

A long treatise of non fictional philosophizingCalled ‘The Triumph of Life, Love, and Being’.

All is so peaceful within it. As I look up for a minute,

I am comforted by the stacks of old books, By the worn-out tapestries on hooks,

And by the marble floor in the study court below, All so much reminding me of the monastery.

Memories cover me like a warm blanket As it all comes flooding back to thank it.

I turn back to my work—for her, But not before a smile from her my partner

Across the table gives me the energy To continue on with the illustrations.

Yes, my co-author, ex-Sister Angelina, the one,


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Sits quietly near me and is still being mistaken for a nun.

We are working at a large table, on our book, In the glow of the window’s prismatic colored look, Bathing in the radiance of our saintliness brooked

In this sacred and blessed mood of the library nook.

We’re putting a few finishing illuminations of gold Into our manuscript, for now that the story of old

Has been lived and proved, it deserves to be told, But now has to be written, edited, and illustrated bold.

I ink in the leaves of gold

While she checks the pages’ folds, Just like in the old days, Which I shall explain shortly aways.

The library is a peaceful relief from goingOut adventuring and romancing.

Talking is expressly forbidden here, Just as in the monastical village feared,

So we whisper ever so softly And sweetly to each other, by and by.

But, I am getting way ahead of myself, Dear reader,

So let’s pause and start at the beginning,Even earlier.

It’s all coming back to me now.

This is the story of how[The Triumph of]‘Life, Love, and Being’

Came to be—Of how it was born in the labyrinth

Of the library’s maze of passageways…


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The Unfolding

…I approached Vassar library one day, fast, Walking on the blue-eyed flowered grass,

Passing under the wide, overhanging branch.

Looming up ahead were the library towers,Complete with the turrets and gargoyles. The walls were made of Italian stone,

And there was a large stained-glass window.

Vassar library was built much in the tradition Of some great monastery, or a castle position.

It was much like Camelot in this way, too, But I thought my imagination could that outdo.

I relaxed, letting my mind wander freely, As I entered the spacious, cathedral-like lobby.

I saw the huge tapestries hanging high on the walls, Those grand and glorious scenes of the past that called.

Then I walked up the stone steps indented deep, But worn smooth by centuries of studious feet.

There were stone railings, too, like altar rails, And many old pictures, plus balconies, worn trails,

Spiral staircases, and the almost secret alcoves.

The nook was silent, blessed, and gracious,

The perfect place to write, the lure contagious.

The library has a hundred rooms, of all the ages, And fifty or more connecting passages— No one really knows how many mazes.

Starting down one of the twisting ways and halls,


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I went through many levels of rooms and number calls, Not noting where I had been, not looking back at all.

I switched on the lights as I went, But didn’t realize that the glows and vents

Were automatically turning off behind me, After a minute or so—to save on electricity.

So, I continued along, between the stacks, And down the stairways, with even more racks,

Entering older sections of the library zones Which didn’t quite line up with the newer ones.

I was soon lost and completely disoriented! Then the library closed, and, to my surprise, All of the power went off inside,

For it was the Easter holiday shutdown; I was trapped inside, in the dark unknown.

I wedged open a door That was automatically closing,

But didn’t panic, Although I certainly allowed A few quick pulses.

Looking around for clues, I saw a map on the wall, But, it was too dark to read its call;

However, when my eyes became adapted, I could see the dim plots outlined,

Of the shapes of the rooms on the map.

In the distance I could hear the electronic clicksOf the security locks slipping into place, as ticks In the treasure and the rare books rooms picked.


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Walking between the stacks, I guided myself along By tapping on the books with my handmade song.

Coming to a moonlit window, I opened it, with a shove, But it was much too high for me to jump out of.

Looking out around at the exterior of the building, I tried to get an idea where I was in relation to exiting.

Picking up a book, I looked at its call number, To get a better idea of what section I might be under.

The book was ‘Beyond Metaphysics’, by Aristotle.

I’m sure that it contained the answers To all of life’s most difficult mysteries, Since I knew, from my language studies’ thrall,

That ‘meta’ already meant ‘beyond’; But alas, it was too dark to read the book upon,

So I put it back, meaning to take it out When the library reopened its house.

It must have been the most precious book to know, For it had been presumed lost centuries ago! Imagine going beyond what trek

Was already beyond physics!Oh, Aristotle, you magic mystic!

It was not totally quiet in these surrounds; The library boiler vents were making gurgling sounds—

At least that’s what I’d hoped the noises were, all around.

Yet, there was also sort of a weird stillness. I wouldn’t say that I was scared, I confess,

But there seemed to be a lot of creaking noises soft, As the library settled in for the week with the heat off.


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I went down what I thought might be a familiar stairway, But the door at the bottom was locked away.

Looking through the door, I could see the rare book room. I went up two more levels, peering into another womb,

And saw the main art gallery’s way, With its sculptures and jade jewels on display.

I’d better not get caught in there, singing, With some alarm going on ringing,

I thought, so I retraced my stepping, And went around constructing

Squared circles for awhile, unfortunately returning

Again and again to rooms that I had been to before.

I had to find some of the more critical junctions. It was pitch black in the library’s interior sections,

So I marked some of the intersections By putting some books on the floor;

That way I’d know by tripping, toe-sore, If I was returning to rooms afore

That I had visited before.

Still, it was all rather frustrating. If only I had a candle demonstrating!

But, of course, fire was forbidden in the library.

I heard a novel noise and followed it— It was just a drinking fountain with a slight drip.

At least I had water. Good! I wouldn’t die of thirst.

There was a school recess coming up, And so the library had been, yup,

Completely shut down for the next fortnight.


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I could be in here for a long time—Cold, blind, hungry, and homeless.

I sat down, sleepily, near an emergency light And rested against the books upright,

One of which poked me in the back, So I took it out and chanced to read the title plaque As I was putting it down, not back in the rack:

‘Letters between a Saintly Irish Monk And a Holy French Nun’.

I opened it and read a few pages.

As I fell asleep, that book was on my mind And I began to dream of it…


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The Monastical Village

…I ‘woke up’ in a scriptorium. I was a monk in a monastery’s sanctorium,

Studying philosophy and illumination.

There was a convent next to the abbey; The nuns worked on the books first, the verse,

Then sent them over to the monastery for illustration.

I dealt mostly with Sister Angelina, Although we had never met in the arena.

She sent me the books she kept,

With further instructions enclosed therein.

We worked on books of philosophy, Which traveled back and forth, freely,

Between the monastery and the nunnery.

We often read them for content And thereby learned of universal extent.

We began to discuss the books And their philosophical hooks

Through notes and letters to each other’s nooks.

I was surprised when it first started happening. A note fell out of the book that I was illustrating—

Obviously it was from my friend sent—

The holy nun over in the convent.

“I have a long list of books I want to read. I will probably never get to the end of their leads.

I usually read several books at the same time And since I still maintain my monastic habit line,

There’s nothing better to do at night, so I read, reclined.”


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So I answered her, of my fate:“I too have been reading all the books, to date,

Given to me to copy and illuminate. Some are from the forbidden section of the library,

And I’m not supposed to read them, entirely, But I do; I am learning a lot, through my peepers; Much is being withheld by our keepers.”

Her next note read simply That “Time flies like a bird.”

“ Yes,” I answered, “right;

The wings of time are black and white, For one is the day and one is the night.”

That was a philosophy from a book of quatrains That I was presently illuminating, with golden rain.

We began getting to know each other “looks”, Through the notes that we concealed in the books.

“I was delirious to hear of what you thunk;. I thought my note might go to a wrong monk, But I hoped that it would be sent to you.

I can’t believe that it worked out that way, too!”

And so I replied, as under a star,“I was thinking about you last night, afar, And about how wonderful your notes are.

It really made me feel so good to hear from you. Life is much more enjoyable now. Thank you, too.”

“I am really happy that you are enjoying life.We live only once, so I believe in getting the best out of life.”


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“I was as delirious as you were high When I received your reply.

It gave me energy! I was walking on air for the rest of the day—

I still am! You made my day!”

“I am glad that my note made your day. After all, if we combine a lot of days,

It comes out to a whole life and its ways.”

“Your vision of life’s celebrative rhyme Is one that’s very similar to mine.”

“There is this wonderful love song—it’s in French, But the music is beautiful, which will help you enjoy life.”

“Thank you so much for your attention to me. I don’t really know just what magic was freed

That prompted you to write those wonderful parts, But I feel an excitement all the way into my heart.

I’ll listen to my intuition in these everyday actions lit.

I’m not going to question it—I’ll just enjoy it.”

“I would love to keep the friendship with you. I don’t know about you,

But I very rarely feel this sort of chemistry!”

“We will make good friends, as one: Me as a saintly monk and you as a holy nun!”

“I got your last note and was hysterical reading it. I don’t know how you would be as a saint,

But I will qualify for a nun very soon.”

“I like your idea about combining days into a whole life.


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Indeed, life can be had and found in every single act. Minutes, hours, days… They all flow

And blend together into the moving whole. Nothing is really separately told.

Please keep your philosophies coming.

I love them. I will try to live them, becoming!”

“I’ve been rereading our notes—We write as if we are in love.

I get the impression that we are in love.Of course, perhaps it’s only platonic love,

But there seems some indication of Some other kind of interest.

Ignore me here, I am fantasizing a little.”

“I enjoyed your fantasizing very much.Of course we are in love.

Each time we write a note We make love to each other. It’s an unusual love because

We never touch, hear, or even see the other.

And so it’s a very pure love— A love of heart and mind and spirit. Naturally, it’s hard to separate out the body,

Since nature didn’t really mean it to be so, As I’ve come to realize.”

“COME TO ME!”

“ Lord save us both from damnation!”

I could hear the Pachelbel Cannon Playing as the background anthem;

It was the greatest hit of the 17th century, A tune that would never be outdone, verily.


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It flowed and resonated in time With the sounds of spirit, mine,

For I was feeling so peaceful, all around, That I could hear the haunting sounds

Of my inner chorus, playing my favorite song of dance,

Love, emotion, adventure, and romance.

“Oh, God help me!”

Soon a life was to be made from the days. The monastery was connected to the nunnery’s ways

By a door that had been locked for centuries. I could feel the spirit of Sister Angelina

On the other side as I illustrated the lingua.

Now and then, as before, She would slip me letters under the door.

A few hours later I would back write to her, Slipping my notes back under the door, And under a loose stone on the floor.

This proved much quicker Than sending them with the books. We still never saw each other,

And we had never met together; We communicated only by the notes and letters.

We never spoke to each other with our voices near the door, For there was a code of silence of all the monastic lore.

After a while of this, we discovered that our inner selves Were somehow speaking to each other, directly knit.

I could then sense her disembodied spirit Drifting through into the monastery—

She seemed to be with me as I worked, sunnily.


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I transcended the walls of the nunnery And she could feel my presence there—

It was a very comforting feeling—bared.

That evening, I lifted my wine glass, in supper’s ray, And looked at it in more of a symbolic way, Then remembered what I’d read in a book that day.

I am the wine glass, I thought, its cheer, Filled fairly full with my human nature.

Who would punish me for using my given nature In a good and loving way—for being human!

It’s as if my glass is precariously tipped, in time, Yet I must somehow not ever spill the wine!

Why restrain the very nature’s gift That I had been born and blessed with?

I thought awhile, of all the rest, As daydreams began to pierce the mess—

The noise of consciousness. I still thought somewhat like a monk, But I was progressing past all that bunk…

I was searching, analyzing, feeling, racing fast, Perhaps coming close to being truly human at last,

Finally reaching the only conclusion

That was philosophically reachable:…

I am my own golden chalice to life’s dripping blood! I will drink life’s bountiful wine—the flood!

Oh, what a ‘wicked’ thought of love! I wondered further, Shall I repent my thought?


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Oh, but how can I repent when roses bloom in loving hearts? Perhaps it would be best if I give love to her parts.


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Consummation

That day I received a note from her swelling tide, With a picture of a key in a lock, on her side.

That night, I took my note as usual And put it under the locked door That connected the monastery to the nunnery.

As I looked through the keyhole, I could see that there was a key

In the lock on the other side.

How would I get in? Try the door, fool!

I turned the handle but the door wouldn’t open.How would I get the key over to my side So I could unlock the door?

Should I even be trying To open the door to the nuns’ convent?

What was I doing? Settle down,

I told myself, think, think, THINK!

I thought it out some: Why should the monks be separated from the nuns?

All were people first and foremost, With the same natural and biological urges

For companionship that All normal human beings have.

Nature made men and women both. It was as though the invention of one

Had made necessary the other!How could a mountain exist without a valley?


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How could day and night be separated, Yet not kiss at twilight when they met?

How could the Yin exist without the Yang?How could men exist apart from women?How could one exist without the other?

It’s love, I thought, it’s love that makes For completeness between a man and a woman.

Monastical segregation’s wall Didn’t seem to follow natural law.

Perhaps it was just another invention of talk By those who continued to blindly walk The beaten path of traditional morality

With many a weary footstep,Chained to regimentation’s nest.

It was time to begin thinking for myself. Ah, the forbidden readings’ shelf

Had been a dangerous thing indeed.

I removed an old illustrated newspaper

From the shelf and slipped it under the door; Then I poked a pencil through the keyhole Until the key fell out and onto my newspaper.

I carefully slid the paper back under the door— Now I had the key on the floor!

My hand trembled as I turned the key in the lock.

The lock creaked and groaned with noises That sounded to be so loud as to give me away.

It was only my imagination, of course, But my ears hurt with every grind

Of the turn of that ancient lock.


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Bits of rust streamed out of the lock And made a small pile on the floor.

I was praying that the key would not breakOff inside the lock and so I turned it ever so cautiously.

At last the door opened and I was into the nunnery. The lights were off in the corridor,

For no one was ever expected to use it.

I could tell that she was nearby, Since the scent in the air

Was similar to the perfume

That she’d put in her letters.

I heard a whisper:“Brother Peter?”

“Yes,” I said, “I am over here.”

It was so dark that we could not see each other.

But we touched, then embraced And held each other in the dark.

It was very much of a spiritual holding. Physical time and space seemed to fade away

Into a mystical experience.

We floated in the dark,

Snuggling into each other’s being, Blending in ways that seemed To completely transcend the physical;

It was as if we could both occupy The same same physical space.


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Mind, heart, soul, And body were all of a oneness.

We drifted in the blackness, Floating through the universe,

Suspended only by our love.

There was no past, no future; There was only NOW.

She said,“This is such an incredible wholeness.”

She opened her habit to take me in,

And we embraced lovingly, longingly. I felt the unlimited powerOf the universe around me.

She felt that she held The entire universe within her.

We finally returned to the door That led back to the monastery,

And stopped there for awhile.

“My spirit has escaped from its eternal tomb And has sought out yours,” she said.

“I am happy that it has found me and touched me,” I replied. “Farewell for now;

I must go back to the monastery tonight.”

“Farewell, my saintly monk; Please come to see me again.”

“Goodnight, my holy nun; please write.”


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The Aftermath

I returned through the door to the monastery. I smiled to myself because I now knew

That love was reason enough for all that we did.

At dinner, I drank my wine, Ate my food, breathed deep, And enjoyed the experienceOf being alive in every way,

For she had given me the key.

We continued to visit each other

Through the secret door at night.

During the day our notes and letters continued…

“I am reading ‘One Thousand Years of Solitude’ now,”

She wrote.“When I finish,

I’ll share my thoughts about it with you.”

“You are becoming quite a sourceOf inspiration to me, a wellspring of ideas.”

“Have you read ‘Decameron’ by Giovanni Baccaccio? He’s a 12th century Italian writer.

Most of his work is dedicated To the life of nuns and monks in monasteries. I read it when I was younger

And more innocent than I am now. I will reread it again

To get into some of his spirits.”


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“I think I’ll make up a little illustrated book for you, Using some words from our notes

And some pictures of nuns and monks that I have.”

“Perhaps we can leave here together someday, somehow,

But, these are only little dreams that I have, Very far from reality, but I have to admit That I will not settle for less.”


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The Conflagration

And so it went for some time, Until one day a great tragedy struck the monastical village:

The library, the monastery, and the nunnery

Had somehow caught fire and were burning up!

The fire had started in the library When a candle fell onto some dry scrolls.

Something about a scuffle to reach the forbidden books. Soon the entire library was engulfed in flames

And was filled with terrible black smoke.

The fire had then spread to the nunnery, And was well on its way toward the monastery.Everyone started to panic

And ran every which way in the black smoke.

All but me, for I was used to finding my way In the dark from all of the times

That I had visited my friend the holy nun.

So it was that I crawled along the floor, Under the smoke, and found my way to the nunnery,

Unlocking the connecting door, Then going straight to her room in the dark, as always.

Sister Angelina was dazed but alive As I carried her from her room and out of the nunnery.

I had also managed to save one book from the library, The one I had been working on, the old ‘Book of Quatrains’.

We stood outside for awhile and watched Until all the buildings of the monastic village

Had been reduced to glowing embers.


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“What will we do now?” I wondered aloud.

“Like a spark from the embers,” she said,“We will rekindle ourselves

From all that is divine within us, From all that our eternal love does remember! We still have our inner lights.

I am concentrating on it; it is growing brighter.We are alive! We are free! We are renewed!”

“Well, it looks like your thousand years of solitude are over. We’ll have to live out in the world on our own now;

Our yesterdays have now truly been reduced to ashes; There’s nothing left of our life here.”

“We have each other,” she noted.“And I see that you have managed To save a book from the library.”

“It has an unreadable main title,

But is subtitled ‘The Book of Quatrains’.“Unfortunately I was not able To save Aristotle’s greatest masterpiece,

‘Beyond Metaphysics’! It was the only copy in existence—

And now it is lost to mankind forever.”

“Is it a sin for us to continue to give love to each other?”

“Yes, in terms of our moral tradition and man-made law, The giving of love has become a sin,

And yet we had once denied our human nature And all of the natural feelings

That have welled up inside of us.


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“Throughout all of history there have been Many sins written into the rule books,

Some of them quite laughable.

“In the monastery, I was studying many such religions and crazy cults There are thousands of them.

Start one tomorrow and you can have An immediate following.

“Lately, my mind has been opened Through my studies of the natural sciences

And the intuitive philosophies That we have been discussing.”

“Yes, it feels right to give love,” she said confidently.“But can you love the world and me as well?”

“I have found that the capacity for love is boundless. I love you, the earth, life, books, and our friends.”

“Live it!” she answered.“I feel that it’s right to give love.”

Why hoard it!” I exclaimed.

“That’s selfish. But what about these natural desires?”

“It’s difficult to suppress desire; It’s almost self-defeating,

Since it takes an Even stronger desire to resist desire.

Now I go with the natural flow,


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For when I try to go against the flow There is only suffering.”

They began to walk along the road. They turned and looked back

At the smoldering ruinsOf the Abbey and the Convent.

“It’s gone,” They both said in unison with each other,

Used to sensing the other’s thoughts.

“What is that flower you’re carrying?”

“A rose—I don’t know where it came from!”

“Perhaps it has bloomed from our love.”

“I am your rose,” she said.

“Where does the rose bloom?”

“In loving hearts,” she answered.

“What else do you know about the rose?”

“It’s considered the most beautiful of flowers. It is the ultimate representation

Of beauty in nature and life.”

They continued along the road. . . And on to the beginning of this epic,

[The Triumph of]‘Life, Love, and Being’.


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Meta-Return

Back at Vassar library, I awoke the next day and used the sunlight To guide my escape from the closed library

By simply walking out of the front door, For it was locked only to those on the outside.

When the library reopened, I returned and tried to take out the book,

‘Beyond Metaphysics’, by Aristotle.

I was shocked when both the card catalogue

And the reference librarian told me That there was no such book!

“Oh, my! The secrets I could have learned

From that rare book!”

Then I smiled, for in my briefcase

Were all my letters to and from Sister Angelina. My God, it had really happened!


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Meta-Meta-Editing

I turned to ex Sister Angelina and smiled, As we continued our work in Vassar library,

Editing and illustrating the book

That we had lived and written.

I handed her a large stack of papersContaining comments and various corrections.

“These are your comments, followed by my comments:”

“Page 2.

The paragraph about a book.(The last sentence ‘the arts enrich human experience, But they are no substitutes for the living of it’).

You may be surprised, But I often think the same about the arts.

Some people try to live through art (I have a friend like that),

But it only happens when a person

Has no life inside and therefore is looking For a crutch to help living.”

“I agree.One has to get ‘out there’ and live through life,

Rather than, for example, just reading about it.Hemmingway, for example,

Went out and both lived and wrote,

Thus turning a passive activity such as writing Into the more active activity of living. The arts can enhance and improve

On real life and vice versa. I would dry up without real life contact.

I could never really live life entirely as a monk.”


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“Page 5.The paragraph about a witch and the man (‘what has no death has no life principle’).

It’s very true— Because life seems to consist

Of beginnings and ends. A wonderful thing in life Is that everything always changes,

Things begin and end. And what helps us in living is the knowledge

That bad will change into good. It will not always happen that way,

But the unknown gives us

An opportunity to hope so. So, when we are ‘on a bad road’ We hope ‘for death, the end’.

Like when a person is very ill,We hope for his/her death

No matter how selfish it might seem. Let me know if you disagree with me.”

“For example, the figures in a painting Live forever in a perfect world, But know neither life nor death, Neither happiness or sadness.

(What has no death has no life principle.)Given that change is necessary,

And that indeed change is life itself, Then a willingness to change

Seems to make life easier. Bad can change into good If one wants enough for it to happen.

When we’re on a bad road, that’s part of life, too, And such life can also be lived for all it’s worth,

Bad as it is.


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Something bad just makes The next good thing seem even better.

Still, there are times when life is not worth living, As you say. But, again,

I think that the valleys only serve

To make the mountainous heights more glorious. The alternative is to be fat, dumb, and happy— And quite lifeless.”

“Page 10.The meeting with a pen.

The pen refuses to illustrate the written word, In other words, what somebody already created.

It’s not a total expression of imagination for a pen, Since it is using something that was already created By a writer or a poet.

I feel here you are just describing somebody Who is coming out of a closet With its own desire to create.

Am I right?”

“Normally, words are written first And then the illustrations Are selected or drawn to match.

I do this in my books, too, But sometimes I pick the pictures first And then try to write words to match.

This is not so easy, Since one must pick a set of pictures

That can work for a unified story, But when it works, it works great. Anyway, yes, the pen is now free to create—

Free of the burden of conventional story telling. Like Hemmingway,

The pen is going to create and live first,


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Then let the writer’s pencil tell about it. Ideally, living and creating Soon become simultaneous.”

“Page 12.

A paragraph about a man Who finally takes time to think about his life. I like this sentence

‘What sense does it make To live a life that has no time to live?’.

I think it pertains a lot to many, many people Who are creating responsibilities Around themselves to keep busy.

As a result they’re still not happy And are not noticing how their life is passing by.”

“People think that they have to do certain things. Rush, rush, rush. Busy, busy, busy. No time to think. No time to live.

Not enough hours in the day to celebrate life. This is their epitaph:

THEY WERE BORN; THEY WERE BUSY;

THEY DIED.

“Page 14.‘Flow and change are basic features of life;

In fact, they are life.’

I think that Aristotle said that One can’t step twice into the same waters.

“I didn’t know about Aristotle’s saying, But many writers like to make the analogy

Of time and change to the moving water of a river.”


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“Page 16. A conversation about songs.

‘A song, being a poem set to music,Causes heart and soul to converge

Into one grand experience.’ I agree with you. Sometimes a song with wonderful words and music

Can really turn the soul inside out.”

“Music is a natural high and can Really bring forth deep emotion and profound feelings.

I have the Pachelbel Cannon with words on it.

It really gets to me.”

“Page 17. She said, ‘let us never wait;

Death disposes of joys put off too late!’ That’s my philosophy of life.

I am just like you, I never wait. I live today, not tomorrow,

Because there might not be any tomorrow.”

“There is only now. This is one of the most difficult concepts

For many people to incorporate into their lives. Some never do.”

“Page 19.

Two [people] is [are] greater than one plus one!’ These are great words. I have the same feeling about marriage—Two people developing themselves together

And creating something big Of their life which is one now.”


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“Of course this is true in friendships As well as in marriages.”

“Page 20.

‘There are large worlds of life to live in.’ You are so correct! We can spend it in arguments, resentments

And animosity like you say,Or we can spend it admiring a rose.”

“Every day I see people boxing themselves in a corner With petty grievances, insecurities and small thinking.

But life is just waiting to be lived in a much larger scope. They should stand back and look at the big picture, Then plainly see that their quibbling

Occupies just a very small space And that they are several orders of magnitude

Removed from the potential of the human race.”

“The same page.

‘Spend time on actions, not on intentions.’ You have to forgive me, But this sounds like a cliché to me.”

Yes, this is a cliché. Although clichés contain great thoughts,

They have lost their meaning because They’re no longer heard word by word.

So, one must reword clichés in such a way That they can become new again. Typically, great thoughts will be

Reinvented again and again. I try to turn clichés into real live demonstrations

That will make more of an impact,


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But I goofed on this one you mentioned. Somehow I should demonstrate

That one action is worth many good intentions.”

“Page 22.

‘When will you do what you really want to do?’ This paragraph pertains to the subject Of living life or observing life.”

“Start right now.How many people are going

To do something ‘someday’”.

“Page 25.‘Love is giving, without any motive Toward getting anything back in return.’

I agree and disagree on this issue.On a philosophical plane, you are right.

But in reality I don’t think it can always happen Because human beings live on the ground,

Not high in the sky and therefore sooner or later

Have a need for feelings in return. Some might feel differently because Some may already have a permanent feeling of love. So some do not need to ask for anything in return

From any other friendships that they have.They could feel very differently if they were alone.

You can object to this if you would like.”

“All I can say is that if love Is not given freely and unconditionally, Then, whether one realizes it or not,

One has placed definite conditionsOn the giving of love.

Next come demands, possession,


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Imprisonment, cages, requirements— Almost like a business investment. If you force or encourage someone

To love you by conditions, Then what have you really gained?

How do you know that the love is real?One may feel special by insisting That the spouse stay home

And not go out any more like s/he used to, But this is just an artificiallyCreated way of feeling special.

However, not to worry; Unconditional love has a way of coming back.

And when it doesn’t, then it is—at least—a gift. I think the confusion here, mine included,Has to do with the difference between needs and wants.

Needs are those things universally Required by all humans, such as food,

Shelter, clothing, and love. Wants are those extra things like toys. Naturally one may also give love out

Of a basic human need to receive love and be in love. I’m just saying that love should be gratefully received, Not TAKEN or manipulated by conditions and demands.

So, the satisfaction of human needs is only natural. But love is only meaningful in the long run

If it happens naturally. Love is giving and caring and sharing. I would still give love unconditionally

Even if wasn’t receiving any love. Although I would still look for love. Love is a great thing!

Isn’t it amazing that people Don’t spend much time

Seeking love or giving love?”


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“Page 27.‘I gave the feelings their due.

I visited the shrine of sorrow.’ I like this idea about feelings that pass.”

“Feelings pass, But mourning is sometimes necessary,

Although time heals.”

“Page 30.‘Allowance of other beliefs seems

To lessen the credibility of one’s own belief’.

At first I disagreed with this statement, But then I thought deeper and now I think that you are right.

Your statement can also explain The fanatics who live in religion.”

“Yes, the fanatics are not open To others’ beliefs and are very intolerant.

In beliefs based on faith, superstition, And old writings from divine vision, Remember that only a hair breath Separates belief from non belief.

Those same people, If brought up in a different religion, Would be just as fanatical therein.

Catholics think that Jesus was of God.

However, other religions don’t. I knew a Methodist lady who wouldn’t go To her daughter’s wedding

Because she married a Catholic. Sounds silly to us, but it’s serious to them.

Everyone thinks they are right,


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But as we’ve seen,Given all the various religions

And their contradictions, Most religions are not likely to be in the right.”

“All in all, I had a great time reading the work. Sometimes you repeat ideas, for example: Living now and not waiting

Until later appears several times, But in general, it’s very touching.

I like the way you composed it: Two people spending time together

And at the same time they are meeting

All these other people and objects. Also, the part about religion is very interesting.”

“I repeat certain themes, In slightly different ways,

So as to make a deeper impression. Most people, when presented with a thought,

Might realize then and there that it’s a good idea,

But then later go right back to the way They used to live, just out of habit.However, when they can see and read The same idea over and over again,

A positive visualization begins to grow In their minds to obtain more of a foothold.

It’s not a simple matter to break a pattern of livingWe tend to get conditioned by the world,

And, little by little, imperceptibly, A facade builds up around us Until we become brainwashed.

So, repetition is a way of unbrainwashing. The ideas I’m suggesting are not complex; They’re just little common sense notions


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About the human condition That I’ve observed in myself and others.

Philosophy can be enjoyable. The trick is to present it not as a lecture,

But in an enjoyable way.

I remain the monk who loves you.

“Let’s write some poems and exchange them.”

“That’s a good idea.”


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Being Fling

Our roseate hearts are cleansed by the dew, And lucky are we if the day finds us new; As every blossom on the bush blows full,

We hail the wonders that morning bestrew.

Spring grows a clutch of blossoms to propose; A zephyr blows nature’s page to disclose: Spring, departing, caresses the summer

And from this one kiss blooms the summer rose.

Spring’s last breath awakens him, he’s living:

The life-force passing to summer from spring.His clover spreads, vines grow strong, roses cling— All from the kiss of which spring dies giving.

The rose has thorns to keep the beasts away; As such they preserve the fragrant bouquet.Her petals unfold, meeting the light of day;

The queen of flowers melts my heart away.

Life’s hardships can be softened by beauty; Its weaknesses can be strengthened by truth.

As roses blossom like realizations, Beauty itself blooms from the well of truth.

Soft breezes blow, caressing us two As we kiss the roses and drink the dew.

Reason and passion soon merge into one, As truth and beauty make their rendezvous.

The rose is the flower that the bee cruises, Meeting there the butterfly that love chooses;

We unfold the petals of the blossom, Then drink the nectar of love’s sweet juices.


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Her scent is ripe and her name means nectar.Exotically blossoming I found her,

And buzzed my way into her flower, For I was the bee and she my partner.

The Rose was pure white when it first was born, Until Eve kissed it with her ruby lips

Or ’came it red when Venus fell on a thorn, Rushing to the aid of struck Adonis?

Or did the Rose sprout forth, all fully blown, From the heart of a Goddess, do you think?

Or was it out of Cupid’s nectar grown, When he poured to Earth that Heavenly drink?

Or when the nightingale, with hope forlorn,Overpowered by the Rose’s perfume,

Impaled himself in love upon her thorn, Then revived in the beauty of her bloom?

With the Rose the Earth is rich forever— It’s born from spring’s dying kiss to summer; It wears all the gems that the dew has wreathed,

Blooming wherever summer’s breath has breathed.


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Old Autumn

The glowworms, fairy stars come down to ground,Gleam the shadowy woods through summer’s round; Then, fall’s leaves flutter through the quiet air,

The autumn being the sunset of the year.

The rustling of the trees comes to my ear, In this, the most mellow time of year.

The harvest brings fulfillment, yearning, too, For autumn is both a smile and a tear.

Each year, in October, Jack-in-the-Green

Has a chilled rendezvous with Old Autumn, Who colors the leaves that Jack made verdant A season ago. They meet out in the woods—

Although never in the same place, for seasonsCome and go and meet each other as they may.

This year Old Autumn was a little late, So Jack-in-the-Green sat down on a stump.

Jack pondered his disappearing green youth, For someday he would have to take Autumn’s place

And perform all of his withering tasks… A few days later Old Autumn came by—

He gave unto Jack a cheery greeting And a warm embrace that marked summer’s end.

He gazed fondly at Jack, his younger self, And saw the vitality that was once his—

Then said, “Once I was young; once I was you!”“I know,” said Jack, “Do you remember how

I refused to believe you, saying ‘no’?” “Yes,” remembered Old Autumn, “very well—


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“Like the time I met the Old Man, Winter,On a snowy December day long ago.

He told me that he was my older self— But I didn’t believe him! Told him off!

“True, I was already feeling my age, But, after seeing the old white-haired geezer,

I felt young again! Yes, he knew me well.”“Yes,” said Jack, “so I made a little poem:

“When younger, I knew not my elder same, But when older, I told my younger same

That youth must be young—he knew not my name! It was my younger self that was to blame!”

Swallows twittered in the skies as sprightly Jack-in-the-Green picked a ripening gourd

And gave it to Old Autumn, who encouraged,“You won’t have to meet the Old Man until

You take my place, for only I can see him After I take down the last of the oak leaves. For now, the Old Man sends but his errand boy,

Jack Frost, your twin brother. Hi ho, here he comes!

Aye, young Jack, this is the rarest of days, For the three of us can be together

But once a year on this bright day / cool night.”

“The Old Man is so lonely, is he not?”

Asked Jack-in-the-Green, “for he sees only you.” “Yes. Old Man Winter lives cold and alone—

He never sees the fair maidens of spring Who reinvent the natural world each year.”


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There is a chill in the air as Jack Frost arrives And sings out a greeting: “Hello my brother!

Hello Old Autumn! It’s going to be cold—Our first frost, but don’t worry too much—

“It won’t harm the pumpkins any at all.” Old Autumn sighed and quick replied: “Good.

Now the rest of the leaves will crack and fall All the more due to the ice in their veins;

“Yes, they’ll fall like the illusions of youth,‘Lying carelessly on the granary floor’ and

‘On a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies’, as Keats wrote.”

Composing himself, Old Autumn continued:“And for those of you who think that ‘warm days

Will never cease’, let us ever remember Dear Johnny Keats who died so young (25);

“However, he lived and saw much than someOf us might hope to do in a lifetime.” A shiver ran through Jack-in-the-Green,

Hence he said: “It’s cold; I must go now, for,

Summer passed away in his sleep last night; Autumn, sweet and plump, carries his offspring.The year dies in the night; ghostly winter looms;

Lo; the flower is already in the seed.”

“Well done, young Jack-in-the-Green; quick, go, for Soon enough comes your autumn of care

Sobering into age, thence intoThe pale white winter of death,


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“Though not yet your warm indolent summerOf contentment lazing into middle-age,

But surely past is our crisp,Flowering youth-spring of joy!

“Such then, comes the end of summer’s dreams, The blanching of the grassy banks of streams,

But all fragrances my elves remember Through their long sleep in the winter embers.

“The blossoms fall, showers of fragrant beauty, As leaves fade, while the bulbs store up energy;

Nature’s floral dreams grant this destiny, For these leavings enrich earth’s potpourri.

“Flowers lay their heads to sleep in soft beds, Blanketed by webs of gossamer threads;

My elfin creatures cast their spectral glow, As winter stars—floral twins—start to grow.

“Later, when surely all the world is dead, An elf will stand atop Old Winter’s grave And say ’tis not dead’ and, by magic bred,

Make Snowdrops flower in the tomb’s heat wave.”

Once, I, the author, ventured outside at Four on a dark frosty October morning…

It was so quiet that I could sense the

Cosmos as it played rhythm to my beating heart.

I saw a preview of the winter’s stars:Orion, you are so high in the sky—

There for only the astronomer’s eye— As all the meteors go flying by.


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Then I heard a rustling sound in the leaves Around me—a skunk perhaps—but no,

It was the sound of many falling leaves. I knew that it must be him, Old Autumn;

He was out there somewhere. Then I sensed him Going by, for some of the leaves on the

Tree right in front of me broke loose and Floated away, hitting some other leaves

On the way down, making that rustling sound That I’d heard earlier. Then it stopped, but

Soon it started up on the next tree, and Then the next—and so I could very well

Follow the path of Old Autumn makingHis rounds in the misty October morn.

Chrysanthemums drank the mellow day, Falling petals carried the light away.

The weed-flowers grew, marking autumn’s track, The blossoms that almost brought the spring back, But, winter’s white death wrap was drawn over, Smothering the earth’s last warm sweet odour.

The autumn fog enswirled, the mist upcurled, Into nothingness the wisp slow unfurled.

November flew by, a colorless dearth,

And December, amid death, a festive birth.

Youth and Beauty made agèd Winter mourn For Summer’s grain—the waving wheat and corn; For Old Autumn, withered, wan, had passed on,

Leaving the earth a widow, weather worn.


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Long since have the winds scattered the leavesOf the trees to make of them a

Burial shroud for the flowers that diedGrieving at summer’s passing. All is death.

The fall is now nearly lost to memory— Winter is summer’s ungrateful heir,

Squandering his riches and abusing his gifts’ It’s not Old Man Winter’s fault, but his duty.

Summer lies underground now, forgotten, Silent and crusty, covered by winter’s

Stern mantle. Only April’s tears can makeHis grave green again in the springtide.

As seasons pass, the world comes to our door: Spring sings through the wingèd troubadour;

Summer calls with the rose, ’midst the woodlore; Autumn crows, plump and sweet, through frosty hoar.

Joy and exuberance are spring’s largesse. Sunlight, warmth, and growth are summer’s bequest. Autumn brings wealth with the mellow harvest.

Winter’s fruit is peace—its bounty is rest.

Past us is the flower of spring’s soft breath, Though not ended our summer of promise;Soon enough will come the autumn of care,

Beheld, at last, the pale white winter of death.

March, April! spring!—we’ll reign as we May there Between June and her sister September,

Then prolong the fall, till November come December, when we can sweet Remember.


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In the whisperings of the after-years The winds of time slowly dry the tears; Nor would I take back a single drop, for

From those tears the flowers grew without fears.

In spring, we rise from the garden at birth. Summer blooms long with the roses’ fresh mirth.

Autumn creeps in—we wither on the vine. Last comes winter, when we return to earth.


(62)



The Love Life of the Glow-Worm

Flashing desire, the glowfly twinkled across The starry summer sky, love’s energy unspent,

Searching through the darkness, with passion’s might,

For the beacon of her consent—the mating call Of pulsing, green and yellow light.

At last, came the reply:“Yes, oh yes”, a-light, she said;

Now he became a firefly, As at once she did too.

To a closing flower They together therein flew, Blinking, winking in the

Seclusion of its petal bed. This dance of light and love—

Their honeymoon— Brightened the night till It looked much like noon.

Those jolts and bolts, Surging, merged in currents,

And swept back and forth As they signaled delight—

Fires luming and oft reluming The flames of love With electric hugs,

For they had, by now, Become lightning bugs.


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The Three Heavenly Things on Earth

Whether by accident or by design, Not many Heavenly things remain on Earth.

I suggest just three: flowers, love, and dreams.

A fourth, elfin creatures, Is perhaps only a pleasant speculation

On near-Heavenly beings that for some reason Exist in the half-light scenes of our imagination.

Had flowers never appeared on Earth,Could anyone even have conceived of them?

Or, say, if the natural world Was all green or had no color(Colors are seen mostly in the flowers)

Would there have been a need For us to be even cognizant of colors?

More than anything else on earth, Flowers have universal appeal, being picked,

Grown, presented, used for medications,

And just plain admired as beautiful by everyone. Some think that flowers were God’s going away gift To Eve as she departed the Garden of Eden,

As in my poem ‘Flora Symbolica’.

The second Heavenly thing on Earth, Night dreams during sleep,

Shows that we really don’t need eyes to see,

An amazing insight in itself. Actually, all reality takes place in the mind’s eye— It just looks like it’s out there.

Dreams, whatever their ultimate purpose, Provide an all night cable TV channel on which We can put on almost any show that we chose—

Or we can just simply lay back


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And discover what’s on our mind, If we can read past the static.

Finally, love, which is perhaps the greatestOf the Heavenly things on Earth

Since it is the greatest feeling on Earth. Would life even be worth living without affection, Romance, passion, and loving? I wonder.

And is there any excuse not to seek it out?

Though many other Heavenly things Were perhaps removed from the Earth When we were cast out of the Garden,

Love, dreams, and flowers Were allowed to remain— Lent by us forever

Seemingly from someOther dimension.


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Thinking About Thoughts Themselves

What is this conviction, in many, That innate sense of impression fondOf those spirits invisible and beyond?

Who or what put it there, Those notions of the thin air?

To investigate, one must put aside The very judgment that descends From the conclusion deep-rooted,

For the inherent blocks its own analysis.

Whence it came forth so prevalent, This indwelling urge to believe?

The plot ever thickens and twists And turns upon itself, bare—Natural Selection put it there!

One can have many feelings that surface

From the heredity of long ago. Some are not so good, obviously, Some are even forbidden thoughts.

Life’s still emotionally primitive— Some ‘negative’ feedback mechanisms in

The central nervous system, some useless, Still send thousands-of-years-old messages.

And so the feelings are banished, But subtle is the differenceOf these and those inklings

Closer to the boundary of distinction.


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We don’t fall for thoughts of violence, Usually, although it is possible for some

To hear these directions as gospel;

But, we may fall for some ‘innocuous’ views,

Slipping over the threshold, indiscriminate, Saying, “Well, I felt it, so thus it must be so.”

Do we control our thoughts or do our thoughtsControl us? Could we, silly as might seem,

Just be falling, hook and line, for the thoughts? Think deep—thoughts may tell you the answer!

We may fall for our thoughts, hook, line, and sinker:Conditioned responses, reflexes, orOverwhelming emotions, some spurious,

Or ancient, planted by evolution, or unbalanced.

Emotions are slow to react to logic, Like molasses or slow forming crystals,

Or not at all, like rocks, blocking us.

Unless and until they change, progress halts.

Reason and emotion are hard to coordinate,Each having a separate pathway to the mind; That perhaps is all there is to tell about the

Miseries and follies of human history.

From its safe subjective place that’s free of fear,

The higher self, our Conscious Awareness, can witness The strange thoughts and emotions that surfaceOn the mind, sent there by the subconscious brain.

First-level thoughts are beliefs and desires, But second-level thoughts are beliefs


(67)



And desires about the beliefs and desires, Becoming able spectators of the scene beneath.

Higher Awareness, which can but witness,Is a safe haven from which to observe

The drama of our lives playing in our minds,Granting us a sobering distance from it.

This detachment allows this“Thinking about a thought” Without the thought itself Trying to steal the show.


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(69)



Discounting Evolution

Those who are not at all “interested” in Evolution Through the avoidance of it for whatever reason Arrive at the debate of the TOE not fully armed,

And thus fall into the trap of suggesting That a bunch of lucky chances in a rowCan not amount to anything

And that this proves An Intelligent Designer.

This is like supposing that When an organism goes to a casino

And keeps on betting all it has For billions of years cannot win— And this is certainly true,

But this is not representativeOf natural selection at all,

For it is not all at once in a row And so chance is not

The scientific answer to design;

Natural selection is.

Although an organism would Surely go broke (die) In this false scenario,

What is also really the case in evolution Is that there are other organisms Always taking over (surviving)—

Those that are of a stable platform (The winnings are already in the bank) Up to each moment

In between the “gamblings”On the mutations

(The spin of the wheel


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Or the play of the cardsOr the throw of the dice).

This is a simple concept That still eludes the Creationists

Because they are now so desperate In their attempts to preserve the invisible.


(71)



Color Symbols

In the nether world, I learned the lore and Legends of the colors, of their uses

In nature and emotions, the whatfor Of their light’s glowing activity:

All color variants, quite numberless, Are made from the three primaries, no less;

Namely: red, yellow, and blue—often backed By colorless white tinges or shades of black.

From just these three essential hues derives All of heaven’s prismatic radiance, Myriad colors of floral brilliance,

And technicolors that come so alive.

The offspring of married red and yellow Is the secondary, orange, a bright fellow; Its sibling, of blue and yellow, is green,

With, of course, some gradation in between.

Saintly brother purple, twixt reds and blues,Completes the second generation hues.

Next to arrive, lime-green, is a grandchild,

As are all the tertiary colors wild—

They’re crimson, magenta, maroon, scarlet, Amber, auburn, salmon, ocher, russet,

Mauve, taupe, fuchsia, cherry, cerise, umber, Teal, emerald, and vermilion others.


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Strangely enough, all the color-pairs That symbolize seasons and festive fairs

As they’re found naturally in nature’s ways, Do contrast on the color wheel, crossways:

Direct opposites on the color wheel, Sky-blue and leafy-orange, represent fall, For they are autumn’s contrasting colors

That quite up for its lack of flowers.

As with crocus, spring’s floral colors yet Remain yellow primrose, purple violet—

The sensual sun, as it were, warming

The virginal earth, with love, into spring.

The Christmas Holiday Season is “seen” In its opposing hues of red and green—

As in Holly, berry-red, ever-green,Or in Poinsettias’ red flush, leaf of green.

We’re out of diametric color sets,

So, which for summer? It must then contain The entire spectrum, as these the sunset And the rainbow express, in shine and rain.

Since winter’s snow hides all things out of sight, Its colors are hidden inside white—and night, The cold season’s symbols, for they conceal

All of spring and summer’s bright floral feel.

For that as different as day and night, We have the twin-opposites: black and white, For the day-clock first became dark and light

When twin-gods split day & night, wrong & right.


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Heaven’s splendor, white, for purity, bless,Holds all the colors of prismatic light,

But the symbol of the Prince of Darkness, Black, removes all the colors from our sight

So then, it is proved that, in both nature And in the color wheel, opposites attract And complement in their contrast—to procure

Both real and symbolic color contracts.

Next, we’ll turn to the colors lone, to see The whatfor of their light’s activity,

But first, let’s ask, Are there any missing hues,

Unknown, hidden in rainbows, or not used?

Hidden colors? No, for I see how red goes To orange, graduating through the rainbow

Into yellow and on through green, to let Blue into indigo to become violet.

Perhaps, between green and blue, lies some new

Tincture, unique enough to be it’s own hue, But, alas, those turquoise waves everyday, In tropic seas, wash that theory away.

Yet, there may be some new colors that lie Before or beyond the spectrum and the eye,

Like infrared or ultraviolet,Or gold, which only the fairies can see.

But what of clear, white, silver, gray, or black? Well, they’re not true colors, for, either they lack

All color (black, clear) or hide all hues (white)Or are mixtures (gray, silver): black-white.


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But wait, there is a well-known color,One quite common in both dress and nature,

That cannot be found in the rainbow—Give up? It’s brown—and has nowhere to go!

Brown is the color of death, like the leaves That crumble dry and lifeless when earth grieves, Which is why the faeries won’t let it show

In their magically spectral rainbow.

But, alas, brown’s new hue is not to last, For brown’s no more than red, yellow, and black.

So, onward we move: What do colors mean?

What’s nature’s physiological scheme?

When we see red, we see danger: Stop! Blood! Metabolism rises, adrenaline floods—

And, so, restaurants use red tablecloths To increase both the appetite and the cost.

Yellow, the quickest color we can see,

Means caution, as with black on a bee, But yellow’s bright and cheerful, too, and lends Light to small and sunless rooms like kitchens.

Healthful orange is the common man’s color; So, to make the expensive look cheaper,

Such as with a hotel, they paint it orange, And put some shiny polish on the door hinge.

Blue invigorates, and, therefore, providesExtra strength and power, so blue’s on our side When the home team’s locker room is painted In its hue (visitor’s was pink—they fainted).


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Blue, as was said, is good, except on food, For few foods are blue; so, in diet mood,

Put a blue light in your kitchen—and lose Weight avoiding repulsive looking food.

Pink (red tinted with white) debilitates, Sapping strength and temper, so, that is why It’s used in prison cells and locker rooms,

For it calms the most violent inmates.

What of purple? Well, it’s mournful, but, too, It’s stately, regal, and virginal, new.

Of green, though it’s seldom worn, none complain;

And use it in their carpets to stay sane.

The stars are not just white, they scintillate: Sirius is blue, its companion green;

Betelgeuse, red; many, like Sol, yellow; Arcturus, orange—all jewels constellate.

Well, as colors go, so, then, do we, see:

Hues are just differing wavelengths of light That the brain interprets, in its own right, For some natural colored necessity.

May I chance upon a land of strange rainbows Of elfin-hued flowers: red delphiniums,

Black tulips, orange fuchsias, white marigolds, Bronze grass, and the legendary blue rose.


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Wisdom

(wise-dom)

Is the superior judgment, understanding, And application that is based

On both knowledge and experience, Far surpassing erudition; a quality of being wise. The antonym is “folly”.

It goes so deep that one may even Easily ignore one’s own (conditioned) thoughts

Which arise that are unknowable beliefs Falsely identified as truth and fact

(A second level view: beliefs about beliefs, sort of).One who has it may be be called a Wiz(No relation to the magic of a wizard).

Learning feeds it.

Some run into the walls of life, Time and time again, ever bashed and injured,

But never ever learning.

“Wishes” seen but only through one’s own eyes“Say” that they ought not to, That they shouldn’t; but,

Wisdom notes that they still do, the reality— That they can’t, they don’t, and they won’t.

Such is the human condition for some That may be immune to learning, The curse that prevents the will

From becoming wider and having more choices. Yet, the ultimate vision remains available For the rest and one day the “some”

May be swept up into its sum.


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The Pursuit of Mercuria

For some years I have pursued that lovelyGreco-Roman woman named Mercuria;

I’ve yearned till I could no longer reason.

Once, just her sight would have pleased me;

But now, at whatever cost and downfall, I must taste of her fiery passion;

At whatever risk I plot her every move. When the time is right, I’ll be seeing her;

It will be just us, while the world’s asleep.

The problem is that she’s a fast woman And is quite difficult to even sight, Much less capture, entrance, embrace, and kiss.

And I can only have her for awhile; Before dawn: if I linger with her long, We’d soon be consumed by a rising fire; After twilight, we’d be lost in darkness.

Yes, I have courted her many times, But she’s so elusive, fleeting, and small.Once I waited for her just before nightfall;

All was perfect—’twas the best time of all.

There was the calm of a windless sunset, Then the brief brooding of twilight’s gloaming,

And the promise of a slow sultry night…Clouds arrived—and so I missed her again!

She strayed not far from her fiery lover. While I may have glimpsed her (I wasn’t sure),

She slid toward her master’s gravity,Condemned to whirl about his light;


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However, I was quite determined;‘Twas the thrill of the quest that kept me strong.

I planned to surprise her just before dawn…

I crept onto the frosty roof, near slipping, There waiting. Damn! Clouds were boiling along And blocking the view of her beauty rare.

Suddenly the clouds cleared, and she was mine— Just over the eastern horizon was

The planet Mercury—dear Mercuria— I stayed with her as long as possible,

Naked in the night, until, to blazes She went when the sun arose; however,

Memories remain of those precious moments And now she belongs to me forever.

Venus is too easy, Mars is always there, Jupiter ever-present, Saturn bright,

The Earth under my feet, Pluto underworlded;

King Neptune, Queen Urania? Where are you?


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The Caldron That Almost

Brewed Humanity Away

At Toba, in northern Sumatra, a supervolcanoErupted only seventy-four thousands years ago.

Six years of volcanic winter followed this eruption, Bringing pre-humans to the very edge of extinction.

There were but a few thousand of them left around, Since very little light could reach the dusty ground.

It took twenty thousand years for them to recompose; From this handful of hardy souls we humans arose.

In 1960, Bob Christiansen looked around everywhere At Yellowstone National Park for its volcanic caldera, But found it nowhere. By some coincidence, NASA

Had photos from a recently tested high altitude camera.

Astounded, Bob learned why he failed to spot the caldera; It was virtually the entire park, 2.2 million acres of area!

Yellowstone must have blown up with a violent misery Far beyond anything known throughout our history.

The crater was forty miles across. The cataclysm wasEven beyond the scale of what the imagination does;

It had thousands of times more monstrous molten fire Than Mount St. Helens. Krakatau was but a firecracker.

Yellowstone’s eruptions averageOne really massive blow every 600,000 years, The last one being 630,000 years ago;

It is long overdue; Better take out

Some no-fault insurance.


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What is Man (and Wo-man)

But Sapiens Supreme

Oh Man! What a piece of work, the mind; What noble deeds done and undone in kind.

What Rube Goldberg inventions heaped upon— In the layers of brains the mind is made upon.

What is this sapiens mammal animal, But of some slime and of brutish law.

Let us ‘neglect’ this state of affairingOn the grounds that it is unappealing.

So, then… We are spun of the Eternal Golden Braid,

Those windings of Truth, Love, and Beauty made From the Goodness of Purity Immortal—

The Theory of Everything’s singular portal.

What is Man but the special chosen species

For which all the plants grow and the waters reach, For which the Earth turns ‘round, and orbits A nuclear furnace spreading Love’s energy,

Enabling us to thrive above any and all creation.

What is Man but the only bloom for which all The 13.7 billions years of evolution and love

Have occurred in a predetermined random yeast

To form and flower such a vainglorious beast.

It’s ever on forever’s edge that we meet our destiny, That in our temporary parentheses of Eternity

We would flourish for just a moment, bidden As the blossoms of Perfection’s Flower Garden.


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A hundred trillion stars and countless shores Were built to light our universal nights explored;

Forty million other lower species, too, the All-Might Placed about our world, merely for our delight.

Our name is Writ Large on the Heaven’s marquee, In the supernovae stardust showered from Thee. From Nothing not You came, but, of a naughtOur own universe was made and ever wrought.

A starring role we play in this reality show,Every atom spinning fine just for us to know,

Our ancestors rising/falling for us to stand upon,

Oh man! They lived and died for our lone promise!

Every shaft of light shines with us in mind; Thus, it beams forth our beginning and our end—

In and of God’s hidden and Heavenly Shrine.Oh life! We cherish being, that of yours and mine.

We do so much deserve reward beyond this role—

And so it is that one’s immortal spirit-soul, That angelic vapour that drives a living being, Shall go forth to glory on behind the scene.

We are not merely some mammally organic luck, But purposely evolved on this planet, near a star, In that intended long and winding mindless ‘birth’Of slowly drifting time, dust, and selection by death

That ever sifted the best from the rest: Sapiens!

(Now why is the soul so ‘true’ and so far with it faith goes? It is only because one so much wishes it to be what knows.)


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The Solidarity of the Concordance

The blend of the coalition grows upon itself, Striving for the dynamic-balance—of light

And dark, Yin and Yang, and wrong and right.

Reality’s not found in separate actions, But in related events blended in twilight.

The concept of Classicism accentuatesOrder and clarity of thought, simplicity,

Restraint, balance, dignity, and A mistrust of emotion and excess;

However, since it relies on imitation and The acceptance of objective standards,

It may lack spontaneity, and degenerate Into excessive traditionalism

And empty formalism.

Romanticism embraces an exaltation

Of the feelings, an individualism, With new modes of imagination,Of freedom of form, spontaneity,

Self-expression, and subjectivity.

It began, at least in art, music, and literature, As a revolt against 18th century doctrines

Of restraint, forms and rules, decorum,

Stagnation, and blind tradition.However, romanticism and classicism Are now taken as more general terms.

Some exemplars of their contrast are: Passion as opposed to reason; The whole against the details;


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The Yin facing the Yang; The right vs. the left side of the brain

“Don’t confuse me with emotion”Or “don’t confuse me with facts”;

The sails confronting the rudder of the soul.

This epitome may become a battlefield,Or it may grace a smooth sailing ship.

How easy they are not transformed, These apparently opposing forces

That may wage war upon the other, But, how tremendous they can be

In a bond of confederacy.

Pure reason, ruling all alone, Is a force confining and stale;

While passion, unattended, Is a flame that burns

To its own end.

Poetry is an ideal of the unison: The right side of the brain Provides the inspiration;

The left side devises the rhyme.

An utter, absolute classicistOr romanticist is an extremist! S/he honors one worthy guest

In the house above the other, And so loses the love and faith of both.

Witness the average classicist at IBM,One who knows little of the humanities,

One who ever works through lunch,


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Never having the time to hear of life, Making every decision by the book

But none from the heart.Or the total romanticist:

One who can’t even hold a job,

Even taking drugs, and losing all control.

The writing of this page—this analysis— Is rather a classicist undertaking.

But, I do not live by the unbending way And therefore my songbird Is never imprisoned within.

Perhaps, it chooses to be here, classically,Or perhaps it will, at any time of day, Burst forth and enjoy a total feeling.

Nor does a long wild night of lovemaking Mean that you’ve gone bonkers.

Life is full of spikes of valleys and mountains—

It is only when one can’t merge the twoOr at least make jumps between That one may need some reflection.

How can there be any sort of resolution Of a dichotomy in which one sideExpresses itself so logically and

The other in emotions and images?

Well, if either your sails or rudder be broken, You will soon be dead in the water... Therefore, the discord and rivalry

Of one’s elements must become Rhythm and all sweet melody!


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It’s not the same for everyone, But the knowledge of

The ‘contrast’ itself is the first step…

Therefore, let your blended soul exalt

Your reason to the height of passion, That it may sing and fly about, Letting it direct your passion with reason,

That your passion may live and survive Through its daily death and resurrection, but

In effect, ever arising from its own ashes.

Now, no one can ever achieve

The ultimate and perfect balance Between classicism and romanticism, But for the rare times when in the ‘zone’,

And indeed, this balancing attempt Itself smacks of classicism!

And so we all have leanings— And that’s what I mean when I say

My tilt is toward romanticism.

Emotion, slightly favored, rules, But every so often I do check in

With logic and analytical reason.

Thereby, I enjoy the world, mainly, Because, like many of you,

I am much impressed by it wonders…

Without perception’s deeper depiction,One finds little that excites—

Not noticing much, ever in a hurry, And seldom having the time…


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Two other poor relativesOf classicism and romanticism

Are substance and surface glory.

The romanticist in me likes the veneer

Of the shiny red car or motorcycle, But the classicist in me would like To know that the vehicle operates well, And even be able to take it much apart,

For that is the very substance.

When I maintain my car or cycle well, Shine it up, and then speed off

Into the country sunshine With the wind on my face, Then I have the best of both worlds!

Now, I really don’t know all the answers— I just like to tug at the hem of the garment

In which life’s mysterious dualities are clothed.

As ever as in all good marriages,“The oak tree and the cypressGrow not in each other’s shadow”.

People involved in the arts may Like to listen to music while they work

In order to deactivate the left side of the brain By giving it something innocuous to focus on.

Personally, I often dream up many ideas While listening to music that moves me deeply,

For then the imaginative powerOf the brain’s right hemisphere

Is free and inspired to soar unbounded.


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Yes, I do lean toward romanticism... Perhaps it is my nature nurtured,

Or perhaps I feel a need to counteract The overabundance of classicism in the world,

Or perhaps because in romanticism there is grandeur, While in classicism there is but cold logic And endless analytical thought.

But, even with these leanings, The good romanticists never forgets

That it is classicism that pays the bills That authorizes the indulgences.

I have some hope, that, In any totally classical person,

No matter how stern or dull s/he be, That one day, somehow, somewhere, There will come some small measure,

But, then, thereafter, An ever-luring triumph of jubilation.

Yes, the desire to be orderly and factual Is a part of the human species,

But there are other yearnings in every person, The desire to be imaginative and unrestrained in

Expressing personal emotions, Warmly and freely flowing,

And to take in art, music, literature,

As well as escalate the way one lives a life From an illuminating flame fed from the self, A source of lucid experience thatCan usher wisdom and fervency,

As the means to the rounded truth.


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Then luckily, these may be some of its aspects: Sentiment, celebration of nature, interest in the past,

A new emphasis on feeling and the senses,Even actually enjoying melancholy and sadness.

Thence comes love of freedom, mysteries,Even fascinating figures and heroes, The allegorical, a delight in whimsy, The improbable, and the ‘impossible’,

Of legend, folklore, and mythology, An awe before the immensity of what is—

The Earth as a friend and The sky as a warm blanket,

And certainly the uniqueness of the self.

The curious blend never lets one down,Ever keeping one centered, but ranging. So, extroversion entertains, at large,

While love’s introversion is great, one-on-one.

Intuition and sensing

Can sustain each the other In a magnificent fusion.

Thinking and feeling combined Are of an unbeatable synergy,

Of a being coalesced and intermixed. Sensing the general direction but

Not exactly knowing one’s next move

Is of a spontaneous higher ‘order’.

There looms the classical planning of A magnificently grand adventure,

Whether triumphant or of glorious failure Always of the superb and the sublime.


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Merge these ingredients, until smooth, This loving mix, mingling and combining,

Soon melding into the ‘zone’, well integrated, Stirred, whisked, and folded,

In and out, the commingling That leads to the harmony of amalgamation’s union, The marriage and the synthesis, the very admixture

Of the concoction of life’s ever-during brew.

The parts all sum to the whole flow, so, Life must be more like a mosaic done

Than some focused laser tunnel of sun.

Since few lengthy pleasures are lent to us, We build a stained-glass window of small ones.

Oh, thou soul, dare to live near the edge; Brave the walk of the line, balancing fun

There between adventure and misfortune— For the greatest blunder in life is to

Repeatedly fear that you might make one.

Hail! Lord Byron’s Golden Mean extends: Let us have wine, lovers, song, and laughter—

Water, chastity, prayer the day after. Such we’ll alternate the rest of our days— So, on the average, we’ll make Hereafter!

Wholeness arrives by mixing the suspension:Classicists drone toward dull perfection, Romanticists drown in feeling’s affection;

Worse, others alternate between extremes— It’s not this nor that, but a joined direction.


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Harmony then rolls along, round and round:Each holding within it the seed of the other—

Yin reaches climax, then retreats in Yang’s favor, A cyclic movement of rotational symmetry:

Rounded life is the blend of Yin/Yang together.

The perfect balance may still call upon us:Edges dissolve when opposites are balanced— Time and dimensional space are transcended.

Everything joins yet remains as itself, For what “is not” is as great as what “is”.


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Now and Zen

Everything that is part of us—Our cells, tissues, organs and organ systems—

Has come about over billions of years

Because it proved successful In the great survival stakes During our perilous evolutionary

Descent (ascent) with modification.

The brain, being no exception,Evolved, in part,

To allow a creature to learn

From what happens in its life, To retain key elements thatCould influence future actions.

We are geared for self-preservation. We will do anything to avoid facing the possibility

That who we are now cannot continue.

We ourselves are mainly the cause That we are interested in. The self is preoccupied with staying alive,

Which is why our species is still around today.

It is a prime biological function to be afraid of death, And, so, the self, as thus contrived,

Is able to fully play its crucial survival role.

We want to equip our brain with a soul That offers us an escape when the brain dies

Since the self cannot come to terms With its own extinction.

From a subjective standpoint, We are all born equal and undifferentiated


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(Before that, ‘we’ were dead), But, as mature selves we make a distinction

Between the individual and the surroundings.

Still, the brain keeps changing throughout life,

In a pattern of the shifting flux of its neurons; We gain and lose memories and feelings,Essentially creating a new person over and over again.

The self is thus not so rock solid as it seems. These moment-to-moment changes differ from death

Only in degree. In essence, they are identical, Although at the opposite ends of the spectrum.

So, we are not static things.Other neural networks will come to be in other,

Future people, albeit with an “amnesia”Of what went on before in

The brains of the previous others.

Why should we be happy about this?

We never can be, because the ‘I’ cannot operateOutside of its own boundaries.

The only viable alternative is to think of a way In which it is possible to ever continue on.

What will it be like to be a partOf someone else after we die,

With our own particular Narrative of life cast aside?

That is the ‘zen’ Of now and then and when.


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Yes, but you would not be You again as you were.

What should we really do About all this existence?

Well, live it; Don’t just merely exist!


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Mental Ills

Seriously anxious and/or depressed peopleCan get aggressive and lose friends, lives,

Marriages and jobs and so forth.

Obsessives are bothered night and day By the persistence of

Very intrusive and repetitive thoughts,Often falling for them hook, line, and sinker.

They might wash their hands 50 times a day And/or come home from work

To make sure the coffee maker is turned off. They might even bring the coffee maker to work So they don’t have to go home and check it.

ADD causes one to miss the main event, Being distracted by things

That don’t matter so much,Giving them way too much attention,

Even, like a cloud shadow going by;However, they can’t much help it, For a wrong signal goes off,

More like a siren or an alarm bell, That says “ATTENTION:

This is VERY IMPORTANT”.

Meanwhile, the main event of living passes by,

Piles and clutters of stuff Usually building up around the home; They can get angry

If others don’t see the importance That they claim about certain things.


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Next time: the trade off between drug side effects And the desire to feel normal and be able to live life.

Serotonin is a “biggie” in psychiatry, As low levels of it are the root

Of obsession, depression, and anxiety.

Serotonin is a kind of traffic directorOf the brain’s signals.

And of course there is more To the resultant cascade.

In the central nervous system,

Serotonin plays an important role As a neurotransmitter in the modulation Of anger, aggression, body temperature, mood,

Sleep, human sexuality, appetite, and metabolism.

Serotonin has broad activities in the brain, And genetic variation in serotonin receptors

And the serotonin transporter,

Which facilitates reuptakeOf serotonin into pre-synapses,Have been implicated in neurological diseases,

As well as in the resultant lifestyles.

Drugs targeting serotonin-induced pathways Are being used in the treatmentOf many psychiatric disorders.

However, although drugs target A specific serotonin receptor,

Inhibiting its reuptake(And thus providing more of it),


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The other types of serotonin receptors For things like sex and sleep are so similar

That they can often be affected By the drugs, as well (these are side effects).

It’s up to the patient to decide If the “cure” outweighs the side effects.

To help with insomnia,One could take the pill in the morning

Instead of at night.

The sex dampening feelings may go away,

With enough persistence,Or one may choose to live with it As a much lessor of two “evils”.

Cognitive therapy is needed, as well, To have a multi-approach.

Also, since depressed, anxious people

Are already prone to suicide, They may still do it, But, some don’t have the “oomph” To carry through on it at first.

As some drugs take 3-5 weeks to work, The drugs may provide the “oomph”

Before they provide the feeling of normalcy,

So, the patients beginning drug treatment Must be carefully watched.

Yes, life is often a compromise.


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The 4th Yogic Body…

You just have to love this guy!

Yogi Berra, the great New York Yankees catcher,

Said many sayings that seemed to make sense, But really didn’t, or maybe they did Like about a restaurant

“No one goes there anymore; it’s too crowded.”, And, about a ball field

“It gets dark early out here”, plus“If people don’t want to come out to the ball park,

Nobody’s going to stop them”,

“It’s deja vu all over again”,“I didn’t really say all of the things I said”, And many more great unsayings

Just as meaningful or not As some that we see anywhere.

In his 3rd Yogic reincarnation,He was a coach and a manager,

And is now an elder statesman in his 4th.

Yogi Berra was simply nicknamed “Yogi” Because he looked like one;

Nor did he disappoint in this area, But came through time and time again

With his enigmatic observations. This was his overall Yogic self.


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Awareness

The ‘I’ of awareness, Which is the same

As the normal usage of ‘I’ in English,

Witnesses, in consciousness, What surfaces from the self (the brain)Of thoughts, feelings, and sensations

Associated with the person’s Memories, learnings, etc.

So, ‘I’ feel [whatever] That surfaces from the brain’s analysis

That is globally bound Into an experience in consciousness.

While consciousness is the last To be informed of the events Amounting to the experience, It is not the end of the road,

For that experience, too,

Becomes part of you After only 200-300 milliseconds, And so you can easily

And quickly use it in your next idea.

“‘I’ feel happy”, For that’s the message arriving now.


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To the End(s) of the Universe

I took a road trip Through the universe recently,

Smoking some pot

And playing the radio loud.

Holy-moly, there’s nothing holy out there. In fact, it’s a very uncongenial place for life.

I’d much rather be in Australia

96% of it was useless Dark energy and dark matter.

The rest was mostly rocks gases and dust. Dangerous radiation zapped all over the place. And it was fricken freezing!

Oh, what I would have given to be in Canada.

Whatever designed the universeCertainly didn’t have life in mind.

It even took evolution billions of years To fine-tune us to the earth.

Then we nearly got wiped out By huge disasters right and left,Even once shrinking back down

To a population of around 2000.

I saw the graveyards of stars And some stellar nurseries, too. All kinds of energy swirled about—

When it wasn’t exploding and wreaking havoc.

I stopped to eat at the restaurant


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At the end of the universe,On a moon,

But it had no atmosphere, Plus all the food had been microwaved,

By the CMBR.

What a wastelandOf a wilderness of wildsOf a whole bunch of crap

That nearly goes on forever In every direction.

This was as much of a place

Unsuited for life that there ever could be.

I’m back, thank my lucky stars, Noting that, 14 billion years

After the initial chaos, here we are,Having beaten the odds.

Well, someone had to!

We won the universal lottery jackpot.

Oh cripes,Here comes a humongous asteroid! Darn, all that luck for nothing.

Double ‘00’ has come up.

It was only a matter of time.


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Beneath, Below, and Further

In succession due does the large give way and rule To the ever smaller, the tiny, the minuscule, And onto the negligibly insufficient ‘awol’

Of not really much of anything there at all.

Yet. it was this bottom herefrom that the all Of the upward progression began its call,

And so here the answer lies to the sprawl, At the boundary where nature wrote its scrawl Of existence upon the non, and back and forth,

A place not necessarily like that we think it is,

A lawless, formless realm that’s ever been the quiz.

Stability, too, has decreased, woefully, Melting within our descending journey,

And so we must meet the perfect instabilityOf the potentially perfect symmetry that cannot be,

For, not only is it that everything must leak But that there can be not even one more antique

Of a controlling factor lurking about, For of anything else we’ve totally run out.

Here, then, the pulsations and the throbbingsOf the so-called vacuum that must ever swing

Between being and not, ever averaging to nothing In its rise and fall, alternating here and varying.

Here, Eternity and his elemental fellow rhymesOf Anything and Everything bide their times,Of which they have and always had continually

All of the time of everlasting perpetuity, And, so, then, if one waits long enough,

Which is but an instant in Forever’s trough, Say, for a months of Sundays in donkey’s years,


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Then not only do the rarest of events come to pass, But, eventually, so do all things possible that can last.


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Worthless and Priceless

The poet works only for love, And for nothing more.

There’s no profit in coin, No wealth below or up above, No fortune told, No living made.

The poet writes only for love, For there is nothing else: Just a few readers, and

No business worth speaking of.

Yes, I know that I’m no bard, And that fame is only met, If at all, in the graveyard,

Where, far beneath, I cannot grasp the laurel wreath.

As a poet, I write much of love,Of it’s worth and wealth Measured in goodness

And beauty seldom heard of.

Without promise, the poet writes on, And knowing well

That there shall be no award,

But, ever on the poet writes, And lives, and works for love, For he’s found that love

Is its own reward.


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Documents

Life, Love, and Being (Part 2): Meta Times and Poems