Saturday, August 31, 2013


In pain I breathe easier. The sacred child is running from the house screaming. I hear the gentleness.

Under nine layers of illusions, whatever the light, On the face of any object, in the ground itself, I see your face.

Rumi’s message is not a new one. Religion tries to convince us we are separated from our inner face, but inner truth has a way of revealing itself. We are that face and the face that senses it. We are the child that runs through life screaming to get out. We create layers of illusions, and we call them real. From that physical exercise we find the ground of our inner being.

Countless layers of distorted rhetoric dissolve as we merge one self with another. When we do, we sense the breathe of God.

Saturday, August 24, 2013

Consciousness Seeds

Poetry seems to me more physical than intellectual. A year or two ago, in common with others, I received from America a request that I would define poetry. I replied that I could no more define poetry than a terrier can define a rat, but that I thought we both recognized the object by the symptoms, which it provokes in us.

Alfred Edward Housman, the classical scholar and poet, was born in Worcestershire, England. Housman was the main character in the 1997 Tom Stoppard play, The Invention of Love. Housman wrote an early 1900s collection of poetry called, A Shropshire Lad. A wall hanging was created for A Shropshire lad, and it now hangs in St. Laurence Church in Ludlow, England.

Poetry floats above our beliefs structure, and it creates a cloud of thoughts that showers our objective world with subjective hail. The hail melts and our belief system floods with new roots. Those roots move to the rhythm of our consciousness. We feel the need to explore these roots, even though we have a hard time accepting them.

Poetry defies the collective conforming creature in us and shakes us awake. Every poem drenches us in the knowledge of nothing, but the pureness of our own freedom. The freedom to perceive and interpret it in an individual way.

We recognize poetry by its consciousness symptoms. Poems are consciousness seeds that dwell outside the rigid walls of our beliefs. They wait for a crack to appear in that guarded wall, and then they fill it with awareness.

Saturday, August 17, 2013

Intensity Of Light

The life of man seems such a splendid fate; the day how fair, and the night as well how great! And we in this sheer Paradise so favored, The sun’s magnificence we’ve hardly savoured When our own striving muddles and confounds us Now with ourselves and now with all around us; And neither complements the other quite, It’s dark without when all within gleam bright, And outward bright goes dulled before my eyes, So near ─ the happiness we do not prize.

Goethe’s reputation as one of the greatest, if not the greatest poet in the German speaking world, is not an inflated description. His 1823 work, Trilogy of Passion, explains the movement of the self as our subjective consciousness expresses physical life.

We create the separation that splits us into a physical self and a formless consciousness. Energy propels us through linear time like a tethered space ship on an unknown journey. We form a structured world that drives us to the edge of darkness in order to sense the intensity of light in our own consciousness.

Saturday, August 10, 2013

You Are An Eye

Since you have perceived the dust of forms, Perceive the wind that moves them; Since you have perceived the foam, Perceive the ocean of Creative Energy.

Come; perceive it, for in you Insight is all that matters; The rest is just fat and flesh, A weft and warp of bones and muscle.

Your fat never increased the lights in candles; Your flesh never became roast meat For someone drunk with spiritual wine. Dissolve this whole body of yours in vision:

Pass into sight, pass into sight, pass into sight! One sight perceives only two yards ahead; Another sight has beheld the two worlds And the face of the King.

Between these two Is an incalculable difference: Seek the remedy of vision, And God best knows that which is hidden.

Rumi, the 13th century mystic and poet, was actually born in Afghanistan in 1207. He lived most of his life in Konya which is in southern Turkey. Rumi uses 13th century language to describe 21st century concepts. He understood the power that rests within us. We can use our inner senses to experience physical life once we become aware of them.

Saturday, August 3, 2013


A bird delegation came to Solomon complaining, “Why is it you never criticize the nightingale?”

Because my way, the nightingale explained For Solomon is different. Mid-March to mid-June I sing. The other nine months, while you continue chirping, I’m silent.

Rumi, the master mystic and poet, wrote those words over seven hundred years ago. At first glance the story is hard to understand, but given a little focused attention the meaning is clear. Appreciation is the key to happiness, and a positive outlook on life is the door that leads to heaven on earth. Our idle chatter is the noise that blocks the ego from hearing the mind, but silence is the sound of our aware consciousness.