02212015 - Poem: Andean Fire

Andean Fire

there is a large

magnificent stone fireplace,

and a grate

and a bed of ashes.

i have placed the two small logs

in the grate, and

in between

a small tower of highly flammable stuff

with a wick.

i place two other heavier logs

beside the others

to create more pressure

and hold the soon-to-be fireball

in place.

then I build a pyramid.

i light the fuel

and light the wick

and on top i place

a flat dry piece of wood.

it takes awhile, but

the heat builds

and soon flames

are licking around the edges of the sticks.

the flames grow, they spread.

soon, a steady, even fire is burning.

when it gets hot enough,

i add a large log which

is not totally seasoned.

often things are not ready to

burn in the fire of living.

i tend it …

that is the very nature of fires.

a whole Life is encapsulated

in an evening of fire.

i move things just a bit,

opening passages for air,

adding dry sticks,

positioning differently.

i am aware that i am

a servant of the fire,

not taking away its freedom,

but assisting it towards

its destiny, its end.

under the grate,

multicoloured hot coals gather;

they are what remains

when the dross has been consumed,

what remains when the fuller’s fire

leaves only the transfigured reality

fierce and glistering.

the heavy, sodden log 

lies leaden, threatening

to kill the fire.

I must add dry sticks, 

they ignite, they flare.

I sit; I ponder;

i formulate mysteries,

philosophies, 

systems, structures of Being.

i wonder if my living

has added to the beauty of the universe.

the fire i have created

implodes.

i go to bed,

screening so that

in its dying,

it destroys no hapless thing.

in the morning

all is ash;

it is ash wednesday

and I remember

those haunting, freeing,

grounding words 

from that liturgy i so long offered

as a priest of the universe:

“you are dust

and to dust you shall return”.

in the morning,

all is ash ….

but for that heavy unburnt remainder,

awaiting me, you, 

the liver of the fire,

to include it in 

tomorrow’s taking up

of each day’s invitation

to renew the andean fire.

forever the transfiguring fire

will renew

until the end …

if there be such.

Fire is metaphor …

as is all.

i know what the fire

says to me.

it is unnecessary

that i should 

impose upon you

the metaphor

of the fire.

you are that amazingness

of you.

you too know.

what builds?

what holds?

what sustains?

what tends?

what feeds?

what ignites?

what is that which

will not be transfigured

by the fire?

will you hold it,

love it,

until one morning

you come to look, and

it too is finally, 

fully, 

welcomed

and you are whole?

do not worry:

there is always 

another unignitable log

to tend.

it is not for me

to tell you the meaning

of the metaphor.

I do not know it.

you know it.

we each have our own.

could there be

anything 

more beautiful?

Feb 21, 2015

Cotacachi, Ecuador

012615 - Poem: "Olives of all the Greens of the Evening Sea"

Olives of all the Greens of the Evening Sea

is it harder to see

beauty

in the world today?

harder to slide into

the ecstatic moment?

harder to be overwhelmed

with utter amazement at

what is?

is the World any different

than it has always been?

in kind, I mean?

what do we have today?

poverty … where soon

the 1% will own more 

than the rest of the 99%.

one sixth of american kids hungry

and dying of no health care.

patriarchalists 

driven by the religions of the book

oppressing women and gays

and those who don’t conform,

so-called christians promoting hate,

religious extremists creating deities

who then justify their callous, mean inhumanity,

fascists in capitalist clothing 

destroying lives 

with no sense of compassion

that central virtue of the buddha and the christ,

israelis cut adrift from yahweh’s hesed

committing genocide 

against people 

on the basis of a false history they fabricated

to justify their murderousness,

racist “white” americans

killing black americans 

with power and weapons 

driven by their fear

of a people they enslaved

and dehumanized

and who now terrify them

from out of the accumulated horror 

and the utter bestiality

they used to perpetrate cruelty

in god’s name.

i could go on

the list is endless in this world

of the heartlessness

raging at the core of human existence.

the suffering that is destroying

of us all.

i am old now.

i can withdraw

and try to live

out of kindness

out of respect

out of acceptance

out of a wonder

at the beauty of being.

the world must be left

to others.

i am now free

to see myself

in those who bring

light and dark

on my daily simple path.

i choose to believe

in the utter amazement 

of what is.

i have seen it.

it shall be my guide

to all of the olives

of all of the greens

of the evening sea. 

* Title from Elizabeth David's Italian Food, location 437

The Art of Parable-Listening

The Art of Parable-Listening

ah, yes

"the kingdom of god"

consider the whole the separates make

first: scatter

the seed of the kingdom is the act of love

we are extravagant in the casting

second: the mystery of growth

we hold to our integrity

day and night

the power of love is beyond our ken

it blooms like the unfolding rose

in ways that startle us

third: life is transformed

we wonder at love's fruit

peace, joy, compassion, dignity, freedom,

wholeness of self

union with all things

someone?

i

the mustard bush shelters

and embraces

all [i]

---

[i] based on the Readings for Proper 6, Year B, RCL

A heartfelt smile gives warmth

enough for three winters.

Mongolian Proverb

Ode on a Mongolian Proverb

an exhilarating, brilliant
Providence fall afternoon.
i slid into tommie’s room
in the aids hospice
to find his former-Marine lover
by his bed
flowers on the table
Tommie asleep …
leaking fluid from his legs
as usual
eyes and cheeks
puffy from meds and edema
breathing unevenly.
i took his lover’s hand
we talked quietly
over all that tommie
was going through ..
and his own stress and depression.
tommie’s eyes opened
he looked at ted
and then at me
and through the utter weariness
and pain that morphine
couldn’t assuage
leaking as it did
out of his bloated and edemic legs
tommie said
hi father
great to see you
light a candle for me
will you?
and then he smiled
the smile of one
who knows Love.
three winters?
no
that smile has filled
my life with light
for near thirty years.

"if it was only me, I'd take it personal."


any sensible person
wrestles
(which does not necessarily
mean fear or panic)
with death.
after all,
we all know deep down
that what the wise
both ancient and modern say
is on the money:
no death, no life.
or, as i once said myself,
“no destruction, no butterfly,
metaphorically speaking”.

a friend wrote to say
that a friend of his said,
upon being asked about death,
“if it was only me, i’d take it personal”.
not only is it very witty,
it’s damned helpful:
strength and solidarity
in the inevitable and common shared experience!
it helps to know that everyone
is in the same sinking boat,
doesn’t it?
but it’s also nice to know
that wisdom on the subject
can float everyone’s boat.
shifts one off the “if i have to go,
we’ll bloody well all go”
to “we can all get through together”.
there’s a lot of negative stuff
among human beings;
some positive stuff
is always welcome.

death: don’t take it personal.

bhoam+/120311

3:56 AM

it’s 3:56 AM.
well ….. not actually;
dennis keeps the clock about a half hour ahead.
part of some mystery, I assume,
which I can let be.
anyway – metaphorically speaking,

i am awake. but I slept,
after several restless nights of illness.
for an hour I lay there,
the bed was perfect, firm, holding;
except for the low hum of traffic
on route 101 and the ticking of the clocks
it was stillness, quiet.
the pacific breeze from Guadalupe
had begun to drop softly on the bed
through the open window.
minute by minute, my body merged
with it all – and nothing hurt!
the hour went by. i was enfolded.

the buddha says that life is one
and indivisible.
it is the groundstone of his thought.
we human beings imagine these great things;
it is up to us to choose our Path.

i knew the one and indivisible
for an hour, at 3:56 am.
maybe the Blessed One has something!

bhoam+ /090409

heaven

we human beings are
so naïve, so ingenuous,
that after you put aside
our capacity for wickedness
you can only want to hug us.

take, for example,
our childlike capacity
to long for bliss, for utopia,
for nirvana, for shangri-la,
for eden, for perfection,
for heaven in the great beyond,
to believe in them
despite the massive evidence
of experience against.
it is so charming, in a poignant way.

some would say it’s harmless,
this capacity to believe
that we were once perfect,
or lived in a perfect place.
that it keeps us striving, motivated.

i think it misses the point,
the reality.

eden, heaven, all of them,
the utopias “out there”,
they drain Life of its life.
they encourage us to live in fantasies,
they suck the very joy
from the moments in the now,
in mortal time and space
when utter bliss explodes
in every cell.

they aren’t meant to be forever,
these fireworks of perfection,
just moments of wild love,
reconciliation, faithfulness,
self-giving, beauty,
awe,
breaking in and transfiguring
like jesus on the mountain.

i don’t think we should wait
until we’re dead
for heaven in the great by and by
on that beautiful shore
or any of the rest.
I think when we hurt
we should pour our heart out
into the space around us
and be healed.

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