PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

may bagong liwanag

sa bigat nitong dinadala,
kahit buhay ay tila
hindi natatamasa
at walang sigla

gaya mo rin,
ang bawat tao raw
ay may kani-kaniyang
suliranin

mainam na makalaya
na nga, makaliwas ang
puso kong ito

at pati ng katawan
sa lupa
—mula sa kanilang

pagkakagapos

Preacher

—Truly righteous.  But...

No better than a mystic

Ah, divine nature...

Transcendence (And Body Politic)

Her guises were stripped off

Like paint;

I had wondered where she could 

have gotten to—to act like a saint

The earthquakes have multiple meanings, after all:

There are moments of truth. 

But our attitudes, in facing them, such are several.

Why should we try to act on certain

situations, just to make us huge?

Her views of change mattered to

me, for lacking subterfuge

'Tis so raw, so fresh, 

so debilitatingly godly

When fake media is stressed, let all

disdain blasphemy.

Are we just spirits in human bodies,—

in the physicality?—

For, when— it makes it clear,

our true selves gather up

a multitudes' spirituality!

A fragrant eucalyptus breeze, blows up through golden strands of sunlight, along the emerald Pacific coast. Thoughts of love arise amid frothy white waves that crash upon obsidian rocks, disintegrating into the coast like broken streams of restless cumulous clouds.  I sit beside a tree dangling with ripening limes, quietly meditating in the California afternoon.  Neon flowers burst forth like wildfires from the side of the twisting Highway 1.  Sea-lions rest lazily under forgotten piers and slippery kelp covered jagged rocks among sheltered harbors.  The magnificent cobalt ocean beckons the spirit, living breathing mountains whisper sacred thoughts, the sky a divine reflection of the soul of California. Amidst the mystic peaks of Big Sur, I get lost amongst the goliath redwoods and ghostly memories.  Beautiful shadows seem to overtake me, swallowing me in their magnificent hidden radiance, like a Hindu ceremony on Mount Madonna, I surrender to the trees, letting the wildness overtake me, once and for all, and finally. 

And so, she came to me quietly just before dawn, my Ptesanwi.  Silent in the blessed night, revealing the seven sacred rituals, I was parched and famished.  Buffalo herds raced westward into the dusty horizon, disintegrating like a vast army of ghosts.  Yes, she was the prophetess, and she came to accept me.  She taught me everything, all that was, all that is, all that will ever be.  The White Buffalo Calf Woman told me everything was me, everything is a reflection of me, like the mesmerizing rippling surface of a lake, the concave surface of this mother earth that breathes endlessly.  She could divine anything, but I just had to believe, I had to trust.  In this I sought my childhood allies, my tadpoles, frogs, salamanders, and painted turtles.  My enemies tried to destroy them, but I always loved and protected them with all of my heart.  She whispered, "Trust in your guardians, your totems, your talismans since birth.  They will see you through, they will help you rise up through the storm." Thus as I grew into adulthood, I always cherished my friends, and remembered the symbolism they represented in my life, to stay strong and never forget, compassion, love, empathy, and the transformation of our lives since birth.. 

Just like Indra, I am jealous,  drunk on soma.  Asparas visions have distracted me, leading me astray, into the gray.  For I am the atmosphere, the tempest storm, the crackling thunder.  In the silver rain, I ride upon porcelain Airvata,  across the sacred snow capped mountains of India.  in the distance, Vritra the flaming dragon purrs.  Like Buddha, I seek balance.  Like Vishnu, I am the ninth incarnation.  I levitate above the Bodhi trees.  I grew up as Siddhartha, one day in a magnificent dream.  Indiana Maples touched the velvety clouds, I awakened in the American Midwest transfixed.  I walked the streets of Chicago, noting the alignment of skyscrapers, the interconnectivity of the streets, the warmth of the January sun.  It was the time of turning, the time of bitter cold, the moon of white ashes.

You make me want to go up to Gitche Gumee Gambol.  Pictured rocks speak to me, in drumbeat vibrations, calling me to the Ojibwa shoreline.  Amid the splintered rocks, clear water shoals reflect a mirror of naked unguarded self.  I am a luminous spirit dressed in humble flesh.  I walk in graceful steps, my footprints the stamp of existence.  I listen to the rustling of the caterpillar eaten leaves amidst the hills, the rolling thunder of cloud people across indanthrene northern skies.  This is the profile of my ancestors.  At night the stars ignite like campfires across the plains at a distance lodge.  I climb these sandstone cliffs ascending into copper, iron and manganese.  Kneeling in sacred prayer amidst the promontories and thunder caves.

The earth is our temple. Every act a prayer.  The seasons are the apostles, the mountains and oceans the disciples of the great spirit, the great mystery that permeates all that exists.  When I look up to the Milky-Way, when I see passing clouds slithering by, I am reminded that this blue firmament is a cathedral, a church.  The alter is the soil, the earth which you tread upon.  Sacredness is recognized in everything, in all of my relations.  Priests are not needed, the air we breathe is a conduit, giving us direct access to the creator.  We celebrate this very moment, forgetting the future and past, recognizing that each day is Sunday.  All life is full of energy and purpose.  Follow your path through the circle, discovering the divine in each passing dawn, absorbing the golden rays of the sun at noon, and celebrating the richness of color at dusk.  The trees stand as statues, saintly reminders of the greatness, the reaching, grasping for something higher and unseen.  In still waters, we bathe, a baptism along banks of cattail and flying dragonfly.  The moth's flight zigzags through silver beams of moonlight shooting ever upward to the outskirts of the spirit world, where we will one day most surely rest.  Our ancestor's voices whisper in the wind.  They try to awaken us by thunder, dazzle us by lightning.  In the forest, in the Black Hills, go to the holy mound, raise up your arms, and touch the glittering stars.  Each star a spirit, each planet and galaxy kindred.  The earth yearns to be your mother again, she is alive and generous.  Each day, kneel upon her and thank the great spirit for your human form, for no one is luckier than you, to have the honor to walk upon the sacred ground as a human! 

In the misty darkness of winter blue

Shifting impressions are captured

Silhouettes and formless shadows

And the spirit of a hungry reindeer

Left stationary in a pool of amber hue

White ivory snow sparkles translucent

Stark against the fading solstice sunset

A glistening sea of shimmering flakes

Contrasting pale gray lonesome forest

Left jostled by the unconquered prism

The shredded remnants of a solar sun

And the fading memory of a lunar eclipse

Casting an eerie glow over shattered bone