[ NaPoWriMo - 2017 Collection ] Millenniums without Doors
Perhaps it is befitting upon suffering
to return to our chosen conception,
rewind the poem to our humble beginning
the origin of our writhing birth.
The instance of gelatinous pod rupturing
its own ocean of submerged Life-form,
constricting to spill forth the contents
from the gestation of its sonar depths.
Into the fumbling gravity of sterility
flailing arms and dissipating memory
absorbed by the harsh light of welcoming
into the bloody fold of humanity
A bulb-suction of amniotic lungs
the gristle of umbilical cord, gleaned
a shard of air expanding corpuscles
into a back draft of gurgled scream
A schoolmarm of keyboard conformity
her weighted bosom and face mask
counting normalcy in the number
of fingered and toed appendages.
Stretching wide a squirming resistance
into a measured length of inches
against a cold scale of pounded flesh;
Her pink latex gloves, bloodied and wet.
Before That was only This lush
palpitating Presence from fertile Energy,
an atomically-shelled Life of cloudy being
programmed to continually multiply, procreate.
A formless nebulae whose whole Existence
moves within pure expanded Consciousness
emerging tangibility to form Individuality
for the simple evolution-like experience.
Our supplications rise in progression, endless
coupling amid Ninth Dimensional possibility,
return inseminated by Belief and Faith
to gestate in Time before coming to pass
In the Beginning was the Frequency
and the Frequency was synchronous,
trajecting three-dimensional energy
through vast rippling nothingness
Signaled wavelengths, electromagnetic
expansions of equal intensity burning
silent revelries into an atmospheric
origin upon Creation's destined planet.
Teeming organisms, Prime Source
manifesting vibrational Life forms
into a species of common ancestry
by its prolonged breath of resonance.
Has it not been written:
"In the Beginning
The WORD already existed"?
Listen for the way it feels.
Is merely dark-mattered experience
beyond computability, reasoning itself
into a conspiracy within its own sonar
resonance of non-physical Entity.
An extreme Outlier, Atomic in nature -
a simple variable measured in Energy
not subjective to systematic error:
The Estimator of Central Creation,
Whose Poisson distribution remains
a constant Source of insemination,
fertilizing grids of human oblation
barring any explanation excepting
"I am that I am.”
VI. Consciousness: Sight
Absorbed in nothingness, we are nucleus
encased by our stellar evolutionary stage.
Conjoined particles of atomic Wholeness -
reverberations from the Origin of Truth.
As supernovas, we ignite violently, outshine
galaxies amid broad wavelengths of multiplied
refraction, singular glints of intuition bouncing
from mirror to mirror into the spectrogram.
Lambency separates our unique frequency
into an obscure vision of reality. Discarnate
Spirits, we, seeing once so clearly, become
shrouded in the experience of human error.
‘For now, we see through a glass, darkly;…’*
*1 Corinthians 13:12 (KJV)
VII. Consciousness: Sound
We unfurl from Life's Spiral Nautilus
our sonar depth of amniotic resonance
turbulent with reverberations, pulmonary
repetition, valves rubber-snapping shut.
Heart strings, their papillary muscles
contracting, parachut leaflets ballooning
slightly into the atria to abscond a back-
drafted current of misdirected blood.
The song of Source low-pitched, dull
before the levee cracks, depositing
bulked flood waters into a shallow
reservoir of mass-manufactured latex.
VIII. Consciouness: Touch
The constricting passage dialates
becomes space, a reservoir of flailing
emptiness receding into dryness
surrounded by the basin of birth.
Surfactant, amniotic fluid separate
from form, waterfalls to white tile,
pools at the feet of gods whose
latex grip is slippery synthetic.
Their instruments warmed metal
and pointed rubber. An hour halts
moments in transit that a keyboard
register a screaming immigrant:
A moment of silent presence...
before guiding its first steps
over a certificate's blackened ink
as verifiable proof of existence.
IX: Consciousness: Taste
Apperception, a new acquaintance
of oxygenation – lungs expanding
crossing the threshold of conception
into this contextual presence.
From perception to appreciation
attention taking sole possession.
Budded lips rooting the breast
for that nipple of sustenance.
Thus consumption commences,
grows stronger with daily desire -
suddenly we are mere humans
experiencing our first lesson:
The initiation of a Noble Truth
overcome only by Knowledge,
Enlightenment through growth:
the result of ALL suffering.
X. Consciousness: Smell
Budding sensory cells, olfactory
receptors mediating fresh detection
beyond four basic qualities of taste:
Sweet, sour, bitter, and salt.
Within our nasal cavity tiny antenae,
invertebrate at attention, transmit
identifying kinship for registration
into the prefrontal vortex of memory.
Coding recognition of our Mother's
scent, the aroma of her breast, thick,
odorant with the sweat of birth, now
emmanating rich, creamy colostrum.
Perfumed Love ingrained by suckling,
infusing an Earthen bloodline of Home.
XI. Awareness: Temperature
Our oceanic beginning lies ship-
wrecked across a flaxen island
of flesh, this gelatinous radiator
of thermally insulated breasts.
Our bare skin, tiny fields of sown
follicles engorged with C affergents,
offer a simple tactile pleasure: ardor,
endearment becoming a new womb.
A sustainor amid the endless illusion
of separation to come, a vast winter
wilderness so barren at times we'll forget
we chose this very experience to evolve.
We'll freeze, wish for Death, until warmed
by Love in the Temperature flux of our
venerable Spirit, reminding us who we are.
XII. Awareness: Body
This physical housing of contained
matter moving as one object is a
visibly tangible extension amid
each corporeal world we selected.
Our defined contiguous boundary
in a 3-dimensional space is systematic
of quantitative properties: mass
momentum of electric charge.
Known by the application of senses
we gestate from atomic formation
inside other Earthly Beings; interstellar
fertilization to experience existence;
A reproductive colonization in human form
brought to pass from one mere Word -
"God saw all that he had made,
and it was very good."
XIII. Awareness: Balance
Once afloat in a fluid chamber, wizened
distribution now equally sustenant
by extraction from a human wet-nurse;
her Life-force permeating continuance.
Tribal survival through even dispersal
of measured proportion against her ample
mounds of skin, countering empty space;
resisting gravity nipping at our heels.
Our suctioned tongue's seal now broken
exchanging this bundled position
so palpable the Universe shifts upon
its axis from right to left breast.
In one single motion of perfect balance
thus nursing ourselves into experience.
XIV. Awareness: Pain
Some say all Life is suffering,
that we choose to experience
such damaging stimuli, the complex
phenomenon defining itself as pain.
Beginning with our desire to feed,
stomachs twisting in emptiness;
the sharp bayonet of our lungs
piercing our mother's back in sleep.
Thus does pain expand to engulf
the quality of Living around us,
its misery swallowing the ability
of happiness to easily permeate.
Others say only great pain liberates
the bound Spirit; and while it may not
make us 'better' individuals, it can
birth a more profound compassion.
As though Love required a sacrifice,
a personal crucifixion Via Dolorosa
on the summit of our own Golgatha
piercing us to relinquish the ghost,
Crying, "My God, My God, why
hast thou forsaken me?"
Before the resurrection of Awareness
appears nail driven and scarred,
proclaiming our rightful liberation from
Earthen forms of attachment and pain.
XV. Experience: Transition I
The age of accountability varies
by written doctrine of culture,
this implicit yet abstract concept
bestowing judgment as an adult.
Children are educated to understand
how they become responsible for
their decisions, learning every action
is countered by inevitable reaction.
For once we were small enough
to fit into tiny clothes and shoes;
have now grown bigger, not just
physically but Consciously as well.
We are taught our Heavenly Father
is wise, a patriarchal ruler harvesting
wheat from tares between those who
choose right from the remaining left.
And what began as Love and innocence
safe in humanity's playground, void of
race and color on the merry-go-round,
united differences all spinning together
Evolves as fear under the iron eye of man;
his prejudice emerging as commandments.
XVI. Experience, Transition II
At eight-years-old, some children
are asked of Baptism to receive
the Holy Ghost, having attended
their parents' church since birth.
Accept Jesus, be cleansed by His
blood; a crucified Saviour who died,
was entombed, yet rose the third
day to conquer Death all for us.
I was protected from the bible-beating
fundamentalists, encouraged toward
individual choices from the cultural
melting pot of Belief that was Earth.
How can someone who thinks we're all
perfect believe that Life is born unclean
in an amniotic coating of sin purified
only through another's suffering Death.
Does Love require a sacrificial lamb.
How could I, Trusting each day as a gift
believe we're damned to eternal hell and
brimstone for Being naturally who we are;
Unless I chose to experience the contrast.
Perchance I've been Hindu, perhaps even
a Buddhist monk too, maybe an Atheist,
surely a Holocaust Jew, who died naked,
suffocating in showered streams of gas.
What is Life if not an existential choice;
a predetermined blueprint drafted not by
some cosmic dictator, but ourselves, and
those who ensure we find our way back.
XVII. Existence: Blueprint
Books chambered high, mapped
in the Library, many Existences
recorded by vast Experiences;
Alternate Realities differing.
Domed charts, Holographic
Road maps illuminating features;
Light Beings with lazered fingers
calculating multiple outcomes.
Not all prepared traverse distance
through folded space, tangible breath.
Others manifest for specific reasons;
Enlightenment and Social Justice.
Paramount that an evolved Humankind
overcome their destructive ignorance.
XVIII. Existence: Infancy
Colors vibrating against mobiles
musical entertainment, inflated
zoo animals, polka-dotted giraffes;
pink elephants pirouetting in air.
Except that was another Lifetime ago;
this one's poverty, wind tunnels through
wooden cracks, beetles scuttling across
dirt floors; my crib a cardboard box.
The iron stove breathed warmth
throughout a freezing Mississippi
mud shack; a Vietnam war claiming
responsibility for my father's absence.
Though a poorly remembered beginning,
I don't remember anything poorly lacking.
XIX. Experience: First Steps, Toddler Years
There is less to remember about growth
where everything was restricted: Area 51;
off-limits, the slapped-sting of hands
a baritone resonance, "No!" on repeat.
Sugarcane stalks gnawed pulpy,
tiny rat teeth too-young for class;
Lighted holiday carousel fueled
by candles, melted chocolate eggs.
Spirits; Light Beings mirroring me,
their cloudy play rooms only inches
over mine, secret entry ladder visible
before its veil permanently sealed.
What we experience in youthful
hearts proves comfort in solitude;
Magical theater called 'Trusting'
with no explanation or logical reason.
These little things known as a world
are extended gifts from the homeland,
before doubt seeded itself as adult into
ripe thoughts, contaminating pure Belief.
Twisting Truth into an acceptable version,
Else what would all the neighbors think.
XX. Experience: Nursery, Pre-K
What can be said for the memory-age,
developing consciousness an infused
bud of evolution breaking the barrier
between worlds of Truth and illusion.
Technicolor downplayed in existence;
mud pies, snapping turtles, frog legs
box kites disappearing with distance -
your dreams dissipating spaceward.
You never understood why gravity
dodged your Spirit but held your mind
close to this planetary beginning
far from where your heart longed.
Looked for that ladder to climb, once
so visible now long gone, its veiled
doorway a wall, the anchor of doubt
sinking ever lower into your thoughts.
Until you wondered if it ever happened
at all. Were they real...Was I there.
Bridges met your feet and creek beds
your fingers excavating mossy rocks;
More relevant was Memory rooting
firmly into the History you now were.
The light is what you remember most;
shining through everything, its heat
burning you black in the cotton fields
stuffing sacks for multi-racial laborers.
You witnessed Virgin cotton absorb
the blood of pierced flesh, become
a metaphoric repetition as you aged:
a Sacrificial Lamb of Love and choice.
With such beauty of created existence
under the joy of swallowing each second
awaited always the contrast of pain,
ready to teach confusion and suffering.
And this is where Life truly begins
XXI. Experience: Phase 1 Integration, Kindergarten
( Southeastern USA )
Satchels, penny loafers and laced bobby socks
crayons, playgrounds, and segregated groups;
different water fountains, separate toilets;
Was I alone in my confusion of this edict.
No one discussed it; it wasn’t questionable;
you were expected to adhere to its unwritten
law with not talking in the hall, or chewing
gum inside the playroom during class.
The division bell and distance between us
so palpable to the conscience it becomes
our first choice: concede or resist, only to be
slapped by Whites for loving Coloreds as is.
The fog of repression creeps into thoughts
until an army of wordless soldiers is born,
recognizing a silent allegiance to a cause
we were too young to even understand,
And certainly didn’t learn at home.
Or not from my parents.
At six-years-old I chose an arterial Blue
Belief to contrast a superficially Red hate;
however, failed to bleed for fear of bullies
slapping our face on the playground.
Even today I feel the sting across my cheek
and deep regret for not having slapped back
despite how much bigger they seemed to be,
when really, they were so much smaller than me.
XXII. Experience: Integration Phase 2,
First Grade (Deep South, USA)
I. Post Desegregation
Crowders, Mississippi, Panola
County the first day of school,
the side of highway 51 holding
a sign with a penciled bus number.
The things you remember through
migration aren't prized possessions
that survived the cardboard box;
it's experience through contrast.
A new school, a new desk, a new set
of bullies because you were different;
the new kid on the block unsure
who to Love while trying to adjust.
You search for kindredness among
the students but see hatred, conflict.
You seek guidance from teachers
who remain silent or turn their back.
II. Alternate Identities
You try to figure out what you are
doing wrong, mimic alternate forms
of behavior seemingly acceptable
to the status quo until absorbed.
Until the mask you don becomes
believable, and Truth in contrast lies
in yourself, fighting to get out every
step you take and choice you make.
The things you remember aren't
your homemade dress or ponytails;
but the things that shape how
you'll Live and what you'll Believe.
Like boarding a school bus from
a highway your first day of class,
just to be tripped by a "Colored"
girl because you were White.
Self becomes an ebbing moon
into the dark side of your heart
because at the time Neil Armstrong
hadn't leaped all over its surface yet.
Or perhaps it was simply hidden
in a televised hanger of illusion
while millions of trusting people
believed what they were spoonfed,
Like what you were feeding yourself.
Yet, somehow I Trusted intuitively
an instinct without logical reasoning,
Believing always in the Source of Love
to release the Truth in us all one day:
We're One Species; Black and White.
XXIII. Experience: Integration Phase 3
Elementary School, Grades 2-6
Passports and jet contrails, cabin
pressure and air sickness, but before
that was tears, farewells; America a
dissipating dot from a plane window.
The cow in the old barn engorged
with warm milk I'd never again taste.
Piglets in the pen rooting sow's tits;
horses beyond the barbed wire fence.
The red gully and family dinners,
overalls rolled to the knees, bare feet
pigtails and poverty, "a not so mobile
mobile home" left for a can with wings.
But a new Life where more than animals
would understand. Hope became my
luggage packed with wishes and dreams;
Life would be different now, and Love exist.
For the next 12 hours of flight I felt excited
about Life, and could barely get any sleep.
"Yankee go home! You're not wanted here!"
In that instant a transformation occurred;
I felt a coat of fear locked by insecure
doubt cordon off reality, wedge itself
between the fragility of Hope and Belief.
And if things couldn't get any worse...
I was born on Guy Fawkes Day. I won't
deny that for the first time in my 8-year-old
Life I wanted to blow an entire country up.
I wanted to go back to where Whites
hated me for Loving Blacks, and Blacks
hated me for being White because at
least animals understood what Love was.
When you suddenly feel a million miles
from something you've always believed,
and nobody looks like family, you realize
all you have left to Trust in is your Faith.
You get tired of being ridiculed, so evolve
even more into someone you aren't.
Refuse to let them smell your fear; become
a Tearless Warrior all unto yourself.
XXIV. Experience: Integration Phase 4
Jr. High School
I. Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean
There's a time in everyone's Living
where they'll learn to appreciate
what they despise simply for its
intrinsic value to teach contrast.
You begin to recognize patterns
coagulating inside Life, formations
slowly hardening like lime jello
solidifying for dessert in the fridge.
You begin to detect rings inside
years of poems worn like condoms
to protect yourself from the mass
insemination you'd be forced to abort.
You're only 13 and yet migrating as
an albatross over the Atlantic Ocean
toward sunnier weather, without
one dream or ounce of expectation.
II. Southwestern USA, New Mexico
Here we are; used house, old school
carved desk - and 250 Mexicans, staring
your British wardrobe and accent down;
Your olive skin ivory from lack of sun.
The boys made their moves in hallways
between classes; the girls waited in the
bathrooms during break; I walked through
like a toll booth you get used to paying.
And if things couldn't get worse, the wicked
witch of the menstrual cycle decides she
would bring me lunch one day; what can
you do but laugh with everyone else.
In the lack of verse during the long days
were shady spots to think, to wonder if
anything had changed for the better, just
for once. You sought comfort in Words.
Until it was time to leave once more.
III. East Coast USA, North Carolina
The pretense was deafening despite
the numbness of experience. I was 14
just another sardine in an auditorium
of life-long friends, of which I wasn't.
Many had barely left the county, much
less the state. Everybody knew your name;
and what you did, also what you didn't.
Those were the times you remembered.
That, and suddenly being swept up in a
religious right-of-way to dictate codes
of conduct and judgmental edicts regarding
what was acceptable in their sight.
I felt the corset of my costume tighten
and the mask suffocating a personal belief
of One Love behind cheering pom poms
and hypocritical chants: "Rip their head off!"
You secretly vow you'll never lose yourself,
you'll hold your own ground and belief
in the poem until old enough to write your
way out; until you meet your first boyfriend.
I was 15 and about to learn the gruesome
contrast of a tender, loving relationship.
And there would come a time in my Life
I would appreciate what I'd once despised.
XXV. Experience: Integration Phase 5
Learning to fight is a moral battle
within a Warrior, who would prefer
solitary confinement with the Poem
dressed in a nice pattern of Words.
It's a process of scars and regret until
aiming a boomerang straight becomes
a necessity without possibility of return
to rub salt in the wounds of who threw it.
There's a fine line between Karma and self
defense for one's own survival. You bear
markings of combat: one bruised rib, leg
and back ( always out of sight ) at a time.
I recognized shame in the hallways, girls
who couldn't look you in the eyes,
boys branded gay and marked outcasts
by Sunday's best dressed hypocrites.
The only thing we all had in common was
that no one was who they really were,
because everyone was scared of not being
accepted if they weren't someone else.
That's high school for the most part,
a reality episode of the 'Walking Dead'
with very few exceptions being those who
knew exactly who they wanted to be.
What we were scared of varied depending
on environmental influences of individual
circumstance. Whether or not you'd been
bullied, beaten, molested, or betrayed.
Whether or not you perpetuated the cycle
rested in your own decision. But, sometimes
despite good parenting, bad apples fell
hard and rolled from perfectly healthy trees.
A volcano can only contain pressure to
its own boiling point, and like words burst
from origin with such force, unawares of its
capability for cataclysmic destruction.
Life can be precarious for its inhabitants
and hunter can turn prey in an instant,
oblivious to the shadow circling its own
peripheral line of tunnel-visioned pursuit.
Everything and one has a breaking point
before they choose to Live or succumb
to Death. I don't know what loosened the
corset of my costume after four years.
Maybe nothing did. Perhaps in one swoop
of growing pains I shed it like tree bark
in this juvenile forest. Something wanting
away from its forced dormancy with fear.
Maybe I'd discovered the Holy Grail of Love
its swallowed contents bursting the confines
of my throat, spewing blood and Truth
into the atmosphere of bewildered abuse.
Perhaps the scream was so curdling it
raised the hairs and fists from my beaten
face just long enough for my foot to find
his sweet spot, and kick it straight to hell.
And then maybe my own fists became
two fevered escapees from an insane
asylum pummeling a passing motorist,
and perhaps the spit from my swollen lip
Landed in his eye, causing him to wince.
But there comes a point when Something
inside you says "Enough." But you think,
"How? Five minutes for years of suffering?"
Conviction is a powerful compass within
the Eternal Spirit. Its Voice can become
lost in the turmoil of Life's uncertainties,
wind tunnels through our fleshly Temple.
But when you hear it, Choice becomes
an Apparition of revenge or Forgiveness
demanding an immediate audience, no
Time for tea and crumpets in its court.
This is the moment in your Life you decide
you're either going to heed the Call, or forgo
the narrow, twisting road whose destination
is completely hidden from your blinded view.
Frost's 'Road Less Traveled' made perfect
sense. Shakespeare's Sonnet 116 too; despite
suffering, Love truly remains unaltered.
Poetry had been my language, my Holy Bible;
The Poem Salvation from hatred. Source
knew my Native tongue and thus called
it forth into Being. In that instant of pure
humbleness, I realized who I truly was.
As he lay on the ground writhing, squeezing
his crotch, I felt compassion despite
my own two black eyes and busted lips.
With tears I asked for his forgiveness.
I don't know what that did to his heart,
but I swear I saw it crack behind his ribs.
And I swear his tears were the salt in his
wounds from his own boomerang returning.
I spoke to a few classmates over decades
who were always curious as to why we split
after all those years; we seemed so perfect.
"I guess it just wasn't meant to be..."
He dated a few women, some were old
acquaintances, finally got married. From
what I hear, is a gentle man, has never
lifted so much as a finger against anyone.
Learning to fight is a moral battle for the
Warrior; it tests our true Spirit and resolve
by how we choose to administer our own
defense; I would like to think I chose Love.
But, more importantly, Hope I had given it,
thus witnessing evil shamed in utter defeat.
XXVI. Experience: Integration Phase 6
I was 19; my mother had just passed
a few months earlier from a five-year
bout with Cancer. She’s in the medical
books as the oldest person to die
From a childhood disease. The only thing
the university could ascertain was that a
gene had simply remained dormant,
and for whatever reason decided to wake.
She was 34, and I remember thinking
how old that seemed, when in reality
her life had just begun. I never knew
her beyond a mother into friendship.
But often wondered what kind we'd
have been had she lived a few years.
My father dove into vodka with two
stepmothers before he exited the planet.
He was violent yet he never abused me;
My stepmothers hated him for that.
When you come from a broken family
it doesn’t feel broken when it actually breaks.
You’re still out making your own way;
Creating your reality doing the next thing.
Some make life-time friends in college,
but I never did, anymore than high school.
Not to say I don't have acquaintances
I enjoy spending time with occasionally.
Maybe I simply didn't recognize my tribe.
Perhaps I didn't have one to begin with.
Trust is a precarious thing, so is Poetry
when it houses a Poet's nonfiction History;
The Future will crack its seal and conclude
they were very lonely based on that Verse.
They've yet to learn the Secret of the Poem:
Solitude is the greatest gift a Poet could
bestow upon themselves in Life, followed
by contentment and gratitude for such.
What they won't read between the lines
are the coordinates to guide them through
their own loneliness first; that's a wilderness
each Poet must opt for at the crossroad.
Like that college student over there under a
Mimosa tree alone, penning all that Poetry.
XXVII. Experience: Integration Phase 7,
Married with Children
There are many uneven variables
that magnetize two individuals
toward their respective centers;
the elemental core of their Being.
Gravitational alignment isn't
a navigated destination, but a
carefully plotted trajectory course
through a sphere of experience.
It's difficult to wholly ascertain
the hows and whys of ritual bonding
between two Sentients, especially
from this earthly perspective.
The flattened layer of the third
dimension limits a periscopic
extension beyond the encasement
of our watery Being toward Heaven.
We temper ignorance with promises
of a vast forever from a tiny Now,
as though there were no possibility
of transmutation into the future.
We painfully discover Truth through
resistance to change, until we learn
to let go and Live, or hold onto
the past until it destroys us both.
I was 22 and a single mother by
choice; I hid the pregnancy because
I wasn't in Love with the father
but wanted the baby regardless.
I had the child alone, still recall the look
on the nurse's face when she asked who
she could show him to; I said, No one.
She showed him to everyone on the floor.
He was a single father not by choice
but circumstance; had caught his wife
and best friend in bed together coming
home early from work one evening.
We clicked, had our differences, raised
our children, and inevitably separated.
Admitted we'd come as far as we
could in our respective togetherness.
My marriage was not a scary movie
Quite the opposite; quiet and dull living
within the schedules of work routines,
home obligations, and baseball games.
We realized 20 years after-the-fact that
the relationship was based on need
verses Love. The ins and outs of
divorce details aren't important.
What matters is that you're willing
to admit the Truth and Gracefully
let go of what was for what will be;
for that blue dot turning toward you.
The one bringing you light and
shadows, and fresh new moments
filled with brand new variables
you may have dreamed about once,
But forgotten through revolving lives.
Who is to say why some marriages
work and others totally collapse.
Or why some end in murder and/or
others suicide. I was lucky, I guess.
There's a humbling aspect to Being
Truthfully Honest in hopes it's accepted
the way intended. That both parties
are evolved enough to Live and let Live.
That along our continued path we
learn that each moment is a step
that changes as quickly as the next;
and all any of us can do is be ready.
Ready not to promise what we can't,
but to try with all we have to respect
the Love between us in this moment,
and its own evolution into the next.
What more could we possibly expect;
What else could we possibly give.
XXVIII. Awareness: Parable of Vision
When one decides to walk between
lifetimes, it is not without reservation.
Nor is it considered lightly, that which
once decided cannot be reversed.
For me it's prayerful fasting in the allotted
time I'm given; 14 days, in this instance.
Only water, no solid food or supplements
into a wilderness of doubtful temptation.
Exhausted and on the verge of Spiritual
defunct, I relented the eve of the final day.
Cried in the floor and begged for relief.
Begged Source to mold me and never stop,
Despite how hard I cried or pleaded him to.
The Vision came hard and fast; a hologram
of out-of-body experience while rocking in
a fetal position as though a 2-year-old.
It was my pink slip out of my current Life;
it was decades of severance pay for services
rendered. It was fandango flutter, a timbre
of pleasure, the cool side of the pillow.
The alley was filthy, dank with sewage
reeking of shadows and putrid existence;
In a darkened recess of crumbling brick
was a litter of puppies all different sizes.
Their color varied, as did their markings,
but it was apparent that they were all
brothers and sisters, whose skeletal frames
were makeshift housing for starvation.
At my feet was a Lighted Line I instinctively
could not cross. In each of my hands was
fresh and healthy food for them. I felt Godlike,
powerful over the means to save their life.
To my horror, they were too terrified
to leave the corner. I watched, aghast
as they fought each other for scraps
ripping each other apart over dirty morsels.
But, despite how much I begged, no matter
how softly I pleaded, they simply couldn't
Trust me enough with their lives that they
could live. Then the unthinkable happened.
Sometimes the human psyche literally
feels like shrapnel splintering into a billion
bits of blood and bone during traumatic
atrocities beyond their intervention.
As I stood at that Line of Light I could not
cross, I was witness to the murder of the
weakest little runt that the remaining litter
survive, fighting over his tiny intestines...
On the verge of complete emotional collapse,
I heard the Voice.
Rise, Daughter; Hear the Parable of
the Vision; you, who by Faith believed
in something Greater, and did not cross
the Line into your own Understanding.
But leaned instead unto Mine.
The puppies represent all peoples of the
world; tribes, creeds, colors, doctrines.
They starve from fear to seek the Water
of Life, thus die broken and desolate.
See how they fight among themselves
for meager sustenance tossed by cold
strangers giving no time to save them.
How they destroy each other to survive.
You were one as they, but have now left.
You will go forth from this place, never
return or look back in regret. You have
been Delivered into the path of Love.
Your Guides will be waiting at crossroads
along your route; you will walk together
for a time, partaking in lessons, cultivating
gifts. You Will know them by their actions.
Not by Words or Promises.
You will also meet others whom will test
your resolve to see if you've learned, or
must repeat the lesson. You will know
them by their contrary nature to your Faith.
These will be your Greatest Teachers.
Do not stray from the Road, lest you be
consumed by a flytrap world in beautiful
disguise. Those who cross the Line of Trust
toward you, leave lest you be tempted as well.
Should you not heed this, I shall sever you
from their presence in a painful pruning.
For you have asked me to mold you without
ceasing despite how hard you cry or beg
that I would stop. Thus, because it is Your
Heart's true desire, I shall not relent.
I Love you that much. Now, go forth into
the door that I shall open unto you. Forget not
these Words; forget not the Parable of Vision;
forget not My Love for You.
It was the 14th day, weak yet revived,
that a co-worker asked if I knew anyone
clean and dependable that needed a
furnished basement apartment to rent.
Sometimes things seem too good to be
true; like an open door in the county, city
neighborhood, and price range you could
afford. I packed and moved that weekend.
I left everything as though a Fisher of men.
My house. My land. Took only clothing, and
what was my mother's and grandmother's
for my son's future and inheritance.
I would learn years later it was the worst
way to hurt a man; to want out so badly
you refused to fight for anything. Take only
a few mere boxes representing 20 years.
But I had learned to let go of materialism;
I had come to hate more than I needed.
We all do what we must to survive
and should never apologize for Truth.
Sunday evening, a nice red in a jelly jar
I found in the cabinet, surrounded by old
70's shag carpet and chipped western wagon-
wheel furniture; it was the Taj Mahal.
I toasted to my Future;
It couldn't have looked more beautiful.
XXIX. Awareness: Sabbatical
In numerology number 7 is the searcher
of Truth; the underlying surface of face value.
Because in this world nothing is exactly
as it seems and we all innately know that.
To seek, to think, is to begin the homeward
trek to Wisdom. For Wisdom is a Shelter
for those who desire Truth, as materialism
is a shelter for those who rely on the World.
But only Wisdom gives Life to them that
acquire it. Whereas materialism remains
in Death to be grappled over by relatives
and the Internal Revenue Service.
I remember God asking what I wanted most.
I remember not thinking twice about Wisdom.
When He asked Why? I answered with a question:
With Wisdom could I not gain all all else unto me?
Had I known the price I'd pay for such a gift before
I asked, I would've still chosen it above all else.
A lifetime of being someone else's property
cannot mold a Free Spirit into bondage.
It will atrophy; take it's own breath, leave
behind an empty shell of human flesh.
Wander mindlessly through Life mimicking
daily routine and expectations handed down
by previous generations of women. Monday's
wash, Tuesday's casserole, Wednesday's...
Our lives are written by choiceless dictates
the moment we surrender to someone else's;
and yet the pattern seems a prerequisite
to happiness, or your Life isn't complete.
I had lived two of such lives myself under my
father's roof and then a husband's parish.
Being a minister's wife has to be one of the
most difficult roles because you know the man.
And knowing the human in the cloth meant
facing the pulpit of hypocrisy with Strength.
I vowed to eschew the predictable route
so expected of women here in the south,
until certain of the best course for myself;
I vowed 7 years of celibacy, which evolved
to 15. Incomprehensible to some, but to me
it became the norm. I re-enrolled in college
for counseling and third world missions.
Served in Central America post revolution.
Built hospitals and schools. Turned down
more marriage proposals than I could count,
because when you're content, you don't seek
change nor anyone to complete your existence.
When you're in the throes of living moment
to moment doing the next thing, society
becomes intrusive. Or perhaps you become
a recluse in the midst of their metropolis.
Then you look in the mirror one morning
or evening, and realize the price you've paid.
For God never did answer the question I asked.
But, rather than draw riches unto my hands
that I may lack for nothing, Wisdom taught
me to eschew them for Happiness instead.
And rather than draw the Love of a man
upon my breasts, that my nights be warm
and days be filled with service unto us,
Wisdom taught me Peace in Solitude instead.
And rather than draw crowds into my space
that I never be lonely, or that my home be
filled with the fellowship of breaking bread,
Wisdom showed me Beauty of Silence instead.
And rather than gather denizens of books
that my days be consumed with study, Wisdom
taught me the weariness born of such, and
bestowed ample inspiration of Poetry instead.
Though Knowledge be Sorrow and Wisdom grief,
there's no other way to the Shelter of Truth you seek.
The schematics of our Lifetimes
are merely props moving between
the scenery of our choices; Doors
and Windows opening and closing.
Exit points for the travel-weary, revolving
between each veiled manifestation.
Shakespeare knew our existence was
upon the stage our own hands built.
We read from our own Written Script,
cast Players in accordance to needs
based on our personal evolution and
desire for various Lives of experience.
When we face each circumstance with
the knowledge that we have called
it forth in order to grow, resistance
to that circumstance ceases to exist.
Resistance is the fuel for pain; thus,
what we resist persists. In that state
of illusion, we seek understanding
to sooth the suffering of our Heart.
But Wisdom is not found outward, it's a
byproduct of Knowledge available to all
by prayerful Belief, who in Time will reap
a mustard seed of Faith growing in them.
Nothing eases the burning of emptiness
except Truth. Thus, in seeking such Treasure
it is always best to return to our humble
beginning; the origin of our writhing birth.
Where we'll finally learn what we Love
in others, and desire for ourselves are
merely symbolic manifestations of our
wishes, such as courage or fearlessness.
And that the Universe is always in our
corner, when We aren't insisting it isn't.