Image for the poem [ NaPoWriMo - 2017  Collection ] Millenniums without Doors  

[ NaPoWriMo - 2017  Collection ] Millenniums without Doors  

I. Ruminations          
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          
II. Delivery            
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.          
III. Conception          
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          
IV Frequency          
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.          
V. Existence          
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:          
Craving –          
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.          
III. Intuition          
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          
      (Northern England
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          
     High School
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.        
XXX. Enlightenment          
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.
Written by Ahavati
Published | Edited 23rd Feb 2020
Author's Note
Dedicated to JohnnyBlaze for his wisdom, brilliant guidance,    
inspiration, and being the best friend ever. Ever.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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