Cloying Vines

Cloying vines of guilt,
Trip you up,
Hold you down,
Keep you small,
Tempt you into responsibility,
Tempt you into carrying other peoples burdens,
Whilst they sleep light and flutter free,
Cloying vines of guilt,
Bred from a crime you did not commit,
The crime of the hungry wolves,
Who devoured your innocent soul,
So you could cover their tracks,
And dress them up worship them serve them,
Free them from their tears through your fear,
Of living in a godless loveless world,
Cloying vines of guilt,
A jungle of rampant undergrowth,
Yet one in which you have built a lonely home,
A sense of shrouded security,
A prison for your dreams and divinity,
Until the scales fall from your eyes,
And the catastrophic truth sets you free,
I did not crucify Gods son,
Neither did you,
The redeemer redeemed,
And the ascension prevailed.

(It is timely for me to post this poem following a conversation I had with a friend yesterday on this theme. We were discussing our needs and how we feel when we stand up for our needs. For both of us this feels difficult because we feel guilty about appearing 'needy' and we fear the reaction and judgement of those with whom we are in relationship. Somehow, somewhere we learnt that to express our inner needs and expect these to be met was not our right. No, this was the right of others and it was our duty, our loyal duty, to meet the needs of others. This is what we were taught as the natural order of things exept it is not natural at all. Yet if this is how we define love and care in a mutual relationship then this is what we will get. If this is all you have known then how can you imagine more without triggering the 'cloying vines of guilt'. This is a truly devious lie and one which it takes great courage to unravel and to face. For who's guilt is it that you are choosing to carry if it is not yours? Who originally 'outsourced' this guilt to you and tempted you into accepting it if not someone who you thought you could trust? Hence, as you follow this trail you arrive at the 'catastrophic truth' - there have been 'hungry wolves' in your life and you did not recognise them and you still do not recognise them for to do so leaves you without your dream. Hence you wander along, niaive and hoping it won't happen again; attracting those very wolves and their ravenous desires. The last four lines of the poem contain the keys to unlock this prison. I have expressed them in religious terms yet this is only one way of phrasing things. In essence, these words are the instant release from guilt.)

Freedom to Live

Wingspan unknown this golden bird,
Colonies diverse in stale undergrowth,
Leaves that sway, reeds that bend,
Sounds of the deepest, bluest seas,
Gait of the man with nothing to lose,
Ripple of the water in a cup of tea,
View from the bridge, the mountain, the pier,
Taste from the spice, the sauce, the lube,
Touch of an angel, still by my side,
Glimpse of a future, certain and free,
Blessing of a son who is taller than me,
Beating of a heart deep inside of thee,
Fingers in the pie, pennies in the stream,
This the rising chorus of a sensual parade,
This the flooded plain of my consciousness,
The glory, the beauty, the sheen of pain,
This the puzzle, the picture, the place inbetween,
The sense, the nonsense, the proliferate world,
The panoply, the pandora, the gaping box,
Bulging, splitting, stretching from its full countenance,
Timeless, endless, wordless peace,
The freedom to live,
And the freedom to die,
Asleep in your arms,
Asleep in your arms,
The freedom to live,
And the freedom to die,
Asleep in your alms,
Asleep in your alms.

(This poem is an indulgent play on words. It is a rush of phrases that initially appear to have no real connection. Yet it is immensely sensual - sights, sounds, tastes, touches. It is uplifting in its scale and range. The reader feels like they are being taken on some grand tour of natural reaility - a thrilling perspective, a sensual parade. With this airborne lightness comes a bursting, exhilarating freedom - the freedom to live. As in many of my poems, the unconscious is siezing its moment to take over the controls and 'flood' the mind with its unique, mysterious, eternal vision. It quickly sidesteps words and subtitutes a level of real experience that is excruciating in its intensity. Finally, the conscious mind is overhwelmed and falls asleep. A deep sleep. Asleep in your arms - who's arms? Asleep in your alms. Alms? - 'In Buddhism, alms or almsgiving is the respect given by a lay Buddhist to a Buddhist monk, nun, spiritually-developed person or other sentient being. It is not charity as presumed by Western interpreters. It is closer to a symbolic connection to the spiritual and to show humbleness and respect in the presence of normal society.The visible presence of monks and nuns is a stabilizing influence. The act of alms giving assists in connecting the human to the monk or nun and what he/she represents'. ). Bless you.

Against the Grain

Carrying torches with purple flames,
In a circle of white robes,
My hand steady on yours,
Fear not the hidden world of shadows,
Where nothing is quite as it seems,
Though you are wide awake yet you sleep,
Amongst the radiance of life's creating forces,
And one click of my fingers is all it needs,
One dipping of the bread and casual aside,
For these powers to rupture reality's sheen,
Your faith will heal you, your love remains,
All else slips through our hands like sand,
On the shores of an infinite impossible sea,
Gold and blue and red with cherubs and more,
We bask in the profound mysteries of our forefathers,
And glory that a grain of knowledge itches so.

(I was talking to my wife, Jane, last night about the unconscious mind. Not your average 'over the dinner table' conversation but it did seem to grab our interest for a while. We got onto the phrase 'poetic license' and whether this means being given permission to talk nonsense under the guise of being artistic. Naturally, I felt compelled to share one of my poems with Jane at this point so I read her 'Against the Grain'. At the end of a very dramatic and fluent recital, I looked up and Jane said 'That's nonsense!' and I replied 'No, its poetic license'. She said 'Well ,what does it mean?'. And I said 'Well, its a poem about the unconscious mind and the hidden yet powerful role its plays in our lives. 'Fear not the hidden world of shadows, Where nothing is quite as it seems'. Because even when we think we are operating from our conscious mind the unconscious is still at work.'Though you are wide awake yet you sleep,Amongst the radiance of life's creating forces'. Under hynposis or in the presence of a great spiritual teacher then a simple physical gesture can trigger a trance. 'And one click of my fingers is all it needs, One dipping of the bread and casual aside,For these powers to rupture reality's sheen'. We suddenly question what it is real and who is really in charge.'Your faith will heal you, your love remains,All else slips through our hands like sand'. And we are dazzled by the amazing possibilities of this colourful new world. 'On the shores of an infinite impossible sea,Gold and blue and red with cherubs and more,We bask in the profound mysteries of our forefathers'. This glimpse of something different, something endless and beyond our grasp.'And glory that a grain of knowledge itches so'. Does that make sense to you?