Poetry

“A Divine Loss”

/ Brian / 4 Comments

You no longer suffer from what is lost,
You know that what you lose is not your loss.
What you lose is not a cause to suffer,
What you lose is the cause of your suffering.
Losing the cause of your suffering:
This is a divine loss.

You are no longer at a loss for words,
As you were when you longed for
The never lost and the only now heard.

You no longer fear losing yourself.
How could you lose yourself?
Who you are is not a gift you can lose.
It is not a gift you are given one year for your birthday,
A gift you put in storage for a later time;
It is not a gift you misplace
And spend the rest of your lifetime searching for.

The time of your life is not Life’s time.
All the time you do not have is the time of Life.
All the time you do not have I do not have either.
All the time, weren’t you searching for
What is not mine and what is not yours?

You no longer suffer from what is lost,
You know that what you lose is not your loss.
You have lost nothing but the feeling that you are lost,
And the belief that you have something you can lose.

Now you take from all and no one feels taken from,
You give to all and no one feels in your debt.
What you have you don’t worry about losing,
What you lose you don’t worry about regaining.
 
What do you have?

 

What have you lost?

 

What do you lack now?

 

You thought in losing you would suffer more,
But what you’ve lost is not a cause to suffer.
What you’ve lost is the cause of your suffering.
Losing the cause of your suffering:
This is a divine loss.

“The Rest”

/ Brian / Leave a comment

A night of rest from scholarly struggle,
from work of an external degree,
for an infernal degree.
And how do I rest?
I rest my back against the chair,
and I begin once more the struggle with myself.

I don’t understand the external struggle,
I don’t know how much good it does,
I don’t think much of it.
I forget to think too much tonight,
I forget all but the rest,
I forget all the rest and remember.

There can be no rest, I think,
as I rest my mind from the part I play
and bring my wakeful attention to the rest.
There is no best way, I think,
only to rest from all idea of first and best
and bring wakeful remembrance to the rest.

What is the rest?
Can the rest be reached by resting?
Can the rest be reached by working?
Can the rest be reached by unrest?
Can the rest be reached at all?
Should I rest in it, or should I wrest from it?
I reach for the rest and grasp nothing.

One student reaches her hand up high,
but the teacher does not call on her.
The student reaches too eagerly,
so readily that it is clear she is not ready.
No.
If she were ready she would not reach.
If she were ready she would not need to be called on.

What would she need if she were ready?

Something in me won’t rest until it finds rest.
It will never find rest.
Something in me loves to struggle,
and believes it struggles towards the rest.
Something in me rests and looks and
does not look to find.
Something in me is called in,
and does not ask why.

The rest is not history,
The rest is not to come,
Here I rest and here I am.
Am I here in the rest?
Here I rest, and the rest is also here.
Here I rest in who I am.

One student does not reach her hand up.
She tells herself that she does not know the answer.
What she tells herself is not wrong,
but it is not wrong that she does not know the answer.
Should she wait until she knows the answer?
Should she wait until she is ready?

What does she need to be ready?

“Getting There from Here”

/ Brian / 1 Comment

You can get there from here,
it is not so far away.
Though you might travel for many years,
lost and confused on lonely desert byways,
a fierce light in your eyes that shields you slightly from the depths of your own despair,
your tender heart struggling madly against going cold,
your face sheltered from the sweltering sun,
now cursing the day-world and your broken and beaten self,
now brought to tears by the full moon that guides you somewhere else.

What is it you are searching for, my nomadic companion?

You can get there from here,
it is not so far away.
Though you might take to the seas,
captain ships to far-off lands searching for some forgotten Eldorado,
in desperate pursuit of the intense and exotic,
lustful for anything that smacks of adventure,
blind to all you see that lacks novelty,
your voyages always getting longer, riskier, farther-flung.

What is it you are searching for, my seafaring companion?

You can get there from here,
it is not so far away.
Though you might work non-stop for many years,
spend a lifetime pulling your way to the top,
pulled by the allure of skyscrapers and penthouses,
taken up and away by elevators and escalators,
taken hold of by the image of your self glimpsed high above
blind to what holds your unseen self far beneath.

What is it you are searching for, my ambitious companion?

You can get there from here,
it is not so far away.
Though you might spend your life in pursuit of love,
urged on by impulses more powerful than you will admit,
seeking in physical union the dissolution of your separateness,
and a joyful reunion with and return to wholeness,
looking to the future to give you back what you had in the past,
looking for a lover to provide the missing piece you feel you lack.

What is it you are searching for, my love-hungry companion?

You can get there from here,
it is not so far away.
Though you might spend your life running from love,
avoiding life and its uncalled-for difficulties that you do not understand,
looking to move away from rather than toward,
seeking peace by escaping conflict,
keeping to yourself in your secured mind where others cannot hurt you,
fortifying yourself with knowledge others do not understand,
and refusing to let a single anguished plea seep out from your fragile soul.

What is it you are searching for, my elusive companion?

You can get there from here,
it is not so far away.
Though you might spend your life seeking to understand,
your pen moving furiously along the page,
your thoughts moving frantically along in your mind,
your need to express yourself forever growing,
your curiosity always aflame, your yearnings always unfulfilled,
always overlooking what is close by and drawn to what is afar,
what is over there, absent, ever elusive,
drawn to some invisible force just beyond the visible horizon that pulls you in and holds you still,
a force you might grasp for a second and try to hold onto,
a force that lets you go if you won’t let go.

What is it you are searching for, my scribbling companion?
You might find it,
and you might not,
but know that it is not so far away.

You can get there by being here.

“A Still-Moving Stream”

/ Brian / 1 Comment

I sit under a tree near the Prescott airport,
next to the intersection where willow creek road ends and begins,
on a warm January afternoon.
I listen to the cars as they slow down to a stop at the light,
to the pause while the light is red and the cars are at rest,
and to the cars as they start up again once the light turns green.

With the tree at my back and the sun on my face,
I just sit there and listen and hardly move.

The cars at ground level slow down, stop, and start up again,
while a plane above flies on until it arrives at its destination.
Some of the passengers on the plane drift off into sleep
as the pilot prepares to lift off into flight,
sleep while the plane is in the air,
and wake up again once the plane touches ground.
The passengers in the plane drift off, sleep, and wake up again.

I just sit there and listen and hardly move,
feeling the tree at my back and the sun on my face.

The clouds are wisps, languid and fluid,
floating along like driftwood in a still-moving stream,
moving on at whatever pace the stream moves on.
Today the stream is still-moving.

The cars as they slow down
sound like the water in a stream
after it has passed through some rapids.
After passing through the rapids,
the water slows down and becomes a still-moving stream.

Feeling the tree at my back and the sun on my face,
watching the cars move from east to west,
and the planes move from west to east
I can do nothing,
I can think of nothing I would rather do
than sit here and listen and hardly move.

“Coming to Believe”

/ Brian / 1 Comment

A father I know is temporarily separated from his daughter, physically.
He wants to be with her but is unable to
until he is able to be with himself,
until he is able to see himself as he is
and come to terms with all he sees.

He is a loyal and loving father to his daughter,
wanting to provide for her, in his words,
provide a home for her, a place of belonging.

He longs to hear her first questions,
to be overcome by the innocence and purity in her voice,
her heart overwhelmingly open to life and all its possibilities,
wholly receptive in a way that can open his heart,
that can allow him to see that same innocence and purity in himself,
that same divine openness,
those same qualities I feel in him
when he speaks of her.

We all see in others what we cannot see in ourselves.
What he loves in her is what he would love in himself,
if he could see it.
The love I perceive in him is the same love that is harder to perceive in myself.
We are not so alone as I have often thought.
In our heads we feel alone
but in our hearts we do not believe it.

And deeper still, deeper even than the heart,
what is it that we believe?
Do we believe that there is no need to know exactly what we believe in?
Do we believe that we can be okay
with not knowing, with not having, with not doing?
Do we, or do we not, believe?

This father who is a friend of mine,
in these months of being separated from his daughter,
is learning how to be a man
before he can be a father again,
is becoming better able to live life
without needing life to go differently,
is coming to believe.

“Being The Dance”

/ Brian / 7 Comments

When the music moves me,
I can’t help but move myself.
Sometimes the body has to move
to make way for the soul.

The music lifts it out,
my dance a wordless shout
that it is
here, there,
in, out,
above, below.

The dance:
so fervent, so wild,
and yet so much like
stillness sinking in and
drifting out.

So much like the stillness in me
meeting the strength in you.
Still strength,
the power in not doing,
is still strength.

The dance not a doing but a being,
a being dancing,
stilled in movement,
being the dance.

“This Gentle Melancholy”

/ Brian / 1 Comment

This gentle melancholy,
have you felt it?

Has it come to you like an uninvited and invisible guest
joining you and your friends,
enjoying with you the time and company?

Did you wonder if you were the only one feeling it?
Did you too ask yourself the questions:
Why has this feeling come, and from where?

Do not be so stuck on answering these questions, or any others.
Let the questions remain with you, unanswered,
as you linger late with your friends, yet remain unattached,
as the feelings dwell within you, as yet unexplained.

Resolve not to need to resolve
or explain away what you feel.
Let yourself feel it,
Let it grip your soul
the same way you would grip the hand
of a long-lost lover on her death-bed
for a moment and then let go.

Have you watched as this gentle feeling turned vicious?
Did you too try to run from it,
to lose it?
Or did you listen to it,
walk with it,
slowly feel it become gentle once more,
become subtle and sweet?

Listen now to this gentle but quietly persistent melancholy,
don’t you hear it?

“Welcome Home”

/ Brian / Leave a comment

I rise well before dawn.
The stillness and darkness bring me good news,
Old news I had forgotten.
I am alone,
But I do not suffer.
 
I receive the gift of aloneness,
A gift no one else can give.
I accept it like I would accept
A loving embrace from a friend
Who was away and has now returned.
 
Where did my friend go? What did she do?
I am curious but do not ask her.
Sometimes she has to go off alone.
I understand.
 
She returns when she knows she is needed,
When she sees I am alone and suffering.
 
This friend offers the gift of not needing,
Offers it without needing it to be received.
Demanding nothing, she offers all:
The mysterious gift of being,
The gift of not speaking,
And the gift of being heard.
 
She does not ask me to believe or disbelieve,
Does not force me to follow her,
Does not force me to lead,
Asks nothing of me but that I ask for nothing,
Reminds me
That I need seek no thing to make me some one,
Reminds me to look up,
For isn’t the world remarkably beautiful this morning?
Reminds me to look in,
For don’t you feel you’ve come home this morning?

And wasn’t that what you were searching for so desperately?
All the time,
Alone and suffering,
Weren’t you only craving to feel at home in the world?
 
I am grateful to have such an understanding friend,
Who lets me be alone and be glad,
Who reminds me of what I had forgotten,
And welcomes me home.

 

“Gently Merging”

/ Brian / 3 Comments

I was standing at an intersection,
watching the sun set below Granite Mountain.
Between the mountain and where I stood were cars,
drivers immersed in isolated and insulating lives,
submerged in the cold hard human world,
unable to gently merge with the dying day.

I was thinking that humankind Is a scar on the earth that does not heal,
a malignant tumor that does not stop growing.  
Reflecting in this way,
immersed in isolated and insulating thought,
submerged in my own cold, hard, all-too-human judgments,  

I turned to see a young mother about my age
walking on the other side of the street with young two daughters.

I watched as the older girl tore a piece of bread
and gave half of it to her little sister,
who beamed with all the light and wonder of a desert sunrise,
and gave her sister a warm soft soulful embrace.  

I watched as one light changed and another died,
watched as the two girls crossed the street together,
their hands gently merged.

What is Under and What is Out

/ Brian / Leave a comment

The goal is not to see ourselves as unexceptional, no different from anyone else, but to see others as exceptional, to see the life-giving and unlimited potential for uniqueness in everyone and everything. Seeing what makes you stand out only means realizing what sits within all. Seeing it in yourself is a start, but if you don’t keep moving on the road you aren’t on the road at all. Finding the exceptional in others, in the other-than-human: this is the road. Keeping on it does not mean keeping under what you find on it. Keep on, go under, bring out, and walk into where time is not and all.

It may be a long time before you are able to find it within. Keep walking. Keep going out, under and out, under and out, a little further this time.

It may be a long time before you are able to bring it out. Dive down again, down and out if need be, go under, a little deeper this time.

What is under seems a long way away from what is out. They are not so far apart as they often seem. Although you might only feel a part of the places and people you depart from, there is another part for you to play. You are not so far apart as you often feel. You’re a wanderer, but haven’t you come to find you are more than the one who goes and grows lost?

As long as you are saying something you need to say, you can say it any way. Say it anyway, regardless of what may stand in your way, say it so you have said it and can move on to saying something new. Say it and play with it, tease it out of yourself, seize it and let it go gently. Let it go as you let it in. What you let out is what you let in.

As the sun sets, and I ride up to where the trees enclose the road in darkness; as I breathe in the exhilarating air of high elevation desert forest and feel what below I am somehow prevented from feeling, I breathe out any sense of doubt, any sense of inadequacy, any thought that I am not quite up for the task. Feeling it here I know I can feel it there, if only by its apparent absence. Its existence below I do not doubt, but I doubt myself when I cannot perceive it, when I do not experience it.

I do this climb daily, whether at sunset or after it has grown dark, if only to remind myself that it is, that I can.