Four Haiku

never wanted this

always remembering

another war

………………….

volcanic pool

a salamander’s tail

curls around my palm

…………………..

the sun stumbles

reeling towards sunset

drunk with daylight

………………….

you petulant orb

positioning yourself

between night and I

Kiss in Rhyme

Here, as I stir in the midst

 

of humanity’s silent yearning,

 

a wildly flapping bird of words

 

cries out in urgent soul song:

 

Let there be lift into Light!

 

O, let all winged singing things fly!

 

Some finer brush of gladness

 

begs to paint from this heart-palette,

 

and lo, I become all open-throated poet,

 

smeared wet in rhythmic colors of bliss —

 

each splashed word a new testament, a streaming initiation, a full-mouth

 

circling lover’s kiss in rhyme.

 

In perfect time, so much painted sunlight

 

pours on down that even pine cones,

 

their seeds and seed-thoughts, all

 

disappear in blossoming brush

 

swirls, only to reappear as a

 

readiness of radiance to

 

lift all back into its

 

unsung light.

Red winged singers

In the marshland tulle beds, cattails spearing skyward,

tipsy, tiny, red-winged blackbirds, berry drunk on

Pyracantha incantations, hop back & forth,

feather-dancing fancy, preening from

stem to stalk while talking all mirth

in chirrup, in flutter & whistle,

ignorant of any holy precepts –  

just this song-inducing supper.

Thistle in an Eave

Eye lifts skyward –

this dusk falling, calling
to look higher,
look up,
over the horizon —
that blue, that blue,
coloring this moment,
some formless freedom
flows in form and I remember:

a thistle growing from an eave,
holding nature against the night, the dark
velvet night, relentlessly approaching itself
with tremendous desire —

I wanted to touch that, reaching
towards milkweed strung
stark against the sky.

The universe exists because of us,
our love for these forms.

We can soften, we can reach, touch,
flow into each other as light flows
into itself, resisting nothing.

Two pieces of a puzzle fit perfectly
together, leaving but one mystery —
the one awake in the midst of the dream,
the one no longer resisting the night, now
approaching itself with tremendous desire,
wanting to touch a thistle in an eave,

reaching, not turning away.

Blue-stemmed Stories

Love, Here we go again. Begin. Begin to try and say this thing again.

Snapping fingers, crackling light, Flashing eyes, it strikes a line straight through the sky of body – mind – bone cage pain as I arrive, brightly typing out a spinal jive, and a hipster trip-up like so nothing!

I fall into the jaggedness, an utter raggedness torn from a ragged shard-shifting sky, and I? I delight in cracking back this body garment gander of feeding seed-thoughts deeply into blue stemmed stories we dreamed up as we blossomed in late night talk.

Streaming out and shaking the staff of Isis at the Moon, I have tuned out from shouting credentials in stanzas that stand in the way of the middle ground.

All around me soundlessly, something snaps in two, breaking, aching away into a splintered blue-skinned, stemless thing.

With eyes still flowing in sea-weedy waves, we wave good-bye long into the night, crying to the salt-doll bobbing in probability, willing the scatter-fall upon the torn shores of this heart, parting lightening strikes brightening the sight of rare

scattered pine trees breathing barely, lying there staring straight ahead at the dead stars burning away into the sky they fell from.

 I am not God’s walking stick, nor the trick knee keeping me writing tales bordering on the unintellible ramblings of a madman.

The feet under my legs, they hold the earth between them, a chalice of bone bearing the lost language of a tongueless race.

They be as proud as a giant, ancient pine tree lying stillborn against a sapling stand of tongue lilies, silly from singing mutely, beautifully …

Saying so much the broken stick mendings begin.

Tiny twig, me, here against your forest of prose, of boundlessness.

 I lie down whyless beside the only singular tree seen, praying, saying again and again, “Broken stick. Tiny twig, here, lying next to You I am imbued with a pure blueness I never knew until you.”

All this Beauty breaking forth inside my hollowed out Heart, the utter poignancy of being, the tender kindness of Birth and Death,
It breaks apart every last retortable orb of resistance, rounded, mooned and marooned, imperceptively moving through me and you, yonder bounding astounding you and I, you and I, crying … flying from Love’s center, into Love’s epicenter.

This Roundness is growing rounder, and Now, I flow out with you into the edger-most most motionless movements of God.

His Love-Filled Face fountains out into a Golden Moment of Bliss. I think it might be that all of this is God’s Bliss … and this Love we feel:

Maya’s string bringing it all Home one more time.

We’re all beautiful kites at Life’s picnic, tethered to the hand of Love.

Mists

I’m flying towards night with

black crows through golden skies.

Mother’s singing,
the high mountain sighs.

A heart left behind – tears feeding

earth for the love of the moon.

Listen to this mountain cry,

let yourself down.

Rest a while longer on the
breast of this tear-filled world,
heave your sighs to the skies –

we are not of this time,
nor the next.

The Buddha has fallen, yet

in the dark, a lone bird note still

manifests his wondrous power,

and the breeze, the many

scattering leaves, his

perfect art.

Every Path the Way

Everything is cause

for anything,

and one with its effect.

With each step a fresh wind rises

and I walk alone through the pink sky,

every direction home,

every path the way.

No Non-dual Parameters (Police) in the Poetry & Prose

As I’ve been reading through old files filled with years of poems and stories, I’m aware that I sacrificed quality, naturalness, and being true to myself in those particular group of writings. Why did I do this? I did it because I was attempting to cram it all into a nondual staging arena in order that I might fit the bill, meet the expectations, and present a ‘character’ who was in the nondual know, or at least believed (by myself) to look and sound as if I were in the ‘Know.’ Ha! What a transparent attempt to fit in, to be accepted and admired by my peers with whom I interacted on the yahoogroups with for years. My writings were my entrance fee to the nondual party, or so I believed back then. Now I can see it all for what it is, but with a much more gentle eye upon my actions and those of others.

When I write now I hope to fully open up in the voice that is Mazie, one without any constrictions to fit a viewpoint popular among others. I just want to yack-a-doodle yam-a-lodel yip-yip-flip words into a me creation that’s true to my life, and to who I am and hope to be. 

 

Oceanic Viewpoint

A Galleon fully-loaded with angels and saints

carrying The Head of God. The Godhead.

 

Like giving birth. Like the universe singing

from out of the vast womb of the cosmos.

 

Being inside that Dark, Sweet Warmth.

Communicating ancient secrets, moans, laughter.

 

A grief-stricken child pitching a wail like no other.

Resurrection, Salvation, the Crusades,

Building Atlantis and Rome, then demolishing.

 

Saints mating sinners, sinners mating me.

Seashells slowly becoming Sea sand sea floors.

 

Anemones fluttering, fluttering, for centuries.

Ocean liners, all of them, sinking at one time,

being raised up and plundered, and resunk again.

 

Continental shifts, drifts. Crawling slow as time.

Volcanos throbbing with desire to spew magma.

 

Sisters, brothers, enemies and friends,

a Tibetan Buddhist temple, no bells sounding.

 

A conch shell filled with a hundred Bodhisattvas.

The sacred Ghost dance, Sand Creek and buffalo.

 

A tower in Space. Deep space, no space, All space.

Awe-striking Aum, Hum, an endless rolling sound.

 

A pod of sacred sentries of God, singing.

An army approaching. It’s already dead, buried,

reborn and rekilled. Grave lifting into grave.

 

Sound of the Ocean’s Own Woe, birth throes.

Night setting in Africa, the Antarctic, a cave.

 

A cave of sonar-sniffing fruit bats, lifting.

The moan for Love in every man, woman, child and creature.

 

Every elephant in India, Thailand, Malaysia, trumpeting.

The final curtain going down. Applause. Dying applause.

 

The Donner party taking a different route.

The snow storm that trapped them, starvation.

 

An entire expanse of skulls from every living thing,

scattered and strewn across every ocean and sea, floating.

 

Dropping like white pearls to the bottom floor. Eaten.

Enlightenment’s Doorbell sounding. You answer.

 

All three worlds of Existence. Physical, astral, causal.

Flashing fish in black water. Flesh, bone, fin, coral.

 

The thoughts arising now from every mind forever.

The Absolute Abundance of Nothing, Nothing, Nothing.

 

The Big Bang backwards, imploding, unborn, unsaid.

Adam’s rib being chewed on by serpents, sea serpents.

 

Jesus on the cross. Stepping down. Being His own Tomb.

The vastness of God inside my Mind, Radiance in all Hearts.

 

The sperm and ova of every whale, dolphin & fish

eing spark-harvested for this poem.

A Blue Streak Past

Shall I venture once more into this dizzying dream,

between your words on the screen seen tumbling back,

back through the black hole cracks

where the lost and forgotten leave no tracks?

 

In this a love that loves in prose,

that writes with love that tells and shows?

 

Who will open these eyes, with flame-tints of silence,

with whispers astonished by sound,

with sighs of acknowledgement found unborn

in this bewildered fatal wonder?

 

Aahh, there you go … standing with that look of expectancy,

pointing your crooked finger at me,

directing this slip of a moonlight wisp.

 

Could it be true that we come here fully free,

empty of every identity?

 

Or are these words just a facade?

The idiot playground of an idiot god?

 

Of all the fear, the doubt and pain

I’ve washed away in love’s sweet rain,

I’m verging now on going sane,

swimming inky through these veins.

 

Praying without a grain of salt,

I’ve wept until laughter came raining out.

 

Before these banters have burned their course,

the dream drops off inside it’s source.

 

Now we’re but a blue-streak past,

the last hot chance for a verbal dance.

 

Like a bird of habit begging for seed,

feed me in words empty of need.