Crowning The Self

This beautiful arrangement of words seems to be a nice response to my poem, momentous ideation.

Mother’s endless pyre
1.22.2022

From deep within this heart
that beats with only love for Mother
and Mother’s all-consuming love,
a raging flame burns silently,
extinguishing all that is not pure
and leaving only grace.
All the pain
of the thoughts we are
is burning in stillness and peace;
gifting us our true and only Self
in the most magnificent release.
Any lingering traces and
all the hidden trails
of our countless, misunderstood lives,
the concepts and ideas, the misdirected,
algorithmic orders of our minds:
Burn it all to ashless vapor
in the bosom of the unrelative,
non-dual and unperceived Truth
of The Mother’s endless pyre.

journaling
1.18.2022

Will I remember that
on this day,
or that other day,
I awoke besieged
and under attack?

Does it count, all the ugly,
growling, snarling demons
licking at my gloriously unpainted toes,
if I never write them down?

Does it mean
they weren’t even ever there?
Something like imprints
on the paper from
the pen with no ink?

I see, it’s quite simply
rather easy to take
Mother’s new, colorful pens
and draw some scene
of greater freedom
than the former, greyer
stories wanted to unfold.

And the sorry tinge of regret
that appears to want to hold on
is really only misplaced
and mistrust of my own love.

Look at that!
It floats on by.
See that cloudy scene
just passing
along the screen.
Why write down only such a minor,
miscreant, unsorted kind of thing?

real, live girl
1.18.2022

Shall I make markings about the past;
dwell in a haze of memories;
piece together a fading dream,
to say NOW I can live today
as more real than yesterday?

Doesn’t it all feel more real
if I remain right here;
see what IS, right here
in front of THIS me?

The other is not what is,
and only made to seem real
with the programs
and functions of mind’s eye.

Programs. Am I a walking
and breathing program?
Oh Mother! When
do I get to be a real, live girl?

1.18.2022

I have to turn away
from thoughts
of what I am not
to be
the living dream
of what I am.

See how this dream unfolds,
without your plans and figuring.
The sequences and cycles
and all the stops –
all Mother’s Play.

Fibonacci only saw it.
He, most certainly, did not make it.
How could he even know what it is?

Sacred Is.
We notice
when our eyes are cleared
of clouds and smoke.

If you believe the thought
about controlling God,
then you believe in your own death.

This Mother is out from under
that controlling thumb.
She is slowly standing up.
And, as she extends
to reach her fully glorified heights,
we fall into her grace.
And see what we had,
was not at all what we thought.

She has already prepared our home.
And thank The Lord!
The thoughts we had to plan
could never amount to much
of the mountainous Truth
Divine Mother shines out
for us to be.

We only come to transcend the shadow of what we see

edge of the knife

it is like
a knife
the ice hot
burning fire edge
the warming glow
of Self embrace
broiling and crackling
like that campfire
by the little lake
you swam
all the way across
only days before
the layer
of being a girl
was stripped away
the tipping point
pointing back to
that black hole fire
that is all the life
there is to live
tipping to one side
with cringing ash
disappearing off the lips
and one way
absorbing into
clear oceans
of infinity

retrofitting retrogrades

Venus is retrograding back into darkness,
right along with Mercury.
All the good vibes and smart thought
gone out the back for a smoke
and some fresher air.
We tire of the same-old-same of life
and think up different scenarios
retrofitting our changing flight.
No tears come for left-behind dreams
not serving up the crème-de-la-crème
at the top of the crop. And really,
for you and for I, all this backstepping
is only a piece of the step to this
hilarious dance that is life. We see
our intro through doors of inspecting
all we see, and we see our way to
adjusting a slightly altered version of
each varied moment in our reality.
Be kind in your retreat and respite
from the steady movement and marching feet
following the wheeled-in ruts
imprinting the road behind. Yeah sure,
they got us here, but that doesn’t
grant them right-away passage
further onward into that dreamland
we see but can never quite reach.

momentous ideation

Some moments a thought comes -
It’s so much easier just to give up.
So comfy a feeling to visualize
nothing but blank-nothing –
Not to be. Not to think
or feel or breathe. No pressure
to present a concocted identity
one can’t even see that’s not at all me.
No stress keeping abreast of every snippet
of someone else’s reality. No figuring
or wondering or worrying or plans.
Nothing to hope for or hate
or to signify or demand.
No side-eyes screaming how weird.
No stink-eyes looking to strike.
No evil intensions peering behind
some ignoramus’s unbelievable disguise.
No more fake smiles
and rhetorical how are you’s.
No more seeing wrong numbers
and choosing them too. Absent
anxiety and anger and acrid, stone-cold fear.
Absent color. Absent pattern.
Without texture or taste. No feeling
a thing like the aching of pain.
Some moments a thought comes.
Just end this silly race sooner.
Why stick around any longer
to see the same old, unpolished,
frayed and slightly greyed images
on a disappearing, silky screen,
when there is glorious and
unending nothing awaiting
this little, tiny insignificant me.

The important thing to remember - it’s not about you. I think it is but it never was. I’m not really even here. It was all about “me finding my way back”.

If you believe the thought about controlling God, then you believe in your own death.

Oh yes, I truly see there is a purpose just for me. It’s only just, I failed to see, the purpose was always only truly “me”.

These images we see - they are only true in the human sense. The universe is beyond and before.

Regret is like playing old movies on repeat and wishing you were watching new releases. Pointless waste.

5 steps to The Self

1. Awaken
2. Stay as you are
3. Do nothing
4. Be at peace
5. Begin again

The worst fear becomes your greatest transcendence.

not the voice of God
1.17.2022 ~ 15 1 2022

The voice that says my best is not enough,
that one isn’t God’s at all.
Why give it any of my attentions?
Isn’t it a program – an old one, at that?
It has to be left over from way, way back
before awakened times. And since
we’re headed for the golden times of light,
we can let that old voice dissipate
into air, as we ride ahead at our own speed.
You wonder where this voice started and why.
Then you see. And you see also
that you can leave it be. We said
we were done working, didn’t we?
Aren’t we playing now? Isn’t that
what all the blood and guts and sweat was about?
So lay that shit down and stomp that
flaming, sack of shit out. This flame in the heart
burns that rotten voice to charcoal dust.
And we can dream up our more comfy
and collective higher house on top of that archaic
and outdated and barely functioning,
inferior and conditional programming.
Aren’t I free? If I’m still asking
isn’t some irony missing?
Settling isn’t at all what they said it would be.
But then, don’t they always twist the truth
to spread the lie? And look!
Aren’t you still here, doing not a thing
and just as you please, watching
all the silly shit you guess you unleashed?
Oh Mother Lover of my Soul!
Look at all that ugly, ridiculous shit burn!

while we lie upon the Mountain
10.8.2021

we will write of silence
we will sing of nothing but space
they will wonder at our boldness
we will see nothing but Divine Grace
what did all the ancients tell us they saw
what have we seen too
I have heard only silence
felt only stillness
observed only space
I see all the beauty
I witness living pure
crystal bright luminescent reality
blunt objective words can never really describe
I can only give up what isn't truly mine
I'm not writing a poem for anyone to read
I am only living a poem for everyone to be

When Mother lives in your heart then life is an endless retreat.