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Mobius Trip
The journey began, as most journeys do, with a single, simple step towards an
unknown end.
What would await me over the hill, around the bend?
Step by step, day by day, the twists and turns along the way convinced me
that great progress was being made and that soon I would arrive . . . .
But the weeks wore on and the years began to blend into a dazed haze. Until .
.
The other night when, as I thought about the path I’d chosen, I began to
recognize familiar landmarks. A curious urge overcame me to begin a new journey
that seemed to promise more wonderful treasures at its completion.
How strange . . . this place where I’d come to take my rest must truly
possess a compellingly powerful magic. The frustrations and disappointments of
the past, like rocks and ruts attacking the legs and feet that would carry me to
gardens warm and sweet, had been turned into encouraging victories and a desire
to test my resolve to explore unknown regions once again.
I would not have hesitated to rush on to find what waited ahead but for the
mystery that presented itself to me. There . . . one step ahead in the virgin
dust was a ghost-shadow print of a sole of a foot. It most certainly must be a
remnant of a traveler from ages long since passed away; which could only be seen
by the low angle light at the breaking of day.
I dropped to my knee in the cool powdered soil and with soft breath and some
grasses began my archaeological toil. When I reached the packed hard ground and
all residues cleaned, more marks from pre-history could clearly be seen. As I
pondered the impressions on the forest floor something inside me finally said,
"Who was this person that had gone on before?"
"What had he discovered on this road up ahead?"
Then a childish compulsion came over my intellectual wit: to see just how
closely my own foot would fit this crater that had been for millennia preserved.
And just as I did so, the connection was made. The cause of the enigma was
finally served.
That primitive footprint was none other than mine. I have come round full
circle to a strange place in time where the sphere of my journey is my infinite
mind.
A Mobius
Strip is a piece of paper with only one side, but that side is "never
ending". If one takes a pencil and begins to draw a line along the
direction of the strip the line will meet the point where the line was begun. If
one continues, the same area will be drawn upon, yet it will not be same as when
the line was first applied. The presence of the beginning segment of the
line has changed its original nature. Perhaps infinity is more like that,
rather than linear.
hey
the sun
is shining
make hay my
son
a sun shine
heh, heh,
shine
son
hey
son
the sun
shine
is shining
heh, heh,
make hay my
son
a sun shine
A
mobius poem for my son.
I Am Taken Away
I am taken away when you look at me so;
Here and now disappears as your gaze draws me in.
Then you speak words of silence that tell me you know
. . . . .
My logic is useless; my mind starts to shatter
My will is submitted into your tender care.
As you take me to realms where these things do not matter
I am stripped of my ego; my feelings laid bare.
Dissected, divided, torn down, then remade,
I am forged by your fire, refined while I burn.
Transformation completed; I sense a comedy played,
For against my desire I am made to return
To the place where I stood just a moment before.
I start searching for answers; I am filled with confusion.
Did we just cross a chasm? Did you open a door?
Was it something imagined or maybe an illusion?
As I come to my senses my heart starts to pound,
Your attention’s diverted and you turn to another.
Regaining composure, I’m aware that I’ve found
Another dimension connecting each to the other.
Stoned
I thrust
my hand
into the
icy waters and grasp
the
golden brown cobble
that has
captured my eye.
Smooth
and wet,
cradled
in my palm,
the sun
ignites dancing flames
upon the
crystalline skin.
My own remains chilled
as my mind is consumed,
still, there comes no warmth
from deep within.
My grip
becomes firm,
while my
blood floods
to
shriveled flesh.
As
pulsing heat surrounds;
transferred
into the depths
of this
ancient soul,
both are
transformed:
the one by timelessness,
the other by eternity.
NI-4NI-2C
(a vanity plight)
when sacred things present themselves the wise
will turn and hide
and leave the fools to gaze with wonder, to be
consumed by their false pride
(when he looked into your eyes, gazing deeply
through your windows
the undeserving voyeur saw the beauty of your
soul
and should have looked the other way.
but the fascination heightened as the mind became
enlightened
and the psychic grip was tightened; still the man
was deathly frightened
by the whirlpool’s gurgling suction that
promised his destruction.
though he knew from the beginning he’d be
caught up in the spinning
and there’d be no way of winning; still he had
to take the chance.)
suspended by a silver chain, the eye of god is
worn upon my chest.
carved from Persian turquoise more blue that the
desert sky,
the ancient amulet peers deep into my breast
to see the chaos within my heart.
When one
considers many of the concepts of religion, it is striking how sexual they
essentially are.
One wonders
if "religious" insights and inspirations are not merely
projections of our sexual natures
on universal
themes and realities. I have often used sexual fantasies and infatuations
as a springboard
for
spiritual/philosophical contemplation. Summer ‘87- Spring ‘89
Thunder and Lightening
With your hand in mine we struggle through the
forest growth until we reach a clearing at the base of a great mountain of
solid granite. The trees cast ever-moving shadows on the mossy ground that
seems to lead us to the mouth of a cave in the crags of the rock.
I light a small white candle and we enter into the
cool, damp passage. Soon our eyes adjust to the dim glow of the tiny beacon
and we follow the path into the heart of the mountain.
We emerge into a great room of unimaginable
splendor. The floor is made of pure gold, smooth as ice and polished like a
mirror. The walls and ceiling form a perfect dome made of flawless crystals,
clear as still water and each one is pointing to a spot on the floor at the
center of the room. On that spot there sits a small table of fine black
ebony, so smooth and highly polished it could be mistaken for marble. On the
table, a single crystal candleholder rests.
You take the candle from my hand and we walk toward
the center of the room. The light from the flame is reflected through the
crystals and the room begins to dance with a million flashes of spectral
radiance.
With each step and each passing moment the room
becomes more alive and the brightness increases. Since no light can escape
from the cavern, it continues to rebound and multiply.
You place the taper into the holder. As the light
from the flame emanates into the room, each crystal returns a slender beam
back towards its source. The candlestick, which we now realize is an
intricately designed prism, cut from a single blue-white diamond, receives
the beams and returns them once again to the crystals on the dome from
whence they came.
For a moment we are mesmerized by this marvelous
sight until we are brought back to our senses by a pure tone that is being
generated by the room, now pulsating from the light-energy. The sound and
light continue to multiply, then as we stare at the candle, the flame
explodes into a blinding flash, the diamond shatters into a thousand tiny
shards and the table top begins to glow like a coal.
In a fraction of a second we are plunged into what
would be total darkness except for the smoldering table. I grab the table by
on of its legs and smash it to the floor. Using the leg as a torch, I lead
us out of the cave and back into the forest.
It is starting to rain but it doesn’t matter that
we have no umbrella. We look at each other and start to laugh. As you begin
to turn away your eyes seem to sparkle.
And sometimes I use metaphysical
symbolism as a springboard for sexual
fantasies
The Old Potter
The old potter who had lived many years at the foot
of the mountain passed away with no one left in the village to fashion the
vessels of clay. When the Enlightened Master of the monastery located high
in the mountain saw that there was a great need for someone to continue the
trade, he sent out several of his students to seek for someone who might
agree to come live with them and work at the old potter’s wheel.
After a week had gone by a group of students
returned, filling the air with wonderful tales of what they had seen,
calling for all who could hear them to "Come see what we have
brought!"
A crowd soon gathered and before them were set
cups, bowls and all other manner of pottery of a quality unlike anything
they had ever seen.
Soon the Master appeared and asked, "Where is
the home of this one of such skill and will he come to our village to serve
our needs?"
"We found his shop many miles to the east from
here. He said he would gladly supply all of our needs, but he would not
agree to come here to live among us." they replied.
"Take me to him." The Master said.
"I would meet such a craftsman and I will implore him to be our
companion."
. . . . .
When the Master was shown to the potter’s humble
shop he was amazed and overjoyed with what he saw. Never had he seen such
skill displayed. The form and balance of each piece was poetry; the glazes
glowed like precious gems. Speaking in the silence of his own heart he said
to himself, "Truly such artistry must be the product of an enlightened
soul, I will question him to determine if I am correct in my
assumptions."
"Tell me, my brother, it is said that in
matters of strength, water is greater that the stone, but I ask you, which
is more powerful, the mighty sea or the raging river?"
As the potter turned toward the Master, he caused a
single tear to fall from his eye.
With this the Master exclaimed, "You are truly
a man of the Path! Which discipline did you follow to come to the light;
what is the focus of your meditations?"
To this the potter answered, "In the calm, the
pine tree composes no song to sing with the wind."
The Master’s heart leapt in his breast and he
begged of him, "Who was your master? Take me to him that I might touch
the earth beneath his feet."
Then the potter scooped up some dust that had
gathered under the wheel. Cupping it in his palm, he spat into the dry clay,
gently kneaded it and formed it into a small ball. He then took the Master
by the hand and forced his thumb into the ball, creating a tiny bowl with a
thumbprint clearly impressed into the damp clay. He removed it from his
palm, blew his breath into its cavity, then placed it near the kiln to dry,
. . . . .
Three years later, having finished his
apprenticeship, the Master returned to the village where he worked at the
potter’s wheel for the rest of his days.
A Pastor
I knew was leaving an affluent suburban parish to work in an inner city
environment.
I wrote
this for him to express my admiration. And to warn him what his mission
should be about.
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