Poetry
SPIRITUAL POETRY
The Cosmology of Kindness
I
Entangled photons whispered their wonder to one another,
each image a superposition of magic and matter.
They moulded the possibility of our meeting,
as uncertainty became amiable to our experience.
II
I was a shaman of the 21st-century,
painted with the brushstrokes of precision,
longing for the emotion of God’s being.
You were a sorceress on the spirit’s horizon,
wise in the ways of ephemera,
opening to the infinite ocean.
III
We ought to follow the alchemy of atoms through the daydream of consciousness,
walking against the wind toward the celestial spirit.
We’d meet the multiverse at the intersection between magic and matter.
IV
But where’s the involvement of the angels?
In our dreams of dawning days?
Did God merely mechanise the cosmos through an undulating snake disguised as a wave?
The fall from kindness reflected in the randomness of particles–
angelic involvement erased.
Do I seek the splendour of sorcery unaware of its absence?
V
Cosmology of Kindness,
do you assert your existence beyond the blindness of grace?
Oh my faithful cosmology,
does God love time?
The Religion of Science
Thus,
as the preachers sing our new song,
a golden hymn that ne’er go wrong,
we kneel before ourselves and pray,
disregarding the light sacrificed this day.
Lo!
A jester beating with too much heart,
willingly jumping from cart to cart—
missed in dreary temples high,
are moments that would touch the sky.
My dearest trumpet,
wherefore hast thou gone?
The highest,
the noblest,
the spoken one!
Oh moss-covered mansion,
missing each and every lantern;
moving through the darkened halls,
remaining ignorant to the nature of our falls.
Oh might! Oh will!
Save us upon the sacred hill.
Bring us light and passion anew,
rid us of this irrational view.
Cleanse us with your holy gaze,
and watch as we escape the maze.
Quantum Creativity
I
What’s between time and space?
An alien under a paving stone.
The mind’s nonsense is a law of physics.
The mechanisms of particles contain our creativity,
through life we scale their form.
II
What unifies religion and science?
A clown disguised as an accountant.
Einstein’s hair still an inch above the stars,
curling into the void of cosmic lies,
searching for the trickster that forms laws fixed to our eyes.
III
What’s both momentary and forever?
A monkey with a spirit as singular as a rainbow.
Time transfers sight to itself,
slowly carving the beauty of an eternal idea–
stored in the memory of infinity,
as jewels on the neck of God.
IV
Where’s God’s creativity?
Inside an eternity the size of an ostrich egg.
A Sufi Star Jump
I am not like the younger among you—
I am a distant star in the motion of emptiness.
I burn up as if a meteorite;
I weep as a sailor without his ship.
Pain comes not from my heart,
but from the absence of a second;
I need no shahada—
I am a star in His singleness.
A beacon of the space between the sun and moon—
this is the fullness of devotion;
a star beyond itself.
God’s Artistry
We preacheth on fallen days,
atop the mound’s misty eyes.
Where’s the blood, the sorrow, the piety…in receipt of the morning sun? Preacheth.
God who preacheth evermore–
carving stones without us knowing of artistry’s blessing.
Words, words my friends!
Words filleth my heart with song,
capturing the motions of all that ne’er go wrong–
alive beyond thy misty mound,
for all my sun hath found…
God’s artistry.
Oh what glee my seer! Thou who seeketh the carving of myself…
The Rhythm of Light
Moving with the rhythm of light,
you dream each existent mountain,
image feels the embrace of matter,
as life imagines itself complete.
Mounting each existing dream,
all liquids become solids,
life completes itself by imagination,
in the romance of form.
Where all solids are but liquids,
the magic of life is two-fold,
it lives as forms of romance,
wearing the beauty of time.
Life is the magic of two,
dancing in the heart of relativity,
wearing time as its beauty,
knowing all is perfect.
The heart of relativity dances,
moving with the rhythm of light,
perfecting all it knows,
imagining the embrace of matter.
Murdering Death
The mouths of ants shine with the glory of our words;
the worlds again and again drift over the cold mists of our breath.
Liars have everything but our bodies;
shadows are not cast in infinite space.
Our cells shimmer as if transforming falsehood into truth—
whatever our spirit still seeks, there we travel;
in death we endure unendingly through all beginnings.
Our mouths shine with the glory of every ant.
So we speak to them,
telling them of our love for the eternal.
The God of Time
He beads himself with the necessity of existence,
beating with the passion of an eternal flame,
as the boundless golden one.
Spoken by the richness of the crowds,
his name changes without ever changing.
He holds the gate of light,
piercing himself back and forth with transcendent connection,
dreaming the notion of life from the comfort of his stasis.
The great snake rests in him,
balanced in his heartland,
forever unknown to all who seek the ultimate knowledge.
I bow to you, oh timeless one!
Our Celestial Series
As you utter words stolen from the lips of God,
your smile sows the seeds of my second sight.
I see your eyes across the stars,
moving as wind through wheat.
You are my home,
my image of mystery in the pool of life; your life is the enigma of eternity made beautiful by the shape of your being.
I am blissfully witness to your form,
in our unknown celestial series.
After our deaths,
we’ll dance among the wildflowers of another world—
banishing the sorrow of our newly broken hearts,
meeting the fate of fresh flowers.
You are the moment that unifies the adventures of an aeon.
An Insult to Zen
In this realm pigs don’t die,
swans have no wings,
parrots don’t fly,
there are no kings,
rulers are forgotten,
cows have no insides,
meat never goes rotten.
Nothing is black,
not one item is white,
there is no shining star,
not one little light.
Crocs have no scales,
bees aren’t in hives,
shells house no snails,
and men don’t have wives!
Rivers don’t flow blue,
nor valleys lie low,
grass never has dew,
wind cannot blow.
A single page in a book,
will not show up,
not one item to cook,
or tea in a cup.
No one grows old,
there is void of new,
an eternity foretold?
Alas it is true.
Though it’s a pity to say,
as words they do fail,
they get in the way,
what a curious tale.
The man without language,
a privilege to live,
in this land without sandwich,
I write to you and give,
give though you ask?
Well I shall not say,
Zen is not to be told,
please find your own way!
21st Century Rebel Zen
Conceit in the continuum of casuality;
perfection hidden in inflated eyes.
Hips swing to the soundless sound;
tricking myself above an inch of ground.
Rebel Zen picks you—
it’s the spirit’s due.
Idea and action enter failure,
one clap reassures.
The goose teleports out the bottle,
even despite a word being spoken—
cups emptied of guise,
fires having baptised.
Bleeding each white bead,
failing every script and creed.
Ping Ting ignites his heart,
lacking knowledge of the art.
21st Century Rebel Zen,
there’s nothing quite as true.
The last word?
Well that’s “…”
She Wore Black
Moonlight blue,
my eyes in motion.
The sentience.
The sad shores.
A newspaper read by the wind,
her voice printed on its pages.
I surrender to the moon,
to her absence,
to my pain.
She wore black,
a sort of wool blend sweater–
like the night she freezes me,
gifts me her darkness.
She’s woman.
She’s alien.
Walking shoreside,
I speak to her–
not to my cruel depiction,
but to her divinity.
She says, “You’re learning.”
I whisper, “I’m dying.”