Friday, January 3, 2014

Poems of Pain, of Doubt, of Healing and of Forgiveness

(For All, Any and None)

There are hiccups, still
between you and me, my friend.
I felt them the other night,
manifesting as gastric pains;
and though they winked at me amiably,
I felt an irony in how they said it.

And it’s a shame, I thought and think,
wondering at and to myself;
it is a blind man I feel to be at my side
—but certainly no seer.

If my heart feels so strong,
the fire of my spirit,
—then why the feelings of having evoked
such hostile contempt?
And from those I love the most.
If it is not ‘real’,
then can I trust my feelings, real-ly?

If it is their sickness,
It certainly implies mine, too;
yet the pain is so personal
that it rips away at me,
like vultures at dead prey.

So I stare at the walls, aghast.

—What am I doing wrong?

Some impaired, habitual aspect
exhales dreams into the air before my eyes:
dreams of some ‘collective praise’ of my works.
These dreams dissolve effortlessly;
and I see then that the words are right now,
and now, and now

There is a feud going on inside of my body;
it is between tea and coffee.
I feel the tea is on top of things
—though it still reeks of coffee.

Forgiving, forgiving, forgiving;
yet still waiting to be forgiven.

He condescends, he condescends;
but how is it that I can even begin to break down these structures?

I am a mole in a small hole,
and having hit clay, I dig slow,
knowing full well that it might be easier
to dig elsewhere.

You look shocked.  Have you never seen a weeping mole?

‘You’ can be so quick to jump at my abrasions.

Have I not done enough to show that I love you;
that I am you and you me;
that I cannot spiritually or intellectually comprehend
your perception of my ignorance (though I feel it),
my petty words, my presumption?

In here I feel and know that it is not there;
I want peace for you (me),
and if this air fails to reach you and you truly think
that I am deceiving, offensive
—well, I suppose that is my (our) failing.

Leaving all this behind
would bring endless pain;
and I have been informed times over
that this is truth, that the way is this way.

So I cry with no tears, in a dark room alone.
Persist, my beautiful child;
you are perfection perfecting,
the dynamic unity of love, always moving.


The times gone never once meant nothing;
they built what you must see through,
and what you must see through.

The illusion you are subject to,
is the very illusion you are up against;
and in both forms these work.

Cry, grieve, heal,
and grow onwards.

I’ve turned.  Something is wrong.
My pride has been highlighted, pointed at;
I’ve been attacked.

By my own brother.

And my Dad looks on,
at a dull son, an ill-trained phony of an expert.
At some job.  Some fruitless position.
And I cry in disgust and hatred of myself;
I run rampage in a vehicle, smashing everything in my path.
There are my co-workers, gawking uncomprehendingly at me
as everything I see is smashed,
including the job itself.

Tears erupt over and over
as the truck I’m in swerves and squeaks its way
around this smash-able world.
I want to destroy it all.
Nothing left for me now.

I see visions of the truck, now a semi trailer,
accelerating off of a concrete precipice
onto a great vast concrete landing below;
It takes trees with it and flames upon impact.


When I wake up I have a song on repeat in my mind,
which I sing aloud, over and over.

The song is called Sour Grapes.

We caught an aero-plane together
and stopped in an exotic city
(it looked like the jungle);
and here, we wondered away.

Later, as we rushed back,
we found the plane to be
charging down the runway.

We are stuck, you and I,
in a dreamscape,
half-way to our destination.

I love you, brother;
but I’d rather be there with you.

Not here.

Though maybe this is there,
and the two are just one.

Maybe this is and always will be our home.

I see it, I see it, I see it.

A thousand micro-dynamisms,
scorching my weary heart;
because O how I try
to work with you,
to allow myself to give space,
fall back, let us both breathe.


My breath always seems to drive you crazy,
and seemingly without thought
you rip my heart into pieces
and scatter it over an old wooden floor.

I see it, but why?  I see it—but why?

What is the point of seeing,
if your actions are never reciprocated;
If they are never adequate,
to quell the monstrous waves
thumping you down?

Helpless with insight;
constantly questioning,
because no one seems to see it,
but you (me)…

I can see you, you know.
I’m watching you, all the time;
my intuition has received a booster shot.

There are days when I feel spite and rage;
there are times when I see you set beasts upon me,
before falling away into shadows,
only to come out again like nothing happened.

Vile, feral beasts.  Trained in torment.

But I also see that you see,
and that you are not belligerent,
hateful, antagonistic, contemptuous;
you are a baby in a man’s body,
a soul in warm wrap,
crying for Her milk.

Like the most of us.

Be cured with me, lover.
Be cured with me, friend.
This can all be washed away;
and our baby-eyes can rove the universe together,
unbound by these rugged structures of pain.

It’s all a dream,
dreamt up by a man with a club.

We are actually at peace.

I look at the owl.
The owl is looking across, to my right;
and there, what I see, is me.

A man of skin, hair, organs;
with values, ideas, consistency…

I look back at the owl.
The owl looks back at me;
I bow my head, knowingly
and look back up into the owl’s eyes.

Addressing the owl, I say,
‘I know, I know.  What are we going to do with him,’
gesturing at the proud reflection.

What are we going to do,
with him?

A tricky knot, recurring and pestering.
When it arises, I’ve always cringed;
and whined; and sunk away.

But now, perhaps a baby-step forward,
I think to myself:
Love the contempt you feel from them.
Return it with a hug;
for, in this life,
we have but one chance to ease each others’ pain.

Forgiving myself for contempt,
I can, perhaps, quite easily forgive you.

Is our love so strong,
that you must drown me
in the presence of others?

Have we conjured a combination,
old friend
—rather than realised an ancient union?

How we often sit back and scorn at others,
for being so ‘ego-centric’;
so ‘self-centred’ and full of their own
self-righteous praise,
without so much as offering a kind hand,
a peaceful word of support.

So easy to point the finger;
and even easier to neglect the fact
that we point it only at ourselves.

Aberration, I saw;
ignorance, greed, foolishness.
I saw dumb animals,
gloating and rolling in mud.

Then, one day,
I felt intense sadness
and natural compassion
—my heart had been opened.

The tide recedes slowly, imperceptibly;
but nonetheless it recedes.

A sad little boy,
young, ignorant and growing more so.

A family of fools.

I’m better; I’m faster, quicker,
sharper in the mind;
more acute, penetrating,
knowledgeable and even wiser.

Than all of them.

To get rid of my self,
would be a fine thing.

Don’t hold on to me, lover.
Don’t hold on to me, friend.

By holding on,
you’re holding on to you;
and this ‘you’ does not exist.

It is as illusory as the ‘me’ you’re holding on to.

Sometimes I forget
that I might not like this life here;
that so much in it seems ostentatious,
shallow yet so well buried.

I remember that, perhaps,
I am waiting for the moment,
in which I can face my own obliteration
and dissolve into emptiness
—and be able to do so with as little pain as possible.

Isn’t it a peculiar thing that often,
when it comes to old friends,
our trust can be so surprisingly diminished.

For example,
I could not discourse aloud to some of my own,
for a long period of time (even now it hinders),
without being dubbed, or perhaps just feeling like,
a preacher, or an egocentric, attached to his own ideas;
perhaps even a delusional liar.

Yet, give a stranger in the street,
as we pass by,
a chance to turn your ears around
—and all you are is ears!

What complexities lie in such chronic attachments,
that to hear out the ones we love requires such a hefty removal of pride…

But perhaps most of us don’t cognise all that,
and just get on with our day.

Think of all those little secrets you hold;
all those traps you set, bombs you ignite
—and tell me again that you no longer play the game.

You dance, prowl, seethe,
all in a dark cellar, secret and alone.

You grieve, conflict, hate, lust;
you worry, hurt, hurt, hurt.

And you juggle, unable to stop
and think no one cares, no one could possibly see…
let alone help.

But I can see;
you, my own reflection,
your struggles to be.

So let us help each other;
see me too.

Perhaps if I were a reputed sage,
established, solidified and revered;
maybe then you would hear my words.
But as I am—a mere friend
—the words run hollow, meaningless,
through your mind.

Ego-history.  Yet another aspect of the beast.

Hold tight, brother;
the night has broken open now,
and you will face some fire.

But the cradle will rock again.
You will fall, once more,
into Mother’s arms.

She whispers your many names.


The Lion needs to be fed.

He writhes and squirms and growls,
snaps at you and strikes the air.

He rips at the walls in frustration,
spittle spraying from a growling, clenched roar.

This here is a hungry Lion.

At heart, a great beast,
but his tantrum for food betrays infancy;
presumably natural behaviour,
but seemingly accented by…

Perhaps it is all those juicy eyes,
as hungry as the beast itself.
For they feed,
not on flesh,
but on each other.

The Lion is hungry again.

He needs to be fed.

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