Miraculous Endpoint

We have greater possibilities than we ever succeed in revealing
Every day, we can choose to renew ourselves in divine direction.
It's one of the most profound phases and transitions we confront.
Accepting external opinions as directions, available flows missed
denying mind the the latitude of time compression for what's best.

Outcomes and bringing forth the human condition for its evolution
Seems dependent on our response and choice of best crossroads.
For the best paths of ascending  open with choice to be conscious
with skills of translation to step up or down any stair communicated
willing a higher power the opportunity to grace a world, miraculous.

© 2/2012 rjduberg

*

A Look from da Utterside: 

An Inv for Recipient Status

I have certainly been given enough energy the last two days, enough to activate some very cold and unused literary talent. Can't tell you what might be at the source of this uptick in my wellness mission. Probably had something to do with some extra money floating around in my accounting. It is still a very discomforting experience for me to check into my physical beingness, moree specifically the instinctual part of the whole physical level of existence to which also defies the greater effort to categorize ourselves properly that such disagreements become settled and past.

Back to this uptick of mine. I have spent many hours the last two dqys writing for the first time in maybe 2 months with a few rare exceptions. Anyway ... it may simply wishful thinking on my part. As it is, I've lost confidence in this specific octave and have no immediate plans to do anything other than spend some quality time with a certain feminine octave instead. One of these days anyway ...

~

Muse z'Darkside

Have forgotten how many or for how long
Mostly due to shifting my focus elsewhere
Lapse of memory is a worthless skill, isn't it?
Oh yeah, now I recall, fricken' hackboys...
Last one whined over lumber blindnesses!?

I have no doubts about my insanity on this
issues regarding my not having the integrity
I ask myself to do and for what next to again
For instance, already in this small strophe I did it
Again almost sly enough I almost didn't recognize
My own complicity in all that I find negative. Oh God...
Us men, poets of the heart, need a muse to survive I find...
What does it mean that writing her poetry failed in the end?
Though on any given day any number of women acted, "As If..."
said a word about the lumber something in your face revealing fear
is how fear looks fueling up too short for an otherwise peaceful passion
Quality over quanity is nasty complex puzzle I rarely achieve - far too brief
trigger of my condition centers on an imperfect and always fading memory.

For all the incomplete scenarios I was responsible for and ashamed
equally important and offsetting positives showed up for me with love
In a perfect world, my muse and I would have not suffered such cause
but would have realized a higher language and a greater skill of respect.
And for that prior expertise, is it no wonder death gets so close to chime in?
How many times did  screech stop all proceedings in push for us to succumb
in destructive self defeat intensified and spread by regressing into childishness.

Passing through the eye, being reborn, raising one's level of consciousness, arereconciled in properly predetermined units of interrelated time crossing up instincts
creating an internal tide of divine fire, which leaves illuminated the evolution to higher
Man's only risk to himself, remains the greatest risk today, because we all get too personal
I do that and there's extra added obsession over meaning. The paradox of truth lies between
whatever that means and however long it takes us to celebrate fully the sacred source of mystery.
1st draft


© 2/2012  rjduberg

And yet ... another falling angel?

Do you see the wings and body's backside?

Something from my phone

Answer to those known not to be "big fans" of poetry

A friend of mine wrote me recently as she and I are in the serial habit of writing each other as such ... I had recently shared an old poem of mine written in 1999 titled, Returning Word, which communicated elegantly something she has some rigid structures of resistance to, with her rational mind appearing disconnected from her heart leaving here uninformed per se. It continues to be a deep teaching moment for me as she persists in creating negations to my forays, turning them into platitudes. Such nonsense, really ... my most recent attempt to garner her understanding is of course culled by a new tact, as of course each new attempt must be I think, for me to continue to express and have any possibility for her. From using poetry I have reversed my focus back to logic and definitions and attention to meta language and communicating integral thought/thinking. 

So, my answer to her statement follows...

What prompts you too close down communication like this?  Impatience, vanity ... what? You realize that I am not my poetry, and you are not your "mission." Maybe you could suggest a metaphor for me other than language for the physical beingness we express? I'm thinking you might go with the vessel -> holy grail legend which you will always be famous in my memory for. The poem I shared with you was my expression to you, it was not an artifact per se but was as relevant the day I wrote it as it is today if not more so. Let me reiterate that - I didn't share or send you a "poem" but rather an expression I have channeled as poetry; but, which follows no formality or set of rules. If there is a basis that can be defined for choosing a creative writing paradigm like poetry to express myself at times, I suppose it is that the heart, at least my heart, I experience as a musical harmony in perfect time, and when relevant find my written discourse simply looks more like poetry than prose, voila. Whenever I speak both from the heart and without rational focus, my words found poetry far more simpatico than the rest of the possible types/classes/genres in the world. So it goes...

From another view, taking Rumi and Hafiz, as well as Whitman, Emerson, Shakespeare, Percy, ahhh, but the list could easily run on and on for me, why? Poetry is far more pleasing to read when one's consciousness is focused on the heart. As a reader, there is really nothing more exciting and rewarding than to discover a new poet, past or present; that, in the reading my heart sings and dances an understanding unto itself.

...

On further reflection I should add that my excitement over understanding a new poet emotionally is not in any sense like a liking for. In fact, a major portion of my favorite poets are really difficult reads (TO SAY THE LEAST  :-). Rather, the excitement is due simply to understanding developed with a concordant illumination within. If the truth were really to be told, I sometimes read prose poetically and vice versa. Such fluidity characterizing my style of listening and reading might be considered as weak in concentration. That conversation is far beyond the scope of this post. Suffice it to say howver, that despite this apparent dissonance in communication (as I understand myself actively through it) my intuition seems to have a precedent level role leading me to more and more properly align myself though formal dictates appear broken. The relevant issue here is of course truth and the discernment required in order to both perceive and appreciate truth. It is a judgement void of personal taste, drama, and concern for external references, standards, fads, styles, etc.

With a proper acknowledgement of my rather banal dualistic revelation on the matter, the conversation regarding the truth of all that which I just now classified as falsifying; again, is a conversation far beyond the scope of this post. Yet again, one strives to be complete, as much as possible, with the greatest most concise amount of brevity one is capable of, particularly when one's tact is rationally based.

Returning Word

Written in 1999, and recently honored in a favorite old poetry forum, when I read it again after more than a decade. I don't know how I managed to produce this then as I surely can't recall when I last equaled this poem. How many poems as this have I also forgotten, one wonders?

Don’t you know I would make it all good
in the image and spirit of all that is good.
There is no mountain tall enough
nor sea deeper than my love for this,
for you have touched me beyond reason
and you found my solitude
with no words spoken for the fragrance
that respects and that respect alone
will never be questioned nor rescinded.

That gift was a dawning star in a gesture
where such a gift means action
and gestures meaningless, save
that which brings forth radiant things
by such means as a simple nod
an unheard motion or voice emboldened.

A language heard by galaxies as poetry
laughing fat and heavy like any progeny
such as you, keeper of my silence,
illuminated of those listening within.
Bearer of heavenly bodies rank and file
sweet brigand radiant lovers of peace,
you manifest light silent but penetrating
manifesting now honor and my thanks.

Making a solitary moment of smiling
from here below on all you’ve done
acknowledging you’re immeasurable
surely the source of everything with
a face of peace to which I listen.

© R.J. Duberg , 1999