The Parable of the Sower

Sometimes, I think that I have borne a lot
of resentment, and fought against the world
believing to lead with your fist uncurled
meant weakness, and what you deserved, you got.

I lived as if my troubles were the most
important thing in the whole universe;
and those who hurt me, from me got it worse.
I thought of myself as a hungry ghost,

feeding on others misfortune and pain,
using their foibles as inspiration
for forming great theories, the creation
of a clever ruse to hide my disdain.

And karma? What was that to do with me?
My actions, like a pebble in the pond
sent waves echoing outward, far beyond
my line of sight. In my sad vanity

I imagined that being the center, source
from which this negativity bounded,
it was the ugly world that surrounded
the force for good that was myself. Of course,

I was wrong about some things, and yet right
about a few others. Like what you get
being what you deserve; if you forget
that one, your world view becomes wrapped so tight

a light, little touch can send you spinning
into a void of angry self-pity
where your soul’s balance and integrity
are lost in cruel games, and no one’s winning.

Sometimes, I think that I have borne a lot;
but then, I look at where my life is now,
looking back on the bitter weeds I plow
under, those tares I sowed in my own plot.

I realize my misspent days of youth
were but a preamble to my real life,
and that by reaping then that field of strife
I have prepared the soil to grow some truth.

28 JUL 2003

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Hanging Prayer Flags

You can’t hang those outside our house, she said,
looking at the string of fifteen small flags
that I carefully unrolled and held out,
stretched to full arms length across my big chest –

it will look like an all-night Buddhist pub –
and everyone who passes by will stop
at all hours for a cup of jasmine tea;
or, she said low, those Monte Carlo boys

seeing blue and red colors in the breeze
will cross the street, seeing competition
for the mind-altering stuff they pander,
and maybe bust a cap in someone’s ass.
I laughed. The mind of a fifteen year old
is quite a strange place to visit, sometimes.

06 JUL 2003

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Describing Sound to the Deaf

It is more than simply a vibration,
a finite number of beats across time
that enter the senses to resonate
and seek to move against the immobile;

there is a color and taste to it, too,
that fills the mouth with flavor and substance,
plays against the eye in patterns of light.
By turns, it is warm or cool to the touch,

and may fill the mind with joy or with dread.
It is alive, ever-changing, and moves
across great distances; as its echo
fades, it is absorbed in other new forms:

the whir of wings, the rustle of dry leaves,
the drip of a faucet, a tinkling laugh.

Drawing it in, we bring the world to us,
open, undisguised and without deceit –
where vision fails, in its grandiose quest
to reach out, conquer, and quickly discern

between the illusions it is offered,
the ear, with its passive, receptive scan
finds no separations, no division
between the self and the sacred other.

19 MAY 2003

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Ravens and writing desks

Why IS a raven like a writing desk?

Mythologically, the raven represents a messenger, not a gatekeeper like the blackbird. He is a courier, carrying secret letters of transit enabling passage beyond the borders of this brightly lit world into the misty mountainous regions of the Otherworld. The writing desk likewise symbolizes a conduit to another place and time, where hours and miles have different meanings, where illusions become real and the real becomes a mere wisp of ephemera.

The raven is a deliverer of news of great portend conveyed simply to change one’s current agenda. This news by its very nature preempts the standard broadcast with a bulletin of import. The writing desk is also about disruptive or transformative change – the moment you begin examining something in enough detail to actually trouble with transcribing the experience you have already changed that something, interrupted its previous busyness. Its and your experiment and experience is altered as the process of observation becomes part of the observed world.

In truth, both raven and writing desk are scavengers, capable and willing of devouring almost anything. Both are ravenous. Both will indiscriminately use any substance for sustenance.

12 Feb 2003

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Does a Rose Say No To Life?

If life be a rose, those who pick it may find
both petal and thorn, sweet and the unkind;
and essence as well as the outer husk,
for each is essential, both prick and musk.

If life be negation, that null space filled
with trials and hardship and tests of will,
it is also a loud, resounding yes;
for to be true life it cannot be less.

For life to be lived fully it must contain
a mixture of sorrow, pleasure and pain;
Each one has its place in the plan of things,
we must not spurn the lessons each one brings.

Just life? Just a rose? Just a yes or no?
It is only belief that makes it so.

05 DEC 2002

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