Fangs away / Boundless ocean of compassion…

As long as diseases afflict living beings

May I be the doctor, the medicine

And also the nurse

Who restores them to health

———————————————————————–

all I ever wanted to do, was love

is that such a bad thing?

please, stop snarling at me…

 

until you step

into the ocean

you will never know

the Pacific, of a setting sun

 

your lives will be

bereft of the magnificence

manifest of the warmth

and as pink, as can be

 

behold resplendent

the wish fulfilling jewel

Lotus born

and radiant

 

boundless ocean of compassion

wherein I might swim

as naked as Adam

and just as free…

 

free your minds,

find that fifty foot wave

it comes

but once a century

 

boundless ocean of compassion

make point break for me

a real barrel

for me to finger touch

 

may the spray

slick back my hair

as the Bodhi takes me

ever, into eternity…

a Nagual’s World

On the off chance that people are “observing” this blog from a strategic “what do we do with Alan ” point of view, then it would be my bad if I did not give then some clues or at least a few red herrings.  Enjoy…

………………………………………………………………………………….

In my case, don Juan wanted an omen before he taught me the ritual. That omen came when don Juan and I were driving through a border town in Arizona and a policeman stopped me. The policeman thought I was an illegal alien. Only after I had shown him my passport, which he suspected of being a forgery, and other documents, did he let me go. Don Juan had been in the front seat next to me all the time, and the policeman had not given him a second glance. He had focused solely on me. Don Juan thought the incident was the omen he was waiting for. His interpretation of it was that it would be very dangerous for me to call attention to myself, and he concluded that my world had to be one of utter simplicity and candor – elaborate ritual and pomp were out of character for me. He conceded, however, that a minimal observance of ritualistic patterns was in order when I made my acquaintance with his warriors. I had to begin by approaching them from the south, because that is the direction that power follows in its ceaseless flux. Life force flows to us from the south, and leaves us flowing toward the north. He said that the only opening to a Nagual’s world was through the south, and that the gate was made by two female warriors, who would have to greet me and would let me go through if they so decided.

He took me to a town in central Mexico, to a house in the countryside. As we approached it on foot from a southerly direction, I saw two massive Indian women standing four feet apart, facing each other. They were about thirty or forty feet away from the main door of the house, in an area where the dirt was hard-packed. The two women were extraordinarily muscular and stern. Both had long, jet-black hair held together in a single thick braid. They looked like sisters. They were about the same height and weight – I figured that they must have been around five feet four, and weighed 150 pounds. One of them was extremely dark, almost black, the other much lighter. They were dressed like typical Indian women from central Mexico – long, full dresses and shawls, homemade sandals.

Don Juan made me stop three feet from them. He turned to the woman on our left and made me face her. He said that her name was Cecilia and that she was a dreamer. He then turned abruptly, without giving me time to say anything, and made me face the darker woman, to our right. He said that her name was Delia and that she was a stalker. The women nodded at me. They did not smile or move to shake hands with me, or make any gesture of welcome. Don Juan walked between them as if they were two columns marking a gate. He took a couple of steps and turned as if waiting for the women to invite me to go through. The women stared at me calmly for a moment. Then Cecilia asked me to come in, as if I were at the threshold of an actual door.

Don Juan led the way to the house. At the front door we found a man. He was very slender. At first sight he looked extremely young, but on closer examination he appeared to be in his late fifties. He gave me the impression of being an old child: small, wiry, with penetrating dark eyes. He was like an elfish apparition, a shadow. Don Juan introduced him to me as Emilito, and said that he was his courier and all-around helper, who would welcome me on his behalf. It seemed to me that Emilito was indeed the most appropriate being to welcome anyone. His smile was radiant; his small teeth were perfectly even. He shook hands with me, or rather he crossed his forearms and clasped both my hands. He seemed to be exuding enjoyment; anyone would have sworn that he was ecstatic in meeting me. His voice was very soft and his eyes sparkled.

We walked into a large room. There was another woman there. Don Juan said that her name was Teresa and that she was Cecilia’s and Delia’s courier. She was perhaps in her early thirties, and she definitely looked like Cecilia’s daughter. She was very quiet but very friendly. We followed don Juan to the back of the house, where there was a roofed porch. It was a warm day. We sat there around a table, and after a frugal dinner we talked until after midnight. Emilito was the host. He charmed and delighted everyone with his exotic stories. The women opened up. They were a great audience for him. To hear the women’s laughter was an exquisite pleasure. They were tremendously muscular, bold, and physical. At one point, when Emilito said that Cecilia and Delia were like two mothers to him, and Teresa like a daughter, they picked him up and tossed him in the air like a child.

Of the two women, Delia seemed the more rational, down- to-earth. Cecilia was perhaps more aloof, but appeared to have greater inner strength. She gave me the impression of being more intolerant, or more impatient; she seemed to get annoyed with some of Emilito’s stories. Nonetheless, she was definitely on the edge of her chair when he would tell what he called his “tales of eternity.” He would preface every story with the phrase, ‘Do you, dear friends, know that. . . ?’

The story that impressed me most was about some creatures that he said existed in the universe, who were the closest thing to human beings without being human; creatures who were obsessed with movement and capable of detecting the slightest fluctuation inside themselves or around them. These creatures were so sensitive to motion that it was a curse to them. It gave them such pain that their ultimate ambition was to find quietude. Emilito would intersperse his tales of eternity with the most outrageous dirty jokes. Because of his incredible gifts as a raconteur, I understood every one of his stories as a metaphor, a parable, with which he was teaching us something.

Don Juan said that Emilito was merely reporting about things he had witnessed in his journeys through eternity. The role of a courier was to travel ahead of the Nagual, like a scout in a military operation. Emilito went to the limits of the second attention, and whatever he witnessed he passed on to the others.

Windy Day “Haiku”

Storm Bella is passing by and I am reminded of another Windy Day

———————————————————-

Christmas lights tap

the bedroom window

with a breezy urgency

 

wet weather gear on

many layers in an onion,

the fresh smell of rain

 

two rivers on a road

brown muddy streams

they carry the stuff of dreams

 

the pylons play

their Aeolian harps

while consulting oracles

 

soft leafy carpets

so tender underfoot

hush the urgency out the world

 

the tenacious mud sucks

at the soles of boots

what a squelch!

 

white wool on a fence

a startled deer runs!

Tufty, the rain-deer

 

a squall blows water

into the hair

better than any shampoo

 

ruddy cheeks glow

now fresher than any mint

a hot soothing bath

 

Nature is Buddha

and it is we who sleep

or, do we?

 

the taste of rain

lingers on the tongue,

a drop of eternity

 

I love the rain

its water cleanses

a superlative most superb.


Bellatrix Lestrange (née Black) (1951 – 2 May, 1998) was a British witch, the eldest daughter of Cygnus and Druella Black, cousin of Regulus and Sirius Black, and the elder sister of Andromeda Tonks and Narcissa Malfoy. She was a member of the House of Black, an old wizarding family and one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Bellatrix started her education at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the early sixties (either 1962 or 1963), and was Sorted into Slytherin House.

The Hooded Man

hunting echoes

in a canyon

with a ceremonial

drum

 

wearing an overcoat

of shadows

belonging to

someone else

 

seeking a river’s tears

under a willow tree

being coy with carp

and an egret

 

wobbling with

the newborn deer

in ignorance grass

on poppy meadows

 

where remembering

brings no opium

not for ghosts

or djinns

 

counting cherry stones

piled in perfect balance

a heap of Sakurai

in the making

 

a sandwich of Satori

rice paper fine

and as delicate

as dew

 

the dawn chases away

echoes and shadows

and walks daisies,

petal footsteps in the stream

 

tickling toes between

washing scales

as the sunlight

twinkles

 

the mists yawn

the trees sway

dancing mirror ponds

shimmer sequins

 

the stars stretch

their cosmic arms

teasing the hair

of night’s sky

 

and now even echoes

chime no more

Pie Jesu in the snow

as a lamb sings

 

frolicking with buttercups

and dents-de-lions

shorn of shadow coats

and now naked

 

no more soul

to clothe him

not now

not ever

 

the land of shadows

fades misty fast

without meals

or succour

 

and diamond eyed,

glinting galaxies,

he pulls up his cowl

the hooded man

 

… … hunts no more

Gloria Monday

Sic transit gloria mundi

——————

As the smoke fades and blends in the moonlight

there is just an echo, a simple echo

one of many heard throughout the ages

 

An echo of a note that never had a chance to grow

and now flown far in the mists of time with

the sound of all those Christmases yet to come

 

Gone now and perhaps forever

 

The point past chance

has now tip-toed off into darkness

dressed in the shroud of pride

 

A silence where a smile might be

an ache to be dulled with the codeine of time

and washed down with Absolut on ice

 

Gone now and perhaps forever

 

And the will when read, had a terrible price

the artifice of it all, a haunting cost

one which he was always going to pay

 

He didn’t turn out well for the big event

the clothes did not fit and soon

they will be boxing him one last time

 

Gone now and perhaps forever

 

He never was much good at sitting

and he never liked to heel

not fond of rosettes or silverware either

 

Let others have their sweet victories

if they want them so very much

even Gloria Monday was sick in the transit

 

Gone now and perhaps forever

 

And so he in turn becomes

But an echo, a simple echo

A whisper on the wind and in the mind

 

Like all echoes he reverberates

for a little while off the canyon walls

and then he passes into eternity

 

Gone now and perhaps forever

dharma of the day #7

be not fixated on perceived goals

whatever they may be

be thankful for the presents

already in your hands

 

the grass in the field next

is the same as this one

why peer ever longing over fences

when you already have bounty?

 

constant measuring with scales

makes cataracts for the eyes

the milky vision of which

is blinding to the awesome now

in all its magnificence

 

live mind-full and aware

of your state of being

for this can dress reality

in unfamiliar clothes

which do not actually fit

 

seek only the mountain stream

of clear and quenching calm

as fluid as a virgin brook

into which no palms have entered

be as nascent as a five year old

and as full of wonder

 

put aside the prison of pettiness

and soar on eagle’s wings

stretch out your being

so as to encompass

all the universe

 

learn the meaning of one

for you are one

and should you choose to see

you might be at one with all

all boundaries are constructs of mind

 

learn to ebb and flow

seek out the rhythm

and tap your toes to it

drum your fingers

feel the pulse of Dao in your veins

 

drop your shoulders

relax for the yoke of apparent burden

is what weighs you down

are you an Ox tethered in life

or a magnificent adventurer?

 

from time to time seek out silence

for there will you find treasure

amidst all the hubris

and hidden under leaves

to know silence intimately, enlightens

 

silence is a candle

which flickers in the core

to touch such as this

brings hints of eternity

with which to beautify the mundane

 

embrace silence, it is a friend

and most of all, a teacher

listen to his whisper

for he has much and nothing

to tell you

 

and when you hear nothing for

the very first time

you will be amazed and in awe

it is my wish for you

that you will hear the chimes

of nothing, profoundly

 

for this is the naked canvas

upon which you might paint

the tapestry of your life

full of sound, colour and movement.

 

Who wants to live forever??

When an instant bridges eternity

ever stretches infinite

way,

way

past the alpha of world

 

For is after omega

and the serpent of being

folds continuum cloth

Of

 

… … moment

 

To see such things

hinges the very door of madness

and oils the seams of

sand grain seconds

 

Life becomes eternal autumn

fading the echoes of

the tears and rips

rent

 

… …into the Dao

 

To carry such

shopping

hot from the counter

of rare unusual fare

 

Means not to tarry

exile for just a

little,

little

 

… …while

 

And with a draw

from the sideboard

of society

 

Eyes that see

are no longer blessed

with cataracts

 

And ears which hear

sound the timpani

of cacophony

 

… … urges

 

 for the windows

paint a pane full scene

 

Which catches not

 the semaphore

of planets

which are

 

…… as yet,

 

 un-spoken

 

The longing for, be,

be,

………belonging

 

Aches

as the know of no

 

Better then haste

to make

 

Tidy the must,

the cobweb life

spun in gossamer

on the spinning Jenny

 

The cost of which

yields no

golden penny

 

Always autumn

in their lives

 

The steak of form

pierces the heart

as it sizzles

 

Seared and sealed

in a fate,

 

a femtosecond fraction

of forever

 

And when can bear

no longer,

what then

 

… ……what then???

 

Who wants to live for ever??

Hidden Dragon

Beneath the granite

the slate and the shale

dripping mystic tears

the cave broods

lachrymal

 

Each hesitant drop

marks time, as it

ekes a basin

out the rocks;

the metronome of destiny

 

Myddrin of the opened eye

watches from afar

as Taliesin he opines

and verses Bardic on

the gathering Eisteddfodau of dreams

 

‘neath the cornerstone

the hidden Dragon stirs

scratching an ear

with a claw,

pensive on his waking

 

Who calls forth

the Dragon from his sleep?

Who has the temerity

to enter his brooding lair?

Who summons the Dragon’s breath?

 

Stretching lithe

and yawning wide

he flexes wings

unfurled flags

and blinking eyes

 

He remembers when

he came here

from the Dragon’s realm

high on the cosmic planes

to be Sentinel

 

Again the eye is open

he climbs out the cave

to his mountain Eyri

to espy

the world of men

 

And he breathes

the very hush of Dragon’s breath

rolling over fields

under doors

to permeate, to permeate

 

The breath clings

holding its magic lore

intact, sensing smells

and nuance

as the Dragon now inhales

 

He breathes again

primordial

Jurassic

and before

to cloak the world

 

For in the mist

of Dragon’s breath

only he can see

and as the Sentinel of eternity

he must ever watch

 

With eyes keen

beyond ken

and sharp,

as sharp

as the Sword of Taia.

 

Y Ddraig Glas

the very last of the Sentinels

is now abroad

and his aeonial purpose

beckons