Poetry

Insignificant

 

Insignificant

Otherwise
reduced over a slow boil
of the absolution of selfhood
dismayed at the notion
of settling down at a moment
of time viewed as insurance
printed out in metered lines
the poetry of redemption
neatness pictured as
vague as an excuse
muttered and forgotten
as one who remembers
all you are to me
is what was
before I remembered
you again
time is like that
like you
like me
gone
Bali

Ogoh-Ogoh

 

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Everybody loves a parade.

Especially the Balinese with their fondness for ritual, purification, ceremony and processions.

The Balinese love and worship with flowers, nature  and water – it would seem that our Tournament of Roses parade would be a perfect model for them to emulate, but instead they chose to parade their demons. In the early 80’s they started a new tradition of the Ngrupuk parade in Bali. These Ogoh-Ogoh, elaborate giant painted paper-mache sculptures of demons drawn from Hindu and Balinese mythology and pure imagination, are created by the village youth organizations.  Gotta give the kids something to do, right? On the eve of Nyepi (the Day of Silence) they strut these formidable statues through the crowded, darkened streets of the Dead Moon. Ogoh-Ogoh symbolize the spiritual pollution caused by the activity of sentience. In other words, you and I. The negative aspects of all living things caused by the act of living. More often that not, our demons ritually confound us rather than the other way around, which is the intent of this spectacle. Right down to snarling the eternal energy, eternal time of the already fierce traffic on Bali.

Street Ogoh

But the Balinese also strive to achieve the balance of moksa in the intertwining worlds of dharma and adharma. There is a balance to all. The Saput poleng, black and white checkered cloth used to wrap statues and trees is reflective of this balance. The symbolism of Black and White to our dualistic minds is a litany of familiar opposites in which we find belonging, preservation and the comfort of judgement.But the absolute poles of black and white are also tempered by the interweaving of the two threads that produce an interim square of middle gray symbolic of our relative situation in life rather than an absolute.

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Positive and negative is not the same as good and evil. Positive and negative are merely like battery poles – morality might be more in tune with what you choose to do with the batteries. It is the differences that set the balance of the universe, it is polarity that creates movement in the vast sea of energy we call home.

The Balinese also worship and purify with fire. So perhaps it is fitting to parade our demons.  Bring them into the open rather than allow them to auto-pilot blindly from the darkness of fear, denial and ignorance. Careen them madly down the streets, confound them by spinning them three-times counterclockwise at intersections, shake them violently in an attempt to dislodge their heads, and then set them on fire. Offer them up for Agnihotra, purification by fire ceremony.  Burning demons has a delicious irony to it. Perhaps the carnage and destruction left afterwards in the wake of our need to burn demons is also cautionary.  Acknowledge and accept the responsibility that this is a part of our nature, but that we have a choice as to how we choose to weave the fabric of our lives. 

Nyepi follows, a parade of silence. No fire. No activity. Just the white square.

The next day, we relight the fires and forgive. And begin to weave the gray square anew.

Poetry

Musings on a Blossom a Day

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Every day this earthly poetry springs
unearthed in blossom bright,
perfect attention unaware in abundance true,
poised at the mercy of what knows not,
beyond posture or prayer aligned with purpose.
We dream the same dream,
this sweet perfume of words.
For the moment we are here,
That which we are granted we take for granted.
Our form, our constant breath, our graceful repose;
all this will fade in the ruffled fall of time.
Undone again and again, we glow in our grace.
There is no hesitancy passing as a promise
unfurling at this instance in brilliant time.

Poetry

The Trouble with Bees

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Where artful color beckoned
Of blooms blown wild
Across the vast meadows of desire,
Pollen spent with the bee’s intent
Has taken to the side of Time.

I flash about the seamless void
Your beauty a safety of brilliance
To keep me alive, yet at the core
We are being, seeded throughout
Every change that ever lives.

This trouble with words
Is the clinging of petals
After they touch and linger
Delicious with the nectar of the moment
Unaware of sweet honey to be

For the generation to follow
From fallow and furrow to future
Of honeycomb and flowerbed
The sun smiles overhead, knowing
There is no problem with bees.

Poetry

And What Words Do I Send a Dancer?

Dancer

 

Stop describing energy in motion, spinning centers
Of the world in synchronistic fusion
Of souls and hearts and mind
In the graceful, lithe flux of our reception
Attuned to the touch of the moment,
The arc of our agreements.

Stop the step of time and the boundaries
Of floors and ceilings, of field and sky,
As the slow lazy drift in the still, cool air
Of hoverflies drifting, spotlight sunbeams
Attending the effortless present.

Stop the ceaseless imagination
In vast choreography, subroutine, practicing,
Categorization, of a need for ears and music,
A dependence on the passage of time.

Are there words for this?

I would rather you remain unspoken, but deeply known.
Beyond description attuned, placement aligned.
Congruent in response and repose, exultantly
Spun particles in the patterns of waves
In the sweep and breadth of our passage
To dimensionless plains of infinite Grace.

Define our observance by the truth
Of the hollow of an elbow turning,
Follow the curve of a spine, the flow of gestures
Effortless, ecstatic in the cycle
Of words that wash into being and love
To tumble in the roll and rhythm of our hearts
For our brief sweet span as dancers here.