whirl …
where waters mingle -
the inky black that pulls down
swallows … enfolds …
the ballet breaks -
sun’s golden coins a-dancing,
birthing pixies to the brine
to draw the gaze with dazzled magic …
the glassy smooth that
dopplegangs a billowy azure and a
quivery, star-daubed vault …
the ruffled swells -
turning masts to pendulum poets,
ticking time as the hulls roll …
and rock … and roll …
and the foaming rage -
surf that breaks reefs to ruin
and howls at Calypso,
the salty sirens screaming at
her for just a taste of
jagged justice …
the seas roar and ebb and
sunder suns to ache
the rills run to the low to find them
and feed the confluences
water weaves and wells and works to
be the All of life -
the precious matter, miraculous
the shaper and sater and savior of
everything that actuates
yet …
the oceans, and washes, wild
and weeping heavens
in all their splendor and abundance
can not hope to accommodate
the love, sorrow, spirit, or
significance
of one single, solitary
child’s …
tear.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, July 27, 2024
”Union and separation exist in regard neither to you nor to me.
There is no you, no me, nor is there this universe.
All is verily the Self alone.”
Hiranyagarbha, the cosmic egg splits
thus in this manner the one becomes two
polarities orbit love in the void
bringing fleeting joy and sorrow we rue
when we choose to make our heart quiescent
poised in stillness we invoke magnetism
the union of polarities in heart
actuates boundless bliss in body prism
in timeless time our eye becomes single
our presence is one with the universe
as one with onenesss, we become the flame
we’re enabled without need to rehearse
there being nothing outside consciousness
we are both immanent and transcendent
as such there’s nothing needed to be done
we are God’s love and light, bliss resplendent
What do you do when you've lost your muse
And discouraging things seed a rooted blues?
Where do you turn when your sweetest verse
Gets a critical snub that just makes it worse?
See, each little poem, birthed within your soul
Is a part of the matter that makes you whole
And when your best comes up with a blank
It's hard to know which nasty fate to thank
I imagine to others, it seems a small thing
But the love of a poem is what makes it sing
If the wilt of your rose actuates some pain
Remember that growth needs a bit of rain
So, put down the pen and attend your heart
Give your muse some air ... and a fresh new start.