Long Divested Poems
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Natural in and out practices,
like breathing
and heart beating,
are unlike distinctively spiritual bad habits
and corrupt missionary customs
and toxic chosen-people rituals
teaching dark powers feeding LoseLose unhealthy ego-intention
and somewhat lighter powers
of LoseEgo to WinEcoHealthy sublimations,
like macroeconomic surfing oceans
and upstream/downstream healing rivers
of gravity centered Earth
attacking Raptured WhiteMale Supremacists
for micropolitical navel-gazing.
So, spiritual practices,
like instinctively natural habits
(including breathing
heart beating
drinking clean water
eating our vegetables),
and multicultural customs
and compassion rituals,
teach powers of WinWin healthy intention
and somewhat darker powers
of WinLose competitive capitalistic pretensions
of egocentric Selves
and chauvinistic Societies
Supposedly democratic Societies
so capitalistically impoverished
we cannot afford public health care,
leaving even our wealthiest
to live with private health beware.
Health,
like pathology,
depends on relationships,
which may be spiritually invested
with compassion,
and are too often unnaturally divested
to feed toxic
overpowering
nationalistic
chauvinistic
mono-cultish dispassion.
The sparkling dawn serenely veneers
my heart’s horizon with halcyon hues,
spreads the sunburst tinge of timeless charm,
paints a golden garden on my heart’s canvas,
blooming with the lilac luster of my love,
unfurls the facsimile of your floral face.
As the pristine patina of the radiant roses
flushes your cherubic cheeks resplendent,
glittering with seraphic grandeur of shining pearls,
rapture wraps the mesmeric meadow of my mind.
As your cadenced heart pulsates within mine,
in the ether of encompassing euphoria I float.
In the vivacious valley of my verdant heart,
configured by the contours of your charm,
as I carve a conduit of earnest yearning to reach you,
fervent cloud floats away with my captivated craving,
melts in an endless torrent of expired emotion,
you disappear with the waning waves of desire.
Wandering destined in the desiccated wasteland
with the conciliated memory of divested longing,
my teardrops deviate from melancholic course to dry,
silhouetting the leitmotif of our past I need to forget.
When we let our path diverge at love’s blind end,
time would reveal for us the truth it is for the best.
(Written at 3:00 am on a motorcycle between Sedona and Flagstaff)
I want to write dirty and convoluted,
connected and wet
And in the mess of my words
Feel the stain run down
Over the nice clean ordered objective, detached
From the structure you claim to know about
I want to write congested
And ingested,
Not divested of that
Which causes me to feel and to think
The outpouring of what will not stop
And does not want to change, as you
Try to sever my relationship with
All the things that allow me to dwell inside
What I write about
Not often objective
But captive and subjected to
And part of the unholy unwashed
I want to sleep with the dogs of night
And if fleas are the only price I pay
I welcome them home
A gracious host that they may feed off
As the wounds stay open
Bleeding with all that is still unknown
Those things that I mention
Giving birth to what was not there before
And if death is the one that truly calls
I hear her voice
But she must wait
Until I make the translation of her words sacred
And of my own resolve
And if she takes me sudden
She risks my anger
As I will drag all new beginnings
Into what she seeks to end
Pushing her further from that monocled eye
And with one foot frozen
In the world behind
Refusing to leave
I curse the new regions with my words
Knowing that death, like life
Is to be passed beyond
Not staged or romanced
But catalogued once felt as
Forgotten turnstile
As her soulless call becomes
Mere lighthouse
For those places
—I refuse to go
(Oak Creek Canyon: November, 2011)
“Forever divested of all and united to the Self, the enlightened one is the All, free and devoid of truth. Thus, how can there be here life and death, and how can there be any accomplishment through meditation or lack of meditation?”
“All this is magic, like a mirage in the desert. Only the absolute Self, of indivisible and impenetrable form, exist”
Are dreams real if we dream every night,
so whether we bowl or whether we bat,
if heart be tranquil and we have clear sight,
how does it matter what pranks we are at?
Come hither ego, we’ll give you a pat
for your antics but know we are free,
unshackled from mind’s tree, dancing carefree.
when your mind is in such a state,
when you can laugh denouncing fate,
nonchalantly in air coin toss,
to take your wins with your bad loss,
when day and night are equal phase,
life can tempt with no further race,
when you see the transience of life,
like a fluttering butterfly,
emotions that you invested,
look a dry farmland, rain divested,
you see truth of the self emerge,
with in eternal wisdom surge,
Then you have reached the pinnacle,
life no longer a debacle,
a peaceful calm rests on your face,
your eyes shine sublime light of grace,
you are no more than anything,
nothing exists no more than you!
no longer a body with name,
eternity and you are same!
you have bridged the wide gap between
all life and death that lay unseen!
you can walk on fire, in rain,
happy and smiling without pain!
2nd placement
Written 28/10/2020
Ambedo poetry contest
Sponsor Silent One
"Placebo - Part 2"
There’s little sins and HUGE SINS
Little mistakes, possibly forgiveable.
HUGE MISTAKES, HUGE SINS?
That’s a different kind of metronome
marking time over a head, while
a recidivist waits for his deal with God.
You ask those little girls and boys
who are divested of their childhood,
their pure innocence in
the most heinous ways -
if they think you deserve a deal with God,
while you look at photos of them being defiled,
or worse, you are in the filthy piece of Celluloid with them.
You ask those little girls and boys
who have been divested of their childhood,
their pure innocence in
the most heinous of ways,
who have been killed and thrown
like bags of rubbish somewhere -
if they think you deserve a deal with God.
You ask the families of all that have been
inflicted and their lives unalterably changed -
whether they think you deserve a deal with God.
They say there is no God.
Well, perhaps there isn’t.
Why would a just God let that happen?
“Suffer the little children” etc
What if God is truly “I Am”? And that
“I Am” is in you.
And the you that is lying there
concerned for your own remorse,
your own deal with God -
not the deal and mercy
a child deserves to be given by God
(even at this moment, somewhere in the world,
a child all alone crying out for…);
well, you just
turn over in the cot in your crib and cry like a baby,
thinking you are all alone.
What if God that is the "I Am"
could kick out of your body
the other lesser god, the god
that is the "I Isn’t"?
Is it possible at this point, I wonder?
I guess it depends on what stage of diarrhoea,
you’ve contracted.
Because when you get down to the
nuts and bolts of it,
this Life we have,
is all about Contracts.
The officer on duty knocks
opens your door hatch, and announces,
“You’ve got a visitor”.
You swing off the top level of the bunk
you’re dying of boredom in,
trying not to kick the other “effer” in the head
and you are let out of your crib.
You’re off to make your deal with God.
(Lovejoy-Burton/2017 Dec)
“MOTHER, is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children” William Makepeace Thackeray
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7_bYLcTjnPA
Written: March 31st, 2025, for contest, Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
************
After basking in yesterday's afterglow,
I divested my vestments
to shift in cognitive mindset.
I stroll toward the horizon.
where the azure sky
embraces the vast sea blue.
Waves dance.
With silvered clouds,
Creating an orchestra
The wind and light are present.
Sallow shadows scintillate.
In Moonlight Melodies...
As dusk settles,
casting a shimmering awe that echoes of
The splendor of the galaxies abounds.
In every breath,
A promise resonates,
to the dawn
that dwells within me.
Gliding on golden wings
a sovereign among the kings
As light swirls beneath the Milky Way,
The cosmos shines brilliantly.
In a pearly gown.
Angels slide,
Unleashing their power
to restore their lost throne.
With flickering wings,
Wield the sword of stone
their footsteps inscribe
a path of golden light,
As they conquer the onyx depths
of an obsidian night.
Loving blasts their souls.
angel wings shake in sadness,
where grief and despair are hefty,
seeking an aerial citrine nirvana
I recall it sharply,
as if it were yesterday,
Tears mar the silky pillows.
as honeysuckle
It oozes from eager lips. —
There is a longing for satisfaction.
Lipstick etches its mark.
He left an imprint on his bare skin.
Even now, those intertwined chains
of Memory ensnares me.,
As well-oiled fingers traverse
the curves of the sensuous body,
ordinary yet glowing in the sunlight,
filled with a relentless passion.
Nervous tension shattered,
striking, akin to a diamond on ebony velvet.
As her body warmed and became silky,
Her lips melted and tasted delicious.
They expressed love ardently.
and hugged fervently.
swept up in passion and longing,
wishing the moment might last forever,
cocooned in each other's arms,
and felt blissfully pleased,
Polishing words into gems,
dusted garnet, with sunset slips
In citrine clouds cast
There was a ray of magenta skies.
I wish for unending delight.
and utter bliss in the afterglow.
“One should successively take recourse to the objects of concentration, as mentioned by the yogis, in accordance with their subtlety, invisibility, and attributelessness. When through constant practice one's concentration becomes objectless, then, being divested of merits and demerits, one attains the state of complete dissolution in the Absolute through the dissolution of the object of concentration, but not before then.”
All that’s manifest, is but a projection
of thought, borne by our heart’s befuddled desire
and as such the world deserves our rejection,
vaporising ego in the cosmic fire,
whence poised in the void, our presence unalloyed,
is no more by animal cravings decoyed,
paving way for space and time to disappear,
whereupon truth of existence becomes clear.
Both paradise and hell
have their detractors.
I find some exaggerated truth
in this belief--
one person's paradise
is another's hell.
An eternity
of worshiping an unchanging
omnipotent
omniscient
omnipresent
mono-egotistical god
is not my idea of healthy re-creation.
I have never heard this
in reverse--
One person's hell
may be required
for another's paradise.
Heavenly Capital Adoration
begins to sound like sexist
and xenophobic
and anthropocentric rationalizations
for rampant capitalism
Sublimation as extension,
perhaps a corollary,
justifying capitalism and slavery,
violent settlers' colonialism,
systemic racism
and straight white male
and left brain deductive domination
over who is empowered
to define
and refine
and confine
and double-bind
winners' Paradise
v losers' Hell.
If paradise is a healthy
wealthy place to freely live,
And hell is a pathological
divested
infested
under-invested
patriarchal chested
rapaciously unbreasted
place to not be
ecofeminist sufficiently,
Then losing bad humored,
terrifyingly rumored,
anti-organically tumored
hell is a dualistically shocking way
toward winning good humored
terrifically enamored,
organically amored paradise
of integral win/wins;
Economic and political
Neurological and biological
Ecological and geological
Egological and theological
Secular and sacred
Natural and spiritual
Space and time
ZeroZoned and TaoBalanced.
That said,
I doubt
we are without
universal Paradise
as absence of Hellish attributes
Such as autocracy
and kleptocracy,
fascism and racism
are multiculturally known
and felt as hellish.
Healthy democracy
may not be
a monotheist's Paradise,
Still,
democracy's win/win potential
for cooperative ownership and management
speaks louder than capitalism's win/lose reductions
of ego's participative paradise
in omniscient multicultural theocracy.
The dreadful storm brews in the horizon recess,
my old boat sailing in the turbulent river tosses.
Rains come in terrifying torrents from leaking space,
my frail house struggles to stand in place.
Unrestrained intolerance spreads like deadly virus,
thrusts my trust onto the brink of looming menace.
Terminal disease strikes the mortal blow,
my body knows its vulnerability isn’t low.
Clouds of insecurity surge with tempest severe,
agonized mind sucked into the whirlpool of fear
swirls in the vortex of noxious fright of gale,
divested of the feeling that fear could be notional.
When life saunters on my own pathway, I feel proud,
but soon it’s full of intruding aliens of nameless crowd.
In the clutch of xenophobia I suffer in distress,
for I am scared of the unfamiliar otherness.
The journey’s end seems to be in dire plight,
as the light at the end of the tunnel isn’t in sight.
The scared senses feel the air of hazard unknown,
where wrecked hope piles up in trepidation zone.
Prudence augments my fear growing in qualms deep,
can’t rationally control the state causing panic to creep.
Wisdom doesn’t allay fear, an artifact of emotion innate,
but provides the acuity to face it with strength sedate.
The end is engraved in the beginning, I can’t disown,
for I’m constantly alarmed to face the unknown
at the final ordained milepost; the truth frightens me,
as all the time I fight fear, my worst enemy.