The Poem of Poetry

Since the Immeasurable and Infinite indwells all equally, it is a strenuous challenge in this life to admire egos. Masks can be awesome and radiant; but only the One of hidden Light is true beauty.

The poetic lifts us on the wings of the unspeakable and soars into the unutterable, only hinting at the Beyond within, the interior Other. Still, even so, those flickers imply infinite interior galaxies of secreted wisdom, the tap-in to the Beloved of the sufis. In Love with Love is the ultimate and maximum state of Mind-- sweet, all-encompassing, ecstatic. We long to return to that lost Eden, and, this time, never to taste the fruit of dualism that exiles us from pleasure.

All the cosmos begins embryonically, and is wrapped entirely, within the single thought. Galaxies arise from neurons. Worlds evolve from perceptions. Thus do we make our heavens, hells, and all that is between. Deep profundities are much too profound, chasms of Mind, for the outward reach ever to touch.

Gold is the god-demon that snuffs the candle of compassion from the weary and empty heart. Its glitter is blindness, its wisdom folly, and its pursuit madness. Those who sacrifice eternal Mother Earth on its altar are aliens to their own birth and home. The "slaughter of the innocents" occurs within their hearts every second of time. Blood fills their gold-clad nightmares, and it cries to the Goddess of Love for balance in karma. And their reward shall indeed be theirs, and they will have centuries to assimilate pain, waste, and bottomless loss, as their souls inhabit granite coffins in eternity. Then, in distant times, they too will emerge as butterflies of Light-- gorgeous, photophilic, and aleithophilic forever.

A life stripped of the poetic is but a dried husk, an empty shell, of glory, candles snuffed, stars eclipsed, Love smothered, wonders suffocated. Life without its golden springs is a desert. But the flowers and blossoms of Love are nourished by its underground springs and wells, as its pure crystalline, diamond-pure liquid makes fertile the whole earth of Mind. Mere words are quickly exhausted and depleted by its platinum and emerald miracles. For all poetic life is expression of the Ineffable; thus, it is truest worship-- at the altar of a rose, a rainbow, or a star. It is Reality incarnate, wrapped in polychromatic splendor-- the scarlets, lemon-yellows, and cobalts of the cosmos, spread
out everywhere.

For these are realities of Mind only. It unleashes the single and only Artist in all creation, the goddess within all, She of dark beauty and Lightfilled shining. She is the Goddess of midnight, and of stunning sun. She, delicate and granitic Mind, indestructible, is the only Reality in the cosmos.

She is what mystics mean by "truth." Knowing her is explosive knowing. Becoming her "instrument of Love" is the highest, most thrilling, ecstasy. It is what we were created to do. In apparent solitude, the poetic unites us, for a moment, with all Mind everywhere, from grasshopper and gaslight, to Goddess and galaxy. When we walk the isolated path to interior rooms, we discover that everyone has attended the party, and the guest of honor is none other than the Self, the Goddess.

She is the end of craving, the place of glowing tranquility, untouchable serenity.

Silence is better than casting emeralds and sapphires before pigs, who trample them into the mud of lower mind, mocking their own interior death. But it is life, the life, that deserves praise, accolade, and acknowledgement. It is only the life that desires to disappear into limitless Mind, burned up in the fire of Love, which is the real life. When the sense of the boundless swallows you, you know that you are at home only when you have left home. This star-filled nostalgia blossoms with the light of a candle on a dark midnight. Lighting it in your heart, though it be but one and tiny, surpasses all curses of darkness, which seems wide and vast. To be swept along in obsession with Lovelight is to find our only true place. Making Love to the Self, to the cosmos, is utter closure, the missing pieces of the puzzle of our lives falling so sweetly into place. On the magic carpet of Mind, we soar over the dreamscapes of eternity, and distance and time luminesce and vaporize under its gaze. For you are now the wide open sky, blue and black, and you are the stars and the butterflies floating within it. To die to your self is truly to grow, and there is no development without deactivation
of the little mind, so that the great Mind might emerge, shining and triumphant in its endless Loveplay.