All work Copyright Pathway Publications, Notumbo Publications, 1996-2014. All Rights Reserved
All Light That Flows
All light that flows from matter
Is trapped there by time.
You breathe slowly at night, your dreams
Releasing their photons
As though to balance time and space
What we are is no different
Than what we are not.
(Sometimes I wake and see what I cannot understand.
Sometimes asleep I understand what cannot be seen.)
If our eyes were strong enough,
If they could see across every wavelength,
Would rocks glow? Would they seem endless,
Unbound from mere minerality?
Glowing in dreams as you do,
There among now transparent rocks,
Time stills, long enough
For me to apprehend your beauty,
To rest within your continuum.
I want to think we all glow like that,
Our slow molecules burning
Like small candles in a vast universe.
And I think of you with that same steady glow,
Releasing your photons with clear intent,
Aimed at the heart of the galaxy,
Sure to arrive inside these imperfect eyes.
How to Paint
Paint the shadows first.
That is where everything else is waiting.
What emerges, afterward,
Is not in your control.
Remember that the size of the canvas
Is proportionate to the breadth of your life.
(Or is it the other way?)
Color determines color,
Line limits line.
At all times keep your brushes ready at hand,
Store them in jars of blood.
Shape their tips
Like wind shapes feathers.
Hold them perpendicular
To the surface of your dreams.
Do not paint small things large,
Nor bind large ideas in darkened monasteries.
Rather, loose all the locusts of your vision.
One last thing – prepare for surprise.
What erupts before you is its own thing –
You hold no ownership.
You are merely the bridge this new thing crosses
To conquer your own world.
Why is it I have no memory of you?
All those birds that flew through my heart
Left little trace.
I am certain their bursting from the hedges
Shook me from sleep,
Woke me to the fact
Some bright moment had finally arrived.
But did I grab hold of it’s seductive promise,
Or merely rouse for a moment
To vaguely observe it’s passing,
Only to drift once again toward this Neverland
I thought to be life?
I am certain your hair sets off alarms
In the deep folds of my well-worn memories.
But, that quickly, it fades,
And I am once again only here,
In this sad moment,
Separated from the joy I once knew,
Deep inside your arms.
Dull the Ache of God
Who are we, all flaming anguish,
Caught in the winds of time?
Seek to be one thing only,
One destination, merely a single dream.
Who are we, all frozen joy,
Brought low by faults of our own making?
Blind the one eye remaining,
Dull the ache of god.
Who are we, suspended off the coast
Of never-enough, stuck in a life of things?
Spun beyond the need to spin,
Forgotten in our unraveling moments.
Who are we, to invent gods
Soon despised? Tell their tales,
Harbor doubts, deny complicity,
Spend less than eternity moaning our self-pity.
Who are we, giving daily bread
To those without need? No stripes, no spots,
A sleek, plain skin around an empty core,
Unable to hide among the trees.
Who are we that cannot reach beyond
The small and bitter limits of our own design?
Dredge deep channels in our hopelessness,
Deafened by echoes from our cries for help.
Who are we, not a question but an epitaph,
No name on a tomb but a single bone,
Drawn from the heart of a fate declined,
Holding to false belief while belief gives nothing back.
Who we are, is still unknowable.
Who we are, a dream without end.
Who we are rises and falls
Then rises again from the dust.
Where a still wind calls.
Lost in the mythology of moments,
Every thing becomes more important
Than it deserves.
One cloud stands out, stark, rapid
In its quest for distance, finally,
Simply, a cloud.
All these small screens frame our visions –
Who is there now among us
Can see the broad horizons?
There is no one place to stand
That permits us to see all we have become.
Only hiccups of time, our lives
Stop-motion, great gaps of memory,
What is missing is all that’s been denied.
Look up, and out, beyond such small moments,
What we see is what is looking back…..
There is no space between you, and I,
Only time, and memory,
Of the dreams we thought were ours alone,
When all along, they were finally,
Song for the End of Days
Give me one last summer,
Beneath the final trees,
To listen to the last sweet birds,
To hear the final bees.
Grant me one last rainfall
That does not strip away
The flesh from bones and sight from eyes,
And I will not ask to stay.
One final look at sunrise,
One small taste of wine,
One last kiss from Katy’s lips,
Before the end unwinds.
One last kiss from Katy’s lips
Before the end of times.
Starting with Infinite Transparency
Starting with cadmium red,
Because it was the first color
I saw that day,
The borders of the field drew closer,
Fending off the rest of time,
Enclosing extraneous interferences.
In the lower quadrants
(I did not create these geometries,
Only inherited their non-fluid restraints)
A red awakening, now,
All would follow as if without doubt,
Blues, shadows, tangents,
Reliquaries for the dead,
Now reborn out of snowy ground,
Then, some detail not foreordained,
But by its appearance all chance diminished,
An element of joy
Emerges in the outer boundaries,
Silver line intersects random
Black and gold conundrums,
A deep glow at center right,
Pushing cadmium and lapis
To excel at self-reflection,
Exposing, finally, a refractive index
Of twilight, oceanic turbulence, time slows
Within this finite frame
Revealing a desire not anticipated,
A form and density, an inevitability
No one saw coming.
The Silence of the Birds
(after The Conference of the Birds, by Farid ud-Din Attar)
For Setara Hussainzada, and all who dance inside their hearts.
In the early morning You came to us,
A pale light,
While we were covered by the shawl of fear.
The shawl was not ours,
The fear fully our own,
And we forgot to listen for Your call.
At mid-morning the song of timid finches
Broke the ears of the sleeping Hunters,,
And bullets returned Their call:
The finches grew silent,
And the shadows fell away.
With the sun at it’s center post,
The peacocks danced with abandon
For Their hens,
Shameless in the heat.
This time, the Hunters stayed sleeping,
And the people rejoiced.
As the afternoon deepened,
All the birds exploded Their joy
Upon an astounded and rapturous village,
Who forgot to listen
For the returning storm.
When twilight drew it’s shawl
Over Your fading countenance,
I saw the Hunters at the edge of the clearing,
Riding their engines of fear
Into the nightingale’s sad and hopeful hearts.
At the last bell of midnight,
Only the owls dared uncover Their faces;
Who else was left to sing the moon
Across that dark and unthinking sea?
Oh Khandahar! Oh
The Green One awaits
Outside your gates
For a dawn where the Hunters
Finally depart, allow all the birds
To return to the skies,
To ring Their bells of song and plumage
In freedom and delight,
As Allah so willed
From the beginning of Time.
The Weight of All, The Endless Night
What is the weight of all who are and have been,
not only bodies but dreams; fears, aspirations, envy,
all thought and dread, all emotion, all sensation,
how can we measure the weight of it all?
At birth seven pounds six ounces at death one hundred,
This is only mass, volume, the wheels of the journey.
What of all that has accumulated over the course of
One simple life? Not things, but essence, all that is “I.”
Pull it apart, separate the dross, tease out the wasted moments,
But include the moments collected in waiting, wanting,
Hoping the story would change,
coming to terms with what could not.
These, too, made up the mass of a life.
The books never balance. Subtract all food all water all air,
And still a life cannot be properly assessed, cannot add up
To what is discernable with the naked eye, the naked ear,
The naked self encompasses an orbit
greater than that of the sun.
Some small number among us
have understood the truth of this,
That one life is equal to the weight of all life,
Enfolds within its years all history, adds more to this long
Story we unfold, this spinning journey still unraveling.
Now add to this one life all life, this dance
Across the universe of dreams, this ocean of ideas,
And what then? The weight is more than one planet
Can bear, cannot begin to hold so many burning stars.
Hunger never abates, dreams never wind down,
They only build mountains on mountains, wings within wings,
They add new layers to the world so the next travelers
Have a place to spin still newer tales, dream bigger dreams.
And somewhere in all this enormity, we seek the Other,
The one who does not wait so much as abides, preparing
For the dazzling moments when we join to their sides,
Build together a newer orbit, expand the event horizon.
The Universe is not the product of a Bang, but of a Dance,
Spun out from the center pole of the First Desire.
I Dance you, you Dance me,
stars are born and cool to dust,
But we go on and on, endless,
through the dark and shining night.
When All Seeing is Done
It’s what the eye sees
When all seeing is done,
Those left-over bits
Of worn out memories,
Small shards of light,
And it’s antecedents,
Bursting behind these lowered lids
Inherited from reptiles.
Is that how long we have known
The ache of blue? Sky and
Sea, extensions of dreams,
What the eye longs for,
Suggested we might instead
Become birds, that sudden branching
By no choice of our own,
Or more correctly,
Of our reptile ancestors?
The light of those fractured memories
No different from any other photon’s dance,
Crossing parsecs to enter first our eye,
Then continue on its way
Across this expanding universe,
Now burdened with that unfathomable
Weight of what was seen,
Of what seeing is, and was,
And what that seeing brought into being.
Where being, and blue,
And the chromatic shards of time prove
That Einstein’s gravity predict with certainty
All the light illuminating you, here, now,
On this deep summer morning,
Began in chaos and ancient thunder,
Was aimed at this one instant,
Where my eyes and their steady evolution
Would take you inside,
Add you to all the shards of memory,
And with deep reluctance,
Allow those particular shards
To be on their way,
Scientists now tell us we are being squeezed
By masses of dark matter, turning
We cannot see or measure, but only infer
Such matter is even there at all.
As with love, it might be added.
You stay with me for less than the life of a galaxy,
And I cannot tell if what I know to be
Is even true, only that it matters:
You take me through all the darkness,
And out the other side,
Light years from the man I once was.
Such great distances we have gone,
And even greater distances to go:
We who travel entwined with no fear
Of darkness or light, waves of tender regard,
Carry us closer to the small center
Of this galaxy we dream together.
What compresses us is no invisible dark,
But sure knowledge we travel in good company.
Even at the heart of the Milky Way we carry
All that is truly necessary:
Your heart, in mine; my heart, in yours,
Bound and boundless, beyond all science.
The Need to Keep Breathing
I used to think war would break out
Change the trajectory of all our lives.
Things that used to matter would seem
Petty and small,
The importance we placed upon such things would fall away.
I once held a stunned hummingbird in the
Palm of my hand,
Its fear of me replaced by the need to keep breathing.
Look at the universe, infinite and grand, and we
Small things residing,
Still stuck in the belief we are its center.
Yet every atom is equal to every other atom and even
Would unmake each thing, strip away its symmetry.
Perhaps there is no small and petty thing nor
And our trajectory never a straight line,
All space curved and time unpremeditated.
If I wait long enough,
Wars will begin and end without my dreaming,
But only with those dreams, and the dreams
Of all beings,
Will the whole story unfold.
In This Singing, All Things Become
How the grasses grew slowly from morning till night,
How the storms receded, dropped new rain,
Parted the sky’s wonder, drew upon the sparrow’s beating heart,
Gave words to all things, and brought sweet confusion to the table?
How the body’s current passed deep within, sparking wonder?
That in its opening I may find clarity, or
What is left of an ancient promise made to widows
Who once danced on the hills above Khandahar,
Tethered to unforgiven hearts, and spent a lifetime
Seeking one small and precious memory. How it begins,
Deep inside the grip of dark, a great burst of desire,
Was this the thing that lit the spark? Or a dream?
All words speaking the Word as though handed down
Hold their palms upright, release the fist,
Let lilies lift their scent as benediction, blessings upon all
Who wander this far, seeking an end to all evasions,
All lies at the feet of the Holy Wanderer, none dare say
If it is a beginning, an end of dreaming, a shot in the dark.
Of this small and delicate Universe. How can I reach
Across its expanse, to grasp in one hand
An egret’s wind-swept desire, in the other the wine of eros?
What is contained by beginnings, by loss, what does time
Know of Void? Skin holds more territory
Than all the voices of
How others seek refuge inside their fear; how women
Divine their purposeful path through the heart of one clear idea.
How men spend willingly their lives
For something indescribable, shot through with false hopes?
For an eternity, but eternity draws my wanting heart forward.
How can this be? Limits are why we say, this starts here,
This ends there, that dream is over, another begins. I am asking
What shall we do when we reach the outer boundaries?
Ravens take us under their wings, chrysanthemums blossom
Regardless of anything we choose to do or not do, all form
Arises and falls and we with its wave
Race across an ever-unfolding Universe.
I am asking how anything can be said to begin, to end.
I beseech an answer where none exists, because the asking itself
Eternally creates, lifts new music out of things, into air, into ear,
And no one Thing can be said to exist outside its being sought,
As no eye is separate from its seeing. We never arrive at an end-point,
And still I ask how it will all begin. I arrived
Without knowing whence I departed in the first instance. Do I then
Depart without understanding the last? The small mammal
Opens its eyes in the dark warmth of its mother’s heartbeat, enters
Life inside an unfolding Universe, never Beginning, never Ending.
It strides with unknowable purpose, devours time, re-enters the Void,
It’s circle shall be Unbroken, and all will sing in exaltation.
To myself, for enduring the traps of belief and contradiction;
For retreating into the dank caves of recrimination.
A great heron lands before me, bends its elegant neck forward,
Beak full with emeralds, their green blanketing the horizons
I abide within, begs the question of continuance, exhibits elegant
Dances of dreams and despair. I am asking with no hope of answers:
How then can I go on, how can I not, how will I answer
The small questions posed by this new child, now emergent?
Is what occurred before light came into being held aloof
From our gaze, not permitted for our study?
I hold a small green beetle in my palm,
Its motion not unlike the motions of time.
I study the shape of a wing on an albatross,
Clouds can be made out between the shafts of each feather,
Storms erupting from the winds that issue from it’s dark pulsing.
A voice prophetic emerges from the path it opens in the skies.
But declined to remain there alone. He did not ask difficult questions,
But put out his hand, palm up, inviting the snail and the elephant,
Bid hello to the passing breeze, conjured hope from deepest sorrow.
He held up the world as the mirror of its own soul, celebrating
Our small part of the Dance, gloried those strong arms
That join with ours in the blue Earth’s turning.
Small steps, arms unfolding, hands joined to wings,
Shadows evaporate in light, I see you, seeing me,
Each and all,
Endlessly singing the Self.
A STORY ABOUT YOU, AND ME,
AND ALL THAT IS, AND EVER WILL BE
THIS STORY COMES,AS STORIES DO, FROM THE GRAND UNFOLDING OF TIME, AND FACT, AND DREAM, ACROSS ALL THE PARSECS OF A UNIVERSE strange and chanciful, accidental and full of possibility. And as all such stories do, it calls to all those other stories searching for their particular ear, their specific unfolding, and makes by this embrace a never-ending richness, a tale that takes the listener, and the teller, beyond all mere ideas, singular knowledge, and objects of simple desire, into the grand and possible future, into the very dream itself.
This story started long, long back, before the dust that became us was even settled around this particular sun, before dreams had dreamers, before light knew to call itself thus, and dark had no fear of itself. Balance was not a concern, as nothing was unbalanced, and no question arose regarding life, or death, or desire. All things moved, all things were part of all other things, and all was only and every possibility, still without distinction, but aimed by the destiny of shear motion.
As on a blank canvas, there was no predictable form, not limitations of color or line. This singular moment lasted eons, and no time at all, as nothing had yet arisen to mark the passing of moments. All was flux, all flowed, all reached beyond it’s singularity, to becoming. And in that state that was no state, but only flow and probability, of a sudden arose an inevitability, wherein one singular phrase of motion intersected with another phrase – and the first decision occurred within this limitless void.
This first inevitability created a branch, a change from one direction, toward another direction. Thus, the next inevitability came soon after, and furthered the release of the next, and on, and on. Soon enough, inevitability became multiplicity, and all remaining singularity sought refuge among the many. Light issued from many directions, and in that act created all directions, birthed all dimensions, turned timelessness and void into is, and was, and will be. And as time and space grew to fill the void, the multiplicity gave itself over to form, and color, and line, and soon enough, a story waiting to be told.
So, once upon a time and space, there unfolded a small, blue-green orb, spinning and traveling in a long arc, accompanied by a family of jewels of different sizes and destinies around a burning yellow sun. And on this tiny orb stories unfolded, multiplicities abounded, unfolded, intertwined, grew young and old. And soon enough, creatures of all description emerged, interacted, became stories themselves, passed on those stories to build new and stranger and more beautiful probabilities, until eventualities once again converged and diverged and evolved to invite onto this small blue-green orb two creatures who looked at the other and had a new probability emerge – the hidden story, the untellable tale of yearning, and dream, and desire, and hope, and fears, and all thought that did not create new things, but did unleash idea, and action, and awareness.
And soon enough, death, and life, became aware the other existed, and then the story began to change, began to devour itself, to split and fracture, and give way to new inevitability. The canvas was no longer pure and open to any possibility, but finite, limited, and bound by fixed borders. A life was no longer the property and adventure of the bearer of that life, but instead subject and object intersected by other such bound and limited existences. And soon enough, soon enough, that which emerged as limitless probability and possibility, became bound, entwined, constricted, spiraling tighter around a center that grew steadily smaller, slowly, inevitably, down to the size of the singularity once called the void. Until, finally, all this life was so compressed about itself it could go no closer towards itself, collapsed inward until there was no longer any direction, no distinction between light and dark, no time, no space, and saddest of all, no longer any dreams. So that what had made a brief moment of the fullness of time and space and existence caused the very story of its multiplicity to no longer have a listener to behold its wonder, no teller to enlarge the sphere of curiosity, and no canvas upon which the form and substance of that story might be captured, and passed on, and enlarged, and deepened by tellers yet to arise.
And so, soon enough, there emerged dust, and light, and possibility, and darkness that did not fear itself. And two small spirits, sitting here before me now, wondering when they would learn what happened next, and where would it take them, and what would they see. And I look at them like I am looking at you, and you, and you, and told them like I am telling you now, this one, small thing: The story that is unfolding is your story, and how you tell that story is how you tell the world, and the future, and the directions of space and time, and I hope and hope you tell your story with all the future in mind, with care, and dread, and delight, with your eyes open, your heart clear, and with the dreams of the listener as important as your own.
Go to the Boarding Area, and choose a Gate to begin your journey.
This is an ever-evolving journey. Spiral back
All written content
Copyright 1999 - 2014, PathWay Publications
Notumbo Publications, All Rights Reserved
Who is the artist, who are you?