Archives for posts with tag: Poetry

Just a quick poem for you, as I re-establish my practice of daily meditation; returning to the source, which is the root and sustenance, which is the breath of mindful living.

“One Breath at a Time”

It is neither the first nor second

Nor will it be the last

But one among many in a sequence that creates Life

With or without the dream

Which only obscures the passage

And obfuscates the true purpose of the journey

Which was always the destination

Moving from one moment to the next

First experienced

Then expressed

One breath at a time


You and I, when engaged, occupy the same time and space

And are outward projections, taking place

Whether actively or passively… You and I

Through inner-dialogue are conceived

Beginning with a question, asked privately

For in that moment, discovering

One’s Self within the other

We are then compelled to participate

And to seek some revelation in that exchange

Whether you are pursued as a confirmation that I exist

Or I’m received as a reflection of your own expressiveness

Everything is relative.

And everything is intertwined…

Through your eyes and mine

Where we are both roots

And where we are furnished with the potential to grow

Into one cohesive truth

I came home last night to the inviting fragrance of freshly bathed flowers in full-bloom. And I couldn’t help but smile, both inwardly and out. Every year, spring permeates the air with its perfume as a reminder of this world’s unfailing tenderness, despite the harsh realities that accompany the consciously living. Springtime is Earth’s velvet touch, like a lover who ignites all the senses, which in turn stimulates the spirit. She is a fervent beating heart that feeds all our extremes and everything in-between. Or at least that’s the way I came to see her at such a late hour, when the city was drunk and drenched. I paused in gratitude to ingest another deep breath, eyes shut so that I could see the same tranquil view of everything my heart sees, a gentle panorama of life below the surface, where a constant and brutal awakening settles into calm decisive action.

Was it a dream? I don’t know. But, I slept soundly. And I remember it well.

During these last long days, amid the whirlwind of internal change, my consciousness has finally alighted upon the moment, a precarious position I created out of uncharacteristic impulsiveness, indulging in what I often deny myself. All the while, the oppressive cold of winter prevails as a reflection, prolonging its stay while intermingling with rain, which pervades and saturates my escape. Wherefore I remain. Within.

But in that great distance, tucked away in my own unfathomable depth, where I am perched in silence, I meditate and pray. Though I also listen, not only to the heart’s beat, which is only proof of life, but again, to the rhythm I am to become, the cadence of a continuous flow. And I am almost there. I can feel the reverberation as I once did in the womb. I recognize the life force just as I could perceive my mother’s voice, not as a sound, but as a frequency that traveled through me. She was at one time all I knew of nature, before I embodied my own, and now, before I am able to express a greater whole (of which I am only a part).

I had to go back home, to the beginning. I had to subdue the growing cacophony, feeling worn and threadbare, feeling pinned beneath the weight I never had to learn to lift on my own; for I am propelled by Love, eternally aware that I am also saved the selfsame way, with nothing truly at risk except, perhaps, remaining the same… Only dreaming of tomorrow, safely, from my cradle of Love.

I have no idea how long it’s been since the last time I visited this quiet space, But having hobbled along in a sober drunk with this blog, I now take my hat off to anyone who can steadily stay the course. I thought it would be a leisurely stroll through the park, an almost involuntary plucking of topics, like wildflowers, from a field of ideas. But, alack! Alas! I was wrong. And it’s a little embarrassing, to say the least, feeling like I’m starting over almost every time I sit down to write.

Oh, well. What can one do, but keep doing. I’ll figure it out eventually. There is content everywhere, I know. I can hear the taunts swarming like bees. Though for me, it’s still an incomprehensible cacophony, an active analytic mind mixed with an active imagination that is racing in too many directions. Maybe I’m just trying too hard. Or perhaps, it’s just that little voice inside my head that still doesn’t quite believe I have anything worth saying. (Screw him! That jerk!)

Equipped with a brush, these hands are poets who lament and rejoice in painted verse, eloquently expounding the encounter with Life, expressing in evocative shapes and radiant color what I only wish I could say in words with as much meaning. Writing, however… is a real effort… almost the result of an argument with myself in which I typically feel dissatisfied, as if the most important parts were left unsaid. Sure I have my moments (without a doubt) like most people, when inspiration is brimming. But the point of this was to chart my journey through the sludge too, to document all the ridiculous missteps leading up to the rapturous height, to capture the “Ah!” moments as they are being realized, or perhaps to induce those epiphanies by laying out the framework in a way that I can see and interpret.

Instead, Life simply happens. And this blog becomes the afterthought, the clean slate, when the dust has settled and the real adventure has been experienced and expressed in other ways.

(Insert sigh here.) Sounds like something I’ll have to remedy.

~ ’til next time


One must emerge from the depths of one’s Self before emerging elsewhere. And I have been molting for 20 years, apparently stuck in reiteration – perhaps a reminder that the moment already exists, is always occurring, and only awaits our attention… now… emerging from depth, from obscurity, from anonymity.

The artist in me once fed on whatever life I provided. But, no more. I am now learning to feed on the artist who is able to see without eyes, he, whose purest expression rests in his labor, not his words; he, who knows how to love without a body and who understands without reasons or prejudice. He has been reborn from my termination, by the fateful plunge impetuously intended as a restoration that led to my demise, a cathartic release that my alter-ego knows all to well, with every stroke of his brush… expressing… purging… and tying knots where once were loose ends.

Over the last few months, I have slowly begun to realize that I am no longer the person I once was, or perhaps am no more. Remnants of the past that once tugged at heartstrings, lingering doubt that once subdued the fire, and even the uncertainty of a purely artistic endeavor, which conjured defenses in apprehension; all the heavy fixtures that once anchored me to the deepest part of the ocean’s floor have vanished. And what remains is this vessel, now floating, not quite weightlessly, though unencumbered by the bulk of yesterday.

The unfamiliarity of that feeling settled uneasily in me at first, I, having disposed of my comforts, the intricate network of feelings once recognized as myself. It made me feel like a stranger living another person’s life, like a visitor disappointed in his host. Yet, the private chambers, where the ghosts of yesterday dwelled, are now vacant. They are quiet spaces with unobstructed thresholds and unobstructed views, are cleaned and swept, and I am enormously grateful for the prospect of filling them once again, with only breath, to let them breathe and forever more remain free.

Yes. I have arrived, an infantile curiosity without limits; arrived in my own arms to nurture; arrived here, having surrendered my apprehension to the air as I fell. I descended. And with every gasp of breath, I became, having drowned my sorrows in a flood of sweat and tears, having propelled the solidity of this body, dissolving in the luminosity of my lust for life, I took one final breath, and having returned to the center of my being, from which all traces of me spring, I suddenly surfaced, as I once remembered myself from the bed of tomorrow, aroused from restful sleep.

My recent sojourn in west Texas, where I buried myself for 36 months, forced me to scan my own depths from the uppermost rim of an incomprehensible precipice. And somehow – inadvertently – I was absolved, no longer bound by the oppressive restraints of whatever held me down. I was no longer the time traveler visiting earlier days, earlier versions of myself in search of answers. I reverse metamorphosed into the construct of a new man, living purely for today. I became a person only aware of what he is to become; for it was always so, my choice to follow what I have foreseen in destiny, the conclusion that created me. And after all these years, there is nothing left to cover up or discard, and nothing to corrupt the voice of my expression. There is nothing but the next stroke in which I can lie down, one layer at a time until I am complete. I am the blank canvas now, a great depth realized and disambiguated. And from that surface, I am now ready to emerge.

I didn’t mean to keep you waiting or wondering if I’d return. I’ve been unavoidably detained by the escalating commotion in my life, the impassioned uproar of everything, all at once. And what a beautiful ruckus it has been, this deliberate and personal encounter with all my faculties, to perceive and be perceived however I was intended, because both impressions are significant in so precise a moment, even if everything changes with the very next breath, becoming clearer, or more obscure. How can any of it truly be comprehended when everything infinitely expands in butterfly effect, with or without our consent? We are but one long series of impressions and interpretations that is confounded and defined by our effects, all of them, all at once, so that each of us is a myriad of one’s self, neither true nor false.

And so, I too rise and fall simultaneously. And from that negation, a surge from which this entry now emerges, a much-needed break from endless occupation. I want to write, and to breathe quiet breaths that hardly stir the waters, if only for a moment. I want to write. And I want to breathe.

And so, in as few words as possible (for I have now written)…

The far-away place where I have been, the heavily guarded chamber of all yesterdays past, has been emptied and cleared of its debris.

And now (even if only for one moment more)… I shall breathe.

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