Thursday, April 30, 2015
Tiggy is our constable who sees
That all about the house is up to snuff
And isn’t always easy to appease
And when you’re out of line will give you guff.
Most of the time, she’s a sweet cuddlykins
Lolling in languor for a tummy rub,
But once alarmed, her other role begins:
“Back off,” she barks, “or I’ll attack you, bub!”
She may be little, but she’s fierce enough
To hold presumed intruders all at bay;
You’ll never find a mastiff half as tough
Or able to make bad guys run away.
Though that’s her mode when raising an alarm,
Our cuddly Tig will win you with her charm.
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
When we consider all the things we’ve made
In our career as an artificer,
No wonder that we think that God’s displayed
A kindred trait in making us occur.
It’s only natural to extrapolate
That we arose from a creative act,
One that we subsequently imitate
Now both an artisan and artifact.
Yet if we have assumed the powers of God,
Then let’s employ our creativity
In ways not to incur His wrathful rod,
But rather to exalt humanity:
Let our inventive powers fabricate
What shows us grateful and then proves us great.
Tuesday, April 28, 2015
A consternation to the Constable
Is Father Brown, the portly parish priest
Who, when the current culprit’s pulled the wool
O’er other’s eyes, the victims whom he’s fleeced,
Will see more keenly and put two and two
Together till at last it’s obvious,
When false leads are discarded, what is true,
Leaving the flummoxed constable to cuss.
And since it’s just the same each episode,
You’d think the copper would have learned respect,
But no, he simply follows the same road,
The priest teaching the inspector to inspect.
Yet though Brown always gets the inspector’s goat,
You’ll never see the godly father gloat.
Saturday, April 25, 2015
for Jeremy Rifkin
The Golden Rule depends on empathy
To feel another’s suffering as your own,
As if you were a single entity
And not reliant on yourself alone:
I feel your pain; I feel your joy as well
Because somehow I can identify
With your experience as if a spell
Bound both of us with power we can’t deny.
Although the Jungle’s Law would seem to make
Us enemies dyed red in tooth and claw,
We can cooperate with give and take
To rise above that sad primordial flaw.
If ever it were time to turn the page,
Now is the hour for the Empathic Age.
A Global Wisdom Culture would entail
A fundamental shift of attitude
And resolution to blaze out a trail
That humankind has never yet pursued.
The way of conquest and supremacy,
Of acquisition and of self-defense,
Instead of following philosophy,
Has led us far astray from wiser sense—
A sense of empathy for our own kind,
An insight into others’ suffering,
A bond toward which we’re naturally inclined,
Is what a new civility could bring.
A Global Wisdom Culture will arise
When we have wholly learned to empathize.
I feel your pain; I feel your joy as well,
Which is clear evidence of empathy
For what transpires with you seems to compel
An equal, kindred resonance in me.
Without such kind emotional rapport,
We’d likely all be predatory foes
Engaged in endless and uncivil war
Till Earth’s experiment with life would close.
Happily it’s otherwise, and we’ve the sense
To recognize civility depends
On fellow feeling and the recompense
Of care with kindliness, from friends to friends.
Just as a sonnet ends with coupled rhymes,
The resonance of souls bodes happy times.
The opposite of empathy is not
Antipathy, but inability
To feel the pain of someone else’s lot
Then feel compelled to kindly ministry.
This attitude seems rooted in denial
That any sort of pain should be relieved
But tolerated as a rightful trial
Or as a punishment justly received.
“I feel your pain” is where all care begins,
Which means you must experience your own
And then another’s, as if you were twins
Acknowledging that neither is alone.
It’s only when two souls identify
As one that fellow-feeling can apply.
Thursday, April 23, 2015
Since we are here to scan the vasty sky
With instruments like Hubble’s telescope,
We see the odds are infinitely high
That we shall realize our fondest hope—
That we are not alone; although the odds
Of making contact with some aliens,
Who might from our perspective seem like gods,
Are slim, we would be glad for cosmic friends.
Homo questor we might be better named
Since we’re more seeker than we’re sapient
And have done much for which we’re rightly blamed
Yet we’re still yearning for enlightenment,
And hence we deeply probe the far-off stars
Leaving behind our worshipping of Mars.
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
I sit and sip my morning latte brew
With yellow pad on lap and pen in hand
In hopes a message from the Muse comes through,
A boon I can request but not command.
The best prerequisite’s a good night’s sleep
So I might ponder in alert repose
Ready for something rising from the deep
That once for ancient minstrels arose.
My daily practice is to contemplate
While waiting to define what comes to mind
In rhythmic words that aptly celebrate
Whatever inspirations I’ve opined.
The last thing, though, I want my poem to tout
Is how its very being came about.
Tuesday, April 21, 2015
DEFENDER OF THE REALM
The morning’s sounds, to dogs especially,
With no idea that someone so small
And cute might not be taken seriously
When she barks back a suitable rebuke
To some bruiser from half-way down the block
Whose name’s Goliath or else Marmaduke,
Who’s bred to chase off varmints from a flock.
But Tiggy is intrepid, nonetheless,
Determined to protest the insolence,
Which a small spate of yapping should redress
That from her point of view would sound immense.
While her ferocity is laughable,
It makes our morning anything but dull.
Monday, April 20, 2015
My verse that’s somehow metaphysical
I do in the tradition of John Donne,
Aiming to give you something choice to mull
Perhaps enlightening, or just for fun.
My favorite topic is that very Mind
By which all such inventions are conceived,
With which the poet’s brain must be aligned
So something valuable may be retrieved.
The Cosmic Plenum is the very Source
Of all such human creativity,
To which ambitious authors need recourse
For composition of their poetry,
Yet anyone who would invent what’s new
Must court that Muse who’s aptest to pursue.
Sunday, April 19, 2015
There’s mystery and maybe miracle
In how all earthly life has come to be,
On which for centuries our thinkers mull
Attempting to resolve in theory.
That random chance should stumble upon life
Is no more probable than that a breeze
Should play a Bach concerto on a fife—
No, something in the universe decrees
And then designs increased complexity
Evolving over eons till at last
Organic matter hatches in the sea
And all before is instantly outclassed
By creatures of a transcendental kind
With access to the Universal Mind.
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
THE SOURCE OF VERSE
The way I exercise my cosmic mind
Each day is by appealing to the Muse,
For when I have my local brain aligned
With Source, ideas come that I can use
To build a verse which otherwise would lie
Inchoate in my dim unconsciousness,
But when I’m open to the vast supply
Of the Akashic cache, I meet success.
If this all sounds mysterious to you,
It’s no less so to me, and yet I’ve learned
That musing is the method to pursue
When I’ve a notion yearning to be turned
Into a verse—which happily proclaims
That poetry is more than fun and games.
Tuesday, April 14, 2015
Akasha is an ancient name for what
Today we’d designate the Cosmonet
Connecting us beyond the little hut
We call our brain to all there is to get
By way of information and know-how—
The storehouse of the Universal Mind,
Access to which will readily endow
A seeker with secrets that can unblind,
The best of which is wisdom to discern
What is in every case the highest good,
A trove from which the ignorant can learn
Distinguishing the should-not from the should,
For this Akashic realm is our real home
And the true source of any lasting poem.
Monday, April 13, 2015
When I depart this life, I’m told I’ll find
That my identity’s been reassigned,
And though I’m still a part of the One Mind,
I’ll take my separate way to be refined
According as my nature is inclined,
For while we’re all essentially entwined,
Each soul is independently designed
To fill that role the Cosmos has divined.
Sunday, April 12, 2015
I know a theory now that rivals faith,
More credible than what mere scriptures saith,
Revealing that our essence is eternal
Returning after death to realms supernal—
Called the Akasha, in the Hindu term,
Which holy saints and sages all confirm—
Yet still I wish for certain evidence
That such a proposition makes good sense
Or, better yet, is absolutely true,
Which would affect so many things I do,
Leading me to prepare a strategy
For navigating all eternity
As if this mortal venture were a game
And Homo ludens our appropriate name.
Saturday, April 11, 2015
What is the source of mind—is it the brain?
And when we die, does it evaporate?
Or can another theory explain
Mentality’s beginning and its fate?
Akashic theory does exactly that:
It’s premise is that mind’s the source of all;
The world is but a rabbit from its hat,
Existence being responsive to mind’s call.
“Idealism” is this theory’s name,
That matter is the function of a thought
And what seems tangible is but a game
By which presumed reality is wrought.
To such covert proceedings we are blind,
Denying all that matters comes from mind.
Friday, April 10, 2015
Above the distance ambience of cars
That wafts in from the west-side Interstate,
The morning song of amorous blue jays spars
For my attention in this dawn’s debate,
But now construction noise from down the street,
The beeps of trucks or tractors backing up,
Intrudes and nearly guarantees defeat,
Despite the inspiring fragrance from my cup.
The day’s too far into its busyness
For me to hear the whispers of the Muse
Or hope this poem might achieve success
Except to sing the stymied poet’s blues.
But suddenly the ambient noise has paused—
So maybe my long labors won’t be lost.
Thursday, April 9, 2015
About things ultimate, I’d rather know
Than just believe, and be assured
My consciousness will not just simply go
Extinct, but of its waywardness be cured,
Then hopefully advance toward higher states
Of spiritual maturity to gain
Such wisdom as a life well led creates,
Lifting me to a more exalted plane
Where from that prospect I may better view
With full Akashic clarity the scope
That cosmic consciousness reveals as true
In actuality, not as a trope.
Enlightenment is now a metaphor,
But then a beam of brightness in my core.
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
BY MIND DESIGNED
That mind arose from matter is a crock—
As if time were invented by a clock;
No, mind precedes materiality,
Being the source of all that comes to be,
And those of us who know we have a mind,
Being conscious of our consciousness, will find
That when our bodies die, our minds remain
Along with errors that we must unstain
In future incarnations on this Earth
As we advance ourselves from birth to birth.
It seems each life on Earth is but a round
We cycle through, intent to grow more sound
Until we ultimately realize
What Homo sapiens sapiens implies.
Monday, April 6, 2015
This rising from the dead is what all do,
Though not in body, as on Easter day,
And death is nothing that we need to rue
For our intelligence is here to stay.
Though bodies pass away, our minds remain
Eternally in the Ethereal field
Where they are cleansed of every mortal stain,
As on this earthly plane will be revealed
When once again our essence reappears
Embodied in a new identity
Free to pursue fresh challenging careers
And raise our standing in eternity—
Producing light, like current in a wire,
Glowing as resistances grow higher.
Sunday, April 5, 2015
GOOD ODERLY DIRECTIONGood Orderly Direction brought us forth
And aimed us at the Pole Star in the north—
We’re meant to take direction from the skies,
Treading the arduous route toward growing wise.
Though some choose to personify this Source
As the godly Director of our course,
Others more abstractly call it mind
At large, with which it’s best to grow aligned.
Whichever way, we’re not without intent,
And though we’re free to go awry, grow bent
And fail to find good purpose in our lives,
It’s love toward which the saintly seeker strives.
The Mind that made the cosmos leaves us free
To choose to be as kind as we can be.
Saturday, April 4, 2015
Can comprehend our planet is not flat,
Despite appearance that it’s otherwise,
A way of testing all that we surmise;
But yet there’s much that lies beyond its ken
Appealing to our metaphysic yen,
Our sense that there’s a quintessential Source
That disregarded leads to our remorse.
Akasha is an ancient name for this
Dimension, which discovery leads to bliss,
While negligence of which we can’t afford:
Akasha being the ground of all accord.
Our learning how to whisk away its veil
Is like discovering the Holy Grail.
Thursday, April 2, 2015
There is a paradox in time and space
That physicists call nonlocality,
A “spooky action” at a distant place
That matches action here and instantly.
Our normal laws of physics don’t apply,
As if space-time were suddenly compressed
And something in the universe awry
Or all the cosmos spiritually possessed.
Perhaps it is the latter that we’ll find
Since we are coming now to recognize
That every seeming thing’s composed of mind,
A nothing that, like magic, reifies.
In such a way, the Muse has made these lines,
My vacant mind receiving her designs.
Wednesday, April 1, 2015
All those who think that matter is the source
Of mind will find their errant thought off course
By having hitched their cart before the horse;
The other way around they must endorse:
That mind is matter’s origin perforce,
The only way to joy and not remorse.