THE MYSTERY

The greatest mystery of all must be
How Cosmos made up creatures such as we,
Or even simple atoms, for that matter,
And everything along the Great Chain’s ladder.

Whence comes this urge toward more complex design
That eons after eons still refine
Until we come along who can applaud
What seems to us the work of some great God?

Some intellect that we personify
In our own image, living in the sky,
Appears to be the cause of all we know,
Or so our ancient tales and fables show.

     Does any new cosmology explain
     The covert provenance of our own brain?

*

THE ROOT OF WISDOM II

       If you’d be wise, then you must cultivate
       Compassion for all creatures, great and small,
       For wisdom shows one over-arching trait,
       A God-like generosity toward all.

       Though sometimes you may face a paradox
       And find you must be cruel to be kind,
       Or act as subtly as a wily fox,
       Do so, but keep your purity of mind,

       For there are many ways one may betray
       A trust or compromise integrity,
       And lacking wary vigilance may stray
       Beyond the limits of due sympathy.

            It’s folly to forget all that we owe
            To others’ loving kindness as we grow.

*

THE ROOT OF WISDOM

    “The glory, jest and riddle of the world,”
    Whose traits for eons now have been unfurled,
    Both admirable and terrible by turns,
    The race that knows the most but never learns
    What is of greatest value to possess
    Though doubly named for what it should profess,
    We Homo sapiens sapiens still aren’t wise:
    That virtue we most need to realize.
    A culture that can cultivate this trait
    And raise us to that glorious estate
    We’re destined for is our most urgent need
    If this experiment is to succeed.
    We know full well, though fail to realize
    That love lies at the root of growing wise.

*

THE IMMORTAL MIND

    That Ervin Laszlo claims our minds don’t die,
    Ingenious as he is in many ways,
    Makes me rethink what I took for a lie,
    A myth promoted in our childish days
    But then outgrown in maturity,
    That once gave us a false security,
    For in adulthood we should bear the truth
    That would be overwhelming in our youth.

    Yet since the case he makes seems credible,
    A glorious worldview is beckoning
    Allowing us at last to feel hopeful
    That though we may still face a reckoning
    To account for how we’ve used each precious life,
    The prospects of new venturings are rife.

*

LIFE AFTER LIFE

      I’d like to know that consciousness persists
      Beyond our deaths, but common sense resists
      Such hope, seeking in vain for evidence
      Of any such arcane experience,
      Except for those of dubious report
      That would not pass the tests of science’ court.

      Yet now comes Ervin Laszlo, eminent
      In intellect, who claims it’s evident
      That consciousness transcends mortality,
      Building his air-tight case impeccably—
      So can I now find solace and relief,
      Substantiated so in this belief?

           As grand as being immortal may appear,
           I’d rather have my lost loved-ones still here.

*

REALIGNMENT

for Larry Dossey

        Cosmologists today may have divined
        The occult nature of the human mind,
        Finding it amazingly entwined
        With Mind at large, implying they’re designed
        To work in harmony when well aligned,
        While to ignore this way that we’re inclined
        Will leave us baffled, battered, blighted, blind.

*

ONE HOPE

     Of course it is impossible to think
     We won’t pull back, though just before the brink
     Of the Apocalypse we’re headed for,
     Discovering some wisdom in our core
     Beneath the folly that has long prevailed,
     Against which prophets have forever railed
     And seemed ironically our destiny—
     Our Homo sapient insanity.

     How we’ll at last achieve this grand conversion
     Except by some baptismal immersion
     In Wisdom’s sacred font to cleanse our folly,
     Clearing our history of melancholy
     Is hard to see and harder to devise:
     And yet our only hope is to grow wise.

*

HEALTHY, WEALTHY, WISE

            Wisdom is the flower of sanity
            And sanity the highest realm of health,
            The implicit sapience of humanity,
            The holiest aspect of worldly wealth.

*

HOMO SAPS

       Why are we humans here if not to wonder
       If humans are a blessing or a blunder?
       For all we know, we are the best there is,
       God’s progeny and evidently His
       By virtue of our keen intelligence,
       Although at times we prove immensely dense:
       That sapience for which we’re doubly named
       Betrayed, and our high aspirations shamed.

       Is there some way we may at last redeem
       Our negligence and rectify the scheme
       By which we live and cultivate instead
       New habits and a culture that has shed
       Its waywardness and thus may realize
       The glorious benefits of growing wise?

*

COSMOGENESIS

            The living cosmos in informed by mind
            By which its evolution is designed.

            To think it’s but a random accident
            Is to ignore what seems self-evident—

            Yet if it culminates in making man,
            Let’s hope it has a better back-up plan.

*

WONDERMENT II

   Although there’s very little that we know
   of the vast cosmological domain,
   our sciences at last begin to show
   some wonders that these mysteries contain,

   For now we can begin to calculate
   with the precision of our instruments
   what hitherto we’d merely speculate
   upon of far-off, long-ago events.

   And yet it’s hard to think, for all our thought,
   that though we learn the what, the where, the how
   by which this wondrous universe was wrought,
   the why of it no science can endow.

        That mystery remains unfathomed still,
        a wonderment that only faith may fill.

*

POESIS

for John D. Barrow

       That there’s a universe and we have minds
       To ponder it, intelligence that finds
       Its way into the mysteries of space
       And time and life—is an amazing grace;
       Yet how all came to be’s a mystery
       Beyond the scope of science and history.

       That does not mean we cannot speculate
       About this cosmological estate,
       Imagining the origin of all—
       A sudden burst from something very small,
       Like an idea igniting in your brain,
       Seeking a metaphor it can maintain:

            The seedling of a poem that will grow,
            Revealing what you never knew you know.

*

CREATION IS

Perhaps there’s no Creator we can know,
No Person we can praise and glorify,
No God in our distress to whom we go,
From whom to seek salvation when we die.

Our modern sciences do not admit
These superstitions in their regimen,
Regarding such mentality unfit
In speculating far beyond our ken.

But still that there’s Creation is a fact:
The how and why of it we may not know,
And yet the awe of this primordial act
Imbues us with a supernatural glow.

     Though we don’t know what made it all appear,
     The wonder is: we’re here, we’re here, we’re here!

*

FATHER BROWN II

    Detective work is for the constable
    Unless it’s something one must deeply mull,
    So when you need to ferret out the truth, 
    Call Father Brown, the town’s preeminent sleuth.

*

EPITAPH FOR A POETASTER

        Though now and then he’d pen a witty ditty,
        Most of the verse he turned was pretty shitty.

*

WORLDLY WISE

   “A Global Wisdom Culture” sounds absurd
   Since Folly seems humanity’s by-word,
   And while we’ve dubbed ourselves the sapient,
   And doubly so, that trait’s not evident.

   Although we’ve grown more powerful and shrewd,
   It’s wit not wisdom with which we’re endued;
   Then all our wits we labor to expend
   On aims inclined to hasten this world’s end.

   Yet if we could grow truly wise, we would
   Learn to behave as sapient beings should,
   Which means by comprehending what a treasure
   Our planet is and taking every measure

        To cultivate it for posterity,
        For flourishing through all eternity.

*

NEMEROV 2014 #11

EXIT STAGE LEFT

    Although the odds must be there’s life elsewhere
    Within the vastness of this cosmic realm,
    And this experiment is far from rare,
    We’d better keep a tight grip on the helm
    To guarantee this planet isn’t wracked
    By our greedy, imperious negligence,
    Because it seems the odds are steeply stacked
    Against our unevolved intelligence.
    Therefore, we need to take the greatest stride
    We can toward our incipient sapience,
    That trait for which we’re named, still unapplied,
    But now imperative for our defense.
         There may be life elsewhere, but what a waste
         For us to leave this cosmic stage disgraced.

*

A GLOBAL WISDOM CULTURE

        A Global Wisdom Culture cultivates
       At first material sufficiency,
       Foundational for reaching higher states,
       Then cultivates in hearts the sanity
       That’s fundamental to enduring health,
       Upon which ground intelligence can grow,
       Which works to cultivate still greater wealth
       From soulful seeds that peaceful spirits sow.
       Thus body first, then heart and mind and soul,
       According to the thrust of wisdom’s scheme,
       Grow to a holiness that makes us whole
       As if to realize the Cosmos’ dream.
            A Global Wisdom Culture thus fulfills
            The plan our Cosmic Cultivator wills.

 *

Another take—in prose


THE GOAL OF A GLOBAL WISDOM CULTURE

The goal of a Global Wisdom Culture is to cultivate the growth in wisdom in its populace by defining the values, customs and mores of citizens in a wise society and then inculcating such behaviors by education and example.

What then does it mean to be wise, and how does one learn to behave with prudence and circumspection, sagacity and sapience?

These are deep and venerable questions that only time and dedicated examination can shed light upon, but no knowledge is more vital and urgent.  To grow wise is the imperative of our species—Homo sapiens sapiens—if we and our world are to thrive.

*

TO THE MUSE

         When sitting in the twilight zone between
         The dark of night and dawn, pad on my lap,
         Pen in my hand, awaiting sights unseen
         To rise in my imagination—snap

         Me to attention, set my hand in motion
         My pen making notations on the page,
         Describing a surprising novel notion
         As if by the enchantment of a mage,

         It’s then—as now—I feel mysterious power
         Inhabiting the universal void,
         Assisting all creative minds to flower,
         Assuring their full talents are deployed.

              With gratitude to that creative source,
              I praise what keeps my poetry on course.

*

FATHER BROWN

   When not hearing confessions in his booth,
   Our Father Brown is proving quite the sleuth,
   A consternation to the constable,
   Especially when he proves the cop a fool
   By being as canny as the famed Dame Christie
   In ferreting the clues to every mystery.

   As meddling as the friar that Chaucer drew,
   Though to good ends, this prelate finds what’s true,
   For which, at best, he earns a grudging thanks
   From those in the constabulary ranks,
   Yet wins from those involved their gratitude,
   Amazed to find their Father Brown so shrewd.

        The pastor, in his turn, humbly defers:
        “All glory due's our Heavenly Father’s.”

*

ON PET PETTING

          Our little one, that’s Tiggy, loves to cuddle;
          Our big dog Gyp’s affection is more subtle:
          She loves a hug and then a tummy rub,
          Snorting and roaring like a lion’s cub.

*

AT EASE

         In this world of frenzy, strife and qualm,
         We yearn to find serenity and calm,

         Some inner place of grace and harmony,
         A source of stillness and tranquility,

         Relaxed in quiet joy, and safe in peace,
         Released from anguish and, at last, at ease.

*

THE SONG OF PEACE

for James O’Dea
author of  Cultivating Peace
 

        To cultivate a culture that is wise
        One principle above all else applies:
        It must be grounded in a field of peace
        Where all resort to willful force shall cease,
        For peace and force are antithetical:
        Force being ugly, peace being beautiful.
             Calm, serene, tranquil, euphonious,
             The song of peace is sweet, harmonious.

*

THE FLAME

    Somehow, mysteriously, you come to be—
    The spark of life ignites between two cells,
    Then you begin your Earthly odyssey
    And for awhile in you a spirit dwells:

    The essence of your being, your heart’s core,
    That wakens to expansive consciousness
    And opens wide occult perception’s door
    To spectacles beyond what one could guess.

    Or so it is for those who make the quest
    And aim to follow that mysterious light
    Within, assuring them they’re loved and blessed
    When they pursue what’s generous and right.

        Then when you die, what happens to that flame?
        It’s out—unless you’ve earned enduring fame.

*

THE PARAGON

          Cool, calm, collected and at best serene
          Nor ever anxious, angry, cruel or mean,
          He was a paragon of sanity,
          A model of advanced humanity
          Who learned by trial and error over years
          How to refine his mind and quell his fears,
          For fear is at the root of all distress,
          Tranquility the rule of our success.

*

WHERE NOW?

  How much we’ve learned so far!  What’s left to know
  That science or intuition yet may show?
  There seems no end to thinking’s enterprise
  And what our intellection may devise
  As we extend investigation’s scope
  Beyond our microcosmic envelope
  Into the vastness of the cosmos’ void
  Where only dreams have ever been deployed.

  What is it that’s imperative to learn?
  What is, of all, our ultimate concern?
  It must be whether we exist alone
  Or have companions in the twilight zone
  Of distant galaxies beyond our ken
  And whether we can meet such mates—and when.

*

 

FROM HEART TO HEART

      To see life leave a dear, warm-hearted pet
      Departing to the shadowy unknown,
      An old companion you will not forget,
      You wonder where that lovely spirit’s flown.

      I’ll venture that it’s passed into your heart,
      Into the hearts of everyone who knew
      And cared for her, who thereby learned the art
      Of true solicitude, what’s always due.

           Life is love’s torch that passes on its fire
           From heart to heart to cherish and inspire.

*

 

WONDER OF WONDERS

     Just think of it: the Universe made us!
     And since that’s so, imagine what all else
     Such cosmogenic machination does,
     What other wonder within space-time dwells,

     For surely we cannot live here alone,
     Although as yet we don’t know otherwise,
     But we must have the intellect to hone
     In on the hidden cosmic enterprise.

     And yet for us at last to comprehend
     These occult universal mysteries,
     Discovering where futurity may tend,
     We first must mend our disabilities:

          That sapience for which we’re doubly named
          Must finally and wonderfully be claimed.

*

MIND MATTERS III

          I aim to change my mind about my mind
          And think no more that it’s simply confined
          To the small habitation of my brain,
          But rather occupies a higher plane
          Co-mingled in a cosmic consciousness
          And able in potential to access,
          Compacted in each microcosmic bit,          
          The whole Akashic complex implicate.
        
          But even if my consciousness won’t reach
          To ferret information from that niche,
          I’ll take assurance from the certainty
          Purveyed by this ancient philosophy
          Intuited by trance-enraptured sages
          Perennially in cultures from all ages.

*

ANOTHER LIGHT

             Most every morning with the dawn,
             Another light upon him shone
             By which new images were drawn,
             A source he could depend upon
             A precious while, but then, was gone.

*

ALS OP

 for Hans Vaihinger

                
                Although you may not truly know,
                Proceed apace: assume it’s so.

*

VERSOSOPHY

     He was not a philosopher, per se,
     Although he once had earned a Ph.D.
     In literature; thus in a literal way
     He was a doctor of philosophy:
     An ardent traveler on wisdom’s road,
     Eager to pursue, scornful of rest,
     Who aimed to live by the Socratic code,
     Inquiring ever what would serve all best.
     His method, though, was mainly literary,
     As every morning he invoked the Muse
     While sitting in the midst of his library
     And scouring his cranium for clues—
          Then on the best of days, he’d pen a verse
          With both some wit and wisdom to disburse.

*

A MIMETIC POETIC

         The best of verse becomes a meme:
         So brightly do its virtues gleam
         Of meter, imagery and theme
         That it approximates a dream
         Which makes things real that only seem—
         To fond applause and high esteem.
         (This verse, of course, is off that beam.)

*