He buried me amongst the dead
kicked the dust off his boots
left the house in it's peace
wandered in to the next open door
to spread the word.

Now I am buried,
being buried by the dead
You being the dead.

Do we love ourselves
more than God? (Call him/God Christ if you want to.
God is enough for me
with how a name gets thrown around
by those who defile the name
with abuses of their own design. Christ becomes in vain)

Are mystics justified, by their closeness to the divine,
their missions in life to show us God,
to rebuke us in each of their own given manner,
harsh or light as it might strike,
no matter the tear at our inner light they saw as dark.

"We use God's mighty weapons, not worldly weapons, to knock down the strongholds of human reasoning and to destroy false arguments." says the bible.

Who was arguing, asks I?

Om Shanti is Sanskrit for peace for the all human kind, peace for all living and non living beings, peace for the universe, peace for each and every things in this whole cosmic manifestation.

"Am I a non-believer for using a Hindu language, Mr. Mystic?" I ask.

Is God that absent from my inner mind?

What it must be like to be a man,
So stable and logical
A mind able to wrap it's meanderings
around machineries.

To be calm and unmovable
in the midst of a changing day.

Reading a newspaper,
Flip, flip
The page turns with a slow grain,
a fiber only to be found
Within the flesh, the blood, the breath of a man.

A good man, kind, with a good ear,
Quiet, with just enough chatter to awaken
Your spirit, your laughter, your curiosity.

A man who holds the answer simply because
It is the man's answer.

Our lives are but a collection of the hours we spent loving one another.

I love you all.

Walking, I passed by a man first
Then a woman.
Rocky path in hot sun.
Desert terrain littered with sages.
Eyes to the ground,
Back loaded with pack,
Thighs trudging,
feet hitting the dirt ground.
Walking now, I pass by.

This day, this day
Brings decisions to be made,
Heavy heart in my chest
Asks what my matter
Is on earth.

What my matter sits here for,
Consuming space
Better spent on another.

This space of mine,
This breath I breath,
Is in fact mine,
Spent on me.

So outward breath
I breath again,
And so I decide
To speak and sing.

Hear these words as they come forth,
May they tap your ears
May they reach your heart.

I sing these songs to you my friends
Rather than ache in silence
Not knowing my worth,
I will own my own divinity
And give you back yours.

Mother Rock,  I sit solidly on the porch
as the May wind blows the lanterns.
Like the family stone, I hold this space
while the children's lives soldier on
to the fields of hearts where swords and shields
penetrate and cover, where new blood is drawn.

I am finally finished playing in the war.
My position is still, as the wind washes past my solid form.
This day moves all around me,
with me washing away, eroding with each brush of every breeze,
my blue jeans fading in sunshine,
my gray hair streaking as it lingers to my shoulders.

within a year they will be as thick as thieves,
elbow interlocked with elbow,
whispering in hushed tones,
hearts interwoven so their laughter becomes one great explosion.

divine grace moved them into one.
from my seat thousands of miles away
I listen to the patter of their new found friendship,
grow, grow, in this sunny day.
He paces in his tiny office, counting the minutes,
gaging if it might be a respectable time to call.
Is her mother okay? Perhaps she must tend to mama.
They are both up late in the wee hours of the night/day,
They share the same life.

They might begin by bickering,
then he will quell her with his need to connect,
he will placate her, explain how he is fair sided,
he sees logically, he sees the Truth with a capital.

Is she still on the side of the psychics? The healers?
Will she bring to him what I brought, only in a sweeter wrapping?
Red rather than Black.
West rather than East.
Or has she cast that away, a relic of her younger days, and now she too has found what he sees. On the Eastern Shores.

This day, they share this day.
I too wait in these hours,
I heal the open **** he cut in my life,
my person, who I am and what I know.
Suture here, stitch there, cry my story until my blood dries.

This sun we all three share, this air, this breath.
All three of us here, in the heat of this day, together at once.
Will she tell him in uncertain words what I had tried to show him?
Will the same healing energy, spirit, power come through her to unite the world for him? Will he find the love he thought was not alive in me?

In me the energy faded, the spirit was dead, for why?
The shade of my hair?
The tone of my skin?
Yes, yes, it is as simple as that.