Today is the day.
I am a mayfly.
I have no memories of growing up,
and no expectations of growing old.
I have learned nothing.

Today is my day.
I will not sit by.
Swiftly I live, there is no slowing up,
and no time for my feelings going cold.
I will be something.

Today is the day.
I’ll reach for the sky.
Driven only by instinct flowing up,
to unknown destiny of glowing gold.
I am everything.

Today is the day.
I will live and die.
I’ll have seized the day just by showing up,
ignoring fear to live by knowing bold.
I won’t be nothing.

I have not that divine intercession
to pluck the right word from all been written,
that gifts to few the art of expression,
to write the poetry of the smitten.

I pen verses of no significance
that sing melodies in my ear of tin,
embarrassments to poets of romance
in whose company I wish I were in.

Oh, to write odes to nightingales and urns,
with love as an extension of my quill!
Although I do not lack passion that burns,
I’ve not the talent that matches my will.

Here is another literary blight
authored by one who just thinks he can write.

There is no darkness, no fearsome
emptiness we allude to as
an excuse for sadness. We ne’er come
into the light each of us has.

Those restless nightmares, too evil
for scaring us into shameful
weak banality, so we will
live cautiously and shift blame still.

Where has your hope gone? Did you cast
it out of you, like some demon
you could not exorcise too fast?
It’s there, in the world you dream in.

Lazy darkness comes, too easy,
while to make light needs energy
of asking for life to “please be
constant inspiration for me.”

Crying and comfort, hugging and gifting,
thoughtful with time, and being uplifting.
Embracing each chance to do what I could,
and doing it because good feels good.

Giving advice after I’ve lent an ear,
and choosing to serve who most needs me there.
Save each damsel in distress if I could,
and doing it because good feels good.

Being a friend in stubborn defiance—
I’m the one in whom they place reliance!
Some may not think I should act as I should,
but I only do good that feels good.

People don’t seem to get the irony.
Such goodness erodes some humility.
There is no deed, good or bad, that you would
do if doing it did not make you feel good.

To the prophet,
the passivity of consciousness is exhausting.

The veil,
the biases,
understanding which is only seen with human eyes.

That is consciousness.

Consciousness obscures, because it is human.

The prophet sleeps, exhausted from listening but not hearing.

The prophet needs the soul to be active.
The activity of detachment.
God has a voice, not to be heard by consciousness.
Consciousness is to be human—
what the human sees,
what the human understands,
what happens when the human is aware,
the veil of consciousness that is the passivity of silence,
which the prophet must put away to hear.

The prophet seeks the purity of Creation,
to feel the moments
before the mist outside the garden descended to reveal nakedness.
The prophet needs to unknow what living has made the prophet acquire.

The prophet sleeps to strip away anything that is not Love.
To exist in ultimate vulnerability, unprotected in body and mind.
What remains when the prophet sleeps?

There God inhabits the prophet’s dreams.
Revealed by the unconscious.
Symbols etched in clarity,
dreams are not a cipher.
Asleep, unburdened, actively unconscious, what is left?
The prophet sleeps, and the world vanishes.
What happens to all the prophet loves when the prophet’s eyes are closed?

Those things are gone,
but Love remains.
Pure.
Love for what consciousness obscures.
The prophet dreams because that is where the prophet can be found
by God.
Loving God
and knowing God.

To the prophet,
dreams change consciousness
because the filter of consciousness is ephemeral,
but the sleeping, dreaming prophet
attaches to the eternal.

The finch, awaiting the morning sunrise
lifts its beak in proud anticipation.
Darkness. The sun has forgotten to rise.
The finch waits for it in desperation.

To sing, to wake the world in glory’s song!
Why night, but for the finch to greet the day?
But dawn forgot to come; something is wrong.
The finch is lost, hopefulness fades away.

The sun causes the song of spirit freed,
his morning song in praise of all beloved!
The finch had grown accustomed to this need.
He’d never had to miss being so loved.

The finch misses the only thing he knew,
yet missing dawn less than I’m missing you.