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Jun 2015 · 409
The Play, The Production
Prana Moonshine Jun 2015
ethereal entities
clsoe your eyes
to see the moment
the Universe began.

it begins again
and again
but with only
One Beginning

those who came before
slumbering,
are watching.
observing us from sleepy dreams
a sparkle and a clap!
of shining explosion.

weary we be,
far along the steps we climb.
patience on the road
writing from the center

flaming from collective power
a space opens

clears the theater

we smile again
May 2015 · 1.6k
Cheshire Cat
Prana Moonshine May 2015
The silence,
Haunting light
Illuminating tunnels
Terror’s teeth.

Horror is a face
The disaster, a cat!
Smiling with sharpness
Fangs hungry for blood

Calling:

“more”.

But that’s a crazy thought
Cat curled up with stripes
Lines and lives that fade the grid
Cruelly wound around
It's branch:

A deep hum and sly laughter:

Hands on cheeks
Mouth open

Fading, languid
Grasping, gaping
Giving up -
*“we’re all mad here”
May 2015 · 6.3k
The Mist, The Fog
Prana Moonshine May 2015
Who is the carrier of the mist?
Who is the harbinger of justice?

I wonder how many sweet reeds
There are that blow in the wind?

The fog, dividing the big square.
The mist, forming a circle.

An encircling protection.
The night has its shades.

We have seen the good mist
Positively rolling along the open field
Towards us
We who make the camaraderie.
“Oh, now that’s a good mist”.

The mist, the fog. Wet dew
Of sustenance
With hope, I bow to you.
May 2015 · 2.7k
Yogi Uday
Prana Moonshine May 2015
Exuberant he is!
That’s a Yogi with character!

Smiling, treat wallah.
Pyramid quartz.
Dangling sparkles.
Sunlight reflects
His teeth softly open to the world.
Taste buds willing
Simple yet refined
Yogi Yum Yums
Spreading the thunderous joy
Of pure delight!
He gives permission to say “GOD”
He sits.
When no one is around
In the hall where Shiva dances to his music.
Pulsing the instrument
Harmonium glimmering with song.
Goggles on, ready and shimmering
He booms a great confidence,
The resounding sound:

SHRI RAM
JAYA RAM
JAYA JAYA RAM
SHRI RAM
JAYA RAM
JAYA JAYA RAM!
Prana Moonshine May 2015
Gently close the door before
Running away from the sangha of the gongs,
Running to the sangha of the forest.
Dualities, so extreme,
Oneness, so infinite.

I step more patiently now,
With the same wonder,
But with increased senses.
The senses feast on stimuli.
The senses fast on deprivation.
Yes the green is greener.

I return to the chakras,
The protection of the fox,
The fuzzy comfort of soft things.
To hear music, to bake bread,
To feel touch.

Now our distance is greater,
And it creates closeness.
Now the sadness of spaces
Creates refreshed longing.

I smile at the mystical and curious
May Apple Retreats.
The Big Tree, the threshold.
The portal, welcomes me,
Shelters me.

Practices breathing fully,
Proclaiming:

                            “LIVE LIFE,
                              LIVE LIFE”
May 2015 · 664
Before the Real Work Begins
Prana Moonshine May 2015
I see I seeing I seeing
That.
I drank from That cup
As the liquid spilled over the lip
Into my open mouth
There lay a mystery on my tongue
Unnamed sensation in my throat
A knife cutting deeper and deeper
A sharpness dissecting.
Sometimes an axe, hacking.
Sometimes a needle, sewing.
A pierceness, the clear blade
Of the mind.

The silence so loud, comforting
Yet disquieting.
The silence in my ears,
A miracle, a bane, a source.
Opening doors to curious flowers,
Strange yet native to my work.
A curious pattern in my heart
Resting on the laurels of my past,
Practices I had to forget,
Like laughter.
The silence, a peace I can return to.
A deep and penetrating character
Of existence itself.

Animal, plant, mineral.
Human with peculiar work, very peculiar work.
The cosmic sense of humour.
Eyes looking at eyes
That appear, like a wave, a sense form.
Ghostly clouds and fairy apparitions.

There is an ancient wizard monk,
A blue mystic sage that walks.
He is always walking, always moving forward.
His long hair, long nose,
And even longer cloak,
Generating the Abyss.

Then doors again open to evergreen branches,
Swaying on my cheek, whispering the sweet joke of
“you are not alone, you are not alone”.
Creeks and valleys, ferns and fiddleheads,
I ascended the quiet mountain.
Made requests for what I did not know.
Asked to keep unknown promises I could not keep.
I had lost my heart.
It was to be found in the decaying mushrooms
Or fallen trees, which became “logs”.
It was to be found in the limitless forgiveness of the Goddess,
And the glowing of the moon, too bright, too bright.

The beauty swallowed me whole,
And spit me out.
All I could hear was the trickling water,
The songbirds call,
And my inner voice, deep, deep.
I consulted my past, soil and dirt both.
My past as a Queen, a carrier, a holder of the secret language, as loam.
Hooked, I was hung, to bleed until clean.
I couldn’t surrender to the Horror. It was just as great a burden as the Beauty.
BUT I KNOW THE MAMA OF THE VIBE HERSELF!
How is it I confine myself here,
Trapped in my own expansion
Much too free in my own deconstruction.
Much too attached
To my preferences for life’s wild songs that fill the air.

The same reality, underlying the foundation of everything.
Layers of endless illusion,
Sparks of entertainment.
So many comparisons.
Are not the blind happy to see?
Even if what they see is not the bare reality before them,
Barren of all colour and vibrancy?
I do not know.

Tenaciously, I jumped off a moving train.
I barrelled down the mountain.
In a sadness, I had forgotten how to feel laughter in my heart.
My inner self looked on, watching
Witnessing me learn.
The minimum of respiration to stay alive.
Wellness ran dry, hope was put on ice -
At least not obliterated, as suggested.

The frequency of the water which formed the tears I cried.
So many different frequencies. So many tears.
Much of this I have read and studied,
Much of these lessons have I digested.
Many I’ve experienced, forcefully
From external pressures and inducements.

Can the Buddhist taste the truest quality of the tea she drinks?
I’ll enjoy it and leave the true tasting to her.

Can the austere sample Earth’s greatest delights, in the clearest quality of their form?
Good, I’ll savour and leave the clear sampling to them.

Can the pious smell the sweetest scents that the spring grounds do give off?
Wonderful, I’ll be happy to sniff and leave the sweetest smelling to them.

They are now leaving.
Gone are those who work themselves into atoms.
May they enjoy their disintegration, into the intigration
Of universal truth.
They are more enlightened.
I wish I could taste those fruits,
But am not willing to sacrifice lust for Life.
We are equal, we are equal.
Too cruel is the depth, too violent is the scale.
I refuse it,
And accept myself as is.
Widened,
Open, immense growth.

So now, in pieces, torn
And battered and broken by the Horror and the Beauty.
I pick up my pieces, put back together the puzzle,
Coming back to some kind of Original Mind.
I dropped the reins I was never holding in the first place.
Leaped off the speeding black horse of complete stillness.
Bones broken, muscles frozen, teeth shattered,
Brain fizzled out.
I pray for those who really have to experience
Insanity via disease.
IT IS EXHAUSTING.

So much magic. What has disappeared is the urgency -
The desperate need to express
Gratitude.
The disappearance of the illusion
That the Great Force doesn’t know how thankful I am.
It made me that way, so it should know.

And I emerge with greatness
That is cloudy but present.
A giant bird ruffles itself in the dandelion field.
The mammoth linx, teaching me in my dreams
“don’t let your addictions become a robust yet scrawny beast
That others will have to wrestle”.
The message of feathers is soar softly on the four winds.
Smile with delight, you have permission.
Chuckle at the obvious captain:
“If you throw dirt into the wind, you are going to get *****!”
Apr 2015 · 839
Seasonal Self
Prana Moonshine Apr 2015
self-importance
your self is important
even sometimes imparted.
define me "stealing".
define for me "sharing".
appropriate? highly
inappropriate.
sickly skinning
stimming sexily
what a seasonal miracle
they keep us alive.
the seasons keep me,
keep a sacred worship
of the seasons
as a thread to what is left of sense
they confirm life and
death so generously
the projectile *******
of
flora, fauna
dew, criminal
so perfect in its sticky
globular ambrosia
for the ages to keep spinning
open to the full spectrum
of life with you.
wreaking pleasure
meandering pain
full circle, yin and yang
Apr 2015 · 404
Stoke the Fire at Noon
Prana Moonshine Apr 2015
the mountains appear
infinite - and they are.
amidst all these sullen dreams
and dreamers,
it seems the eternal feeling
is ready to unfold - and it is.

— The End —