The path to presence. 

Different, every time.

Time as a spiral, not a line.

The true way never looks the same

Because open eyes are always changing.

Wisdom is born of the silent spring,

the fertile darkness that lives below our knowing,

that begets our awakening,

and opens to our remembering.

Ancestral light, the substance of our wings

though they look like muscle and bone;

and, however caged, some part of us 

still remembers these hearts where meant to sing us home.

 

The truth is, I am afraid of my shadow.

And though all the teachers say it contains a gift,

that the birthplace of my fecundity is the ugliest part of me,

I want only to look away from it, to numb, to hide it, to hide from it.

I want the well-lit path. 

So I flee towards the Sun,

the fanfare and exultation,

seeking triumphant exclamation

on a road sparkling clean like my brightest meditations,

in a quest for transcendence;

retracing the steps that have brought me thus far,

centered me before,

but I turn and the shadow is still right there,

stitched to my heels.

The path to presence 

is different every time.

There is so much further to go 

than only light

we must balance above with below.

 

Pilgrim, there is no one road to follow, 

the road is made by walking

over stone and bone,

is made by breathing 

beyond everything you’ve ever known,

and home is an ever-shifting location.

You may taste the sweet nectar for a moment

but then the flower dies,

and you’d best learn to see the beauty in compost.

This path is understood for only an instant

sunlight caught in the hand through a prism

a rainbow bridge to absolute nowness.

This path found in the effusive glee

of a child’s first spinning dance in a summer meadow,

in the feel of my lover’s lips upon my brow,

in the silence before every sound.

The path is different every time,

because it leads to a place that can never be known,

and only in the seeking

can we ever be found.

 

{{{Listen to Niema speak this on soundcloud}}}

 

 

Searching for home.

Upturning stones,

disentangling dry roots

entrenched in unstable soil.

Where is the place to rest this dream-filled head?

Even wildflowers need a well-tended bed.

Even the phoenix has a soft nest,

when she is not busy dissolving

into the flame of her becoming.

These beings intrinsically reside within a belonging

that comes from knowing 

that they are indivisible from that which makes them.

 

Humans are the only creatures that claim to own bits of Earth,

and the only ones to believe in the existence of homelessness

on this garden planet.

This glowing orb that is all home.

I don’t need to own,

to claim,

none of this precious dirt need to be mine.

But I want to be claimed

by a living temple of wood and stone,

a soft nest of clay and earthbone.

I feel the ache of ancestors ripped from all that was known

forced to flee, to roam.

This greed to own

born of the fear of freedom

and addiction to others’ resources

displacing everyone.

Interfering with our innate connection to our fountain,

our taproot, our true source.

I cry the tears of a thousand people

who have buried dreams and children on the side of the road.

 

I want to go home,  

but it’s a place long lost

and not yet found again,

not yet emerged

from the ashes of a history

of aggressive agriculture and possessive war.

We don’t need to own, to claim,

no place need belong to us.

But we need to belong to place.

Some place with space 

for our seeking roots and tender hearts.

 

I don’t want land to belong to me,

I simply want to belong to Her,

and thus, to get Her, to gather, together.

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© 2018 by Medicinal Poetry