Posts Tagged ‘Life’s Sunshine and Rain’

Whose Pussy Are You?

From the moment I was born
My pussy was not my own.
Some big corporation
Wrapped it up
As if it were their own.
Everybody was muscling in
To get at my sweet pussy;
They powdered it,
They washed it
And bathed it
In sweet soap.
But as I grew
They didn’t leave,
But muscled in anew,
To own parts of my pussy
And penetrate yet more.
The pharmaceutical companies
Plugged me up if I should bleed,
They took away my periods
In case I should bear child
And all the precious things I had
Are cared for now by them.
And so my poor dear pussy
I wonder who you are.
Will they let me visit you
In your sterile jar?

Where My Stallion?

I want to die!
Even my body aches
And creaks with the struggle of this life.
Is it old age,
To be in one’s fifties?
Does it mean my life has finished,
That I can find no work,
No creative spark,
No love, in my life?
Does age always lead,
Like this, to feeling second-class –
To being unproductive,
Impoverished,
With no way ahead?
No sex. No money.
No opportunity,
To be part of
Creative action in the world?
Must I accept this,
That I cannot achieve
Any reward or satisfaction?
Yet I had climbed
Such mountains of vision.
There was in me
A sparkling fountain
Of ever new creations.
The zest in me
Was a wonderful horse —
A stallion of power —
Carrying me,
Sometimes laughing,
Sometimes weeping,
Over and through challenges,
Despair, chasms,
Love and hate.
So where is my stallion now?
Where the steed
That carried me through all barriers?

The question pauses me.
I stand and look around.
It is a dark world,
Lonely and desolate.
And as I look,
I realise its strangeness.
I see my shabby clothes,
My hands, bony and wrinkled.
And I am on a stony track,
Winding ahead.
A track, whose every stunted tree,
I now recognise.
Recognise as having passed
A hundred times before.
Recognise at last
That I am on a loop,
Trapped on a Mobius strip,
That has no end.
No way out.
No pause.
And yes, it is a dream!
But no, not sleep induced.
A waking nightmare
Of entrapment.
And as I look around,
Eyes now made sharp,
By this new perception,
I see that, as with dreams,
Each rock, each tree,
Is shaped by my own fantasy.

Happening upon this path,
Suggested by my being
Without my love,
Without my work,
And hope lost on the way,
I believed this self-created world
Was real — was waking true.
Yet how can this not be so?
My wife has gone.
There is no work.
My body truly ages!
I do feel lost,
Afraid, and dying.
And yet! And yet —
As I look about
With this new insight,
I sense a saddle,
And the beauty of my horse’s strength.
I feel the power and the possibility
Of my life.
Yet, in looking down,
I see no saddle, and no horse.
But I feel them still!
So what is real?
And, wondering,
I close my eyes,
And reach with searching fingers,
To find the living, pulsing flesh
Of my great stallion,
There beneath me.
But, pulsing with the movement
Of my hopes and fears,
It comes and goes.

I stand amazed!
Pounded by an obvious fact,
That what I thought was me,
Is but a fragile moving thing,
Inconstant as my shifting
Thoughts and feelings.
The reality that pounds me,
Is that beyond emotions,
Beyond my thoughts,
I am Nothing!
Nothing but Existence–
And with my heart and soul
I create the world’s
In which I dwell.
Light or dark,
Heaven or Hell,
Prisoner or free.
All of them,
Each one of them, is me!
And with a swelling heart,
With joy, I see
That if each thought, each fear
Creates this world I’m trapped in,
How can I be a failure,
Or a success,
Or great, or small?
And with this amazement
Still upon me
I see that in my essence
I am none of these.
And in my nothingness,
The wonder is,
I can be anything!
Ah – Here’s my stallion.

What is Born this Christmas

What is born this Christmas?
Each moment is born to us.
Opportunity calls us
To respond
With care? With haste?
With awareness of the
Perpetual meeting?

What is born this Christmas?
It is a child –
Any child, anywhere, any day.
You and I were that child.
The son or daughter we
Might have are that child.

What is born this Christmas?
It is life.
It is love
Born this day.
In hovels and palaces
It is born this day.
In malice or wonder
It arrives and walks with us.

What is born this Christmas?
My reaching to you.
I may not be who you
Would me to be.
But I am born
To you
As you are born to me
Today.

Wayside Flower

As the lithe green plant withers
And drops into the earth,
So my soul crumbles to you
Like dry leaves into the formless
From which I arose.

By an unknown faith and love
The herb dies gladly into the soil
From which it struggled,
Lost in all the fragments
Of past summers
And warm springs yet to come.
Dispersed and scattered,
Dissociated and unformed.

And I look upon the wayside flower,
Reaching through the tall grass,
And in its petalled face
See peace and a great prayer.
For flowers can pray.

Within me I hear
The echo of its worship.
“I am here!
I am here!
Out of the dark into the light,
I am here.
Out of nothingness
The mystery wrought me.
Out of the pieces of its being I arise.
In surety I live,
Until I die, back into the mystery,
To be lived again,
Or be forever that which lived me.”

Thus spoke the flowers to my soul.
So can I too,
In a more conscious faith and love,
Die into the nothingness
From whence I came?
Can my trust transmute
My fear to joy and
Willingness to be dispersed?

Am I convinced
My soul too
Will be relived
In yet another summer,
When a warm spring
Will bring me
Out of the darkness
Of my unknowing?

Yes, somewhere,
My soul too is a wayside flower.

Watching Nature Groan

I stood looking at the urban life around me
And as my vision cleared,
I saw the influence of commerce,
And how nature groans under its impact.
As I watched I saw the signs of
Nature moving toward ridding itself of this parasite;
A parasite that is clutching its dirty hands
Right into the earth – Right into you.
It is going to suck at you in any way it can;
Suck to earn a living – to survive.
Suck at long suffering nature;
And nature is your own body.
As we abuse and misuse
This nature that we are,
So sickness develops.
Isn’t that why so many people
Develop cancerous growths
Where there once was life?
The breasts the ovaries,
The testicles, the prostate;
They have been abused for so long.
We need to recognise what we do as unhealthy.

Do you want a mechanised life?
Do you want to be part
Of a huge mechanised food machine?
Because the way we live,
We are not only treating nature and the animals
As if they are machines,
To be plugged in and run without care,
We are doing it to ourselves.
The processes and drives
That have taken millions of years to develop,
Are being abused by our attitude
Of seeing nature as something
Without awareness or response.
And as nature hits back
People are so surprised.
Those attitudes are impinging
On your own life,
On your own children,
On your own reproductive faculties.
Are you and your children
Simply resources to be eaten up
And used by huge commercial companies?
Do you want your ovaries and sperm
Measured, dictated, controlled
By pharmaceuticals?
There are so many people
Handing their genitals,
Their emotions and their body
Over to these companies to control.
The mind manipulating drugs,
The contents of the food
We now eat are dictated by commercial interests –
Such things as shelf life,
Quantity of sales,
And the unhealthy desires
In those who buy the goods,
Poisoned day after day by alcohol
And tobacco.

But the mother is the supreme guardian of her eggs.
They are her sacred trust,
Her treasure,
Her ancient and wonderful heritage.
Each woman must judge,
Through inner searching and questioning,
What her deepest being shows her
About how to relate to and care for that treasure.
She must penetrate the motives
Of those who attempt to take control
Of her reproductive faculties.
Are they benign,
Or are their activities
Directed by commercial interests in profit motives?
Are they perhaps, as in past ages, disguised predators?
What you want done with your eggs
And your children, is your choice.
It is through that choice you create the future.
You create your future and the future of the world.

Tread carefully with life.
Each of us in our decision-making
Are quantum probability generators.
How we handle our sexuality
And reproductive functions,
Creates and destroys futures.
The choice to have or not to have a child,
To bear or to abort,
Alter the very future.
On those moments of decision
Whole new futures are built or destroyed.
The moment of decision
Is an unbelievable point of flux.
Around that moment
Infinite possibilities surge.
They break through,
Moving toward becoming real,
Or are pushed back remaining mere potential.
If we could view this as a process,
We would witness
An astounding play of energies and possibilities.
And often, we, in our ignorance,
Play with these mighty forces
As if they were games to be amused by,
Or simple sensory pleasures
That can be used without any consequence
In our lives or in the lives of others.
But we stand amidst an infinite mystery.

Waiting

I ache deep down from so much waiting.
Waiting for time to pass.
Waiting for your lover to call you.
Waiting for the bus, the train, the plane.
Waiting for the doctor to see you.
Waiting to be picked.
Waiting to see if what you did is traced to you.
Waiting for recognition.
Waiting for the pain to go away.
Waiting for the letter to come.
Waiting to see if you have been discovered.
Waiting for the baby to be born.
Waiting for your efforts to be successful.
Waiting for the big win.
Waiting for someone to love you.
Waiting for the sun to rise.
Waiting for them to show how much they care.
Waiting for it to end.
Waiting for your mum to come home.
Waiting to grow up.
Waiting for your seeds to grow.
Waiting for tomorrow.
Waiting for your turn.
Waiting for that person you fancy to finish work.
Waiting for the sun to shine.
Waiting for the right moment.
Waiting to get paid.
Waiting for help to come.
Waiting for the phone to ring.
Waiting for the rain to come.
Waiting for someone to stop talking.
Waiting for it to start.
Waiting to see if they will come back.
Waiting for the verdict.
Waiting for the lights to come on.
Waiting to get out.
Waiting for the results.
Waiting for it to happen.
Waiting for the heartache to subside.
Waiting for the lift to come.
Waiting for inspiration.
Waiting for the shop to open.
Waiting for someone to fill your loneliness.
Waiting for the flood to subside.
Waiting for your date to come.
Waiting for the deal to go through.
Waiting for the paint to dry.
Waiting for another chance.
Waiting to go to sleep.
Waiting to be served.
Waiting for the next punch.
Waiting without hope.
Waiting to get through the traffic jam.
Waiting for the holidays.
Waiting to see if the treatment works.
Waiting for the tide to turn.
Waiting for the rain to stop.
Waiting for the bell to ring.
Just waiting!

This Day

Sunrise.
A new day.
The same, unexpected, change,
Expectations amiss, completed,
Again, no more.
Will I live or die today?
Shall I abandon, renew,
Hold fast, retreat, reach beyond
Or dig my grave?
Who will I know
This sun day?
Passing faces? Glancing blows?
Connections below knowing?
Melding?
Giving and opening wounds?

This day the mist blurs the edges of distant trees and buildings.
Today as early as it is, I have already fed the winter birds,
Eaten an apple and some dried apricots, explored
Hundreds of possibilities and chosen directions.
Minute by minute I have added my brush strokes to
The ever forming canvas of life.
Willing to feel, to hurt, to love.
Ready to strive and sweat, to be perplexed and to find ways through with companions.
To go, to turn back, to pause, to explore a path,
To allow a hand in mine, and someone held close.
To be defeated and exhausted,
And rejoice in the participation.

To stand before the day forever emerging and never formed,
And say, Amen.

The Way of Things

I listened,
And the grasses
Moved in their own
Whispers
As the world
And all the seeds of
This moment
Were in labour together
Creating what is to come,
And flowing with
The way of things.

Wave On A Shoreless Sea

I am a wave on a shoreless sea.
From no beginning
I travel to no goal,
Making my movements stillness.
Constantly I am arriving
And departing,
Being born and dying.
I am always with you
And yet have never been.

I am a feather blowing in the wind,
Reality my conception that I am.
The idea of self a mask
Of many pieces made,
Which at a touch disintegrates
Into specks moved and eddied
By the cosmic wind,
With no star a final backdrop
And no thought a finite wall.

Sometimes I am uncertain
In this infinity.
Yet even in uncertainty
I AM
A feather blowing in the wind
From a mosaic mask
Always with you
Never taking form
Moving in stillness
As a wave on a shoreless sea.

“When the conditioned ego is broken down, what remains is pure being immersed in the matrix of spacetime. The view that the whole universe vibrates in a quantum mechanical flux becomes apparent and the conditioned queues that the brain uses to arrive at human perceived reality, cease to exist. Since all matter is composed of waves of energy, the artificially imposed boundaries between the “senses” no longer are distinct. That’s why all things appear to move and flow and colors may be smelled or heard. However, the essential experience is the “mystical” knowledge of “feeling” oneness with the universe (God). If all human beings experienced this just once, human consciousness would change for the better irreversibly”. By Patrick Austin

The Trackless Way

Somehow I stood upon the Mount,
Standing upon the edge,
Looking into the abyss.
Turning, I gazed back
Upon the way I had come.
I could see
The ruined churches and mosques,
The libraries and schools,
Where people forever searched
Through the river of books,
Or the spoken word.
I called to them
As loudly as I could,
“Why are you searching
For the Real
In all these frozen words?
Why wander through
The never-ending labyrinth
Of emotions, thoughts and beliefs?
For they are like
Photographs of the Real,
Capturing only moments,
Fragments of it?”
And I could see
The people in those labyrinths,
Setting up the photographs
Those words engraved
Like holy icons.
They fought over them,
As if their photograph
Held in its fragment
More of the Real
Than any other –
Or sold them,
Like treasures,
One to another.
And I, turning to the abyss,
Emerged from my chrysalis,
Broke open the cocoon
Of words and beliefs
I had formed about me,
Spread my wings and flew,
Melting into the abyss.

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Tony Crisp

Posts Tagged ‘Life’s Sunshine and Rain’