A Certain Conceit
There’s a certain
conceit
in this ancient
belief system
that’s much more
disturbing
than the
proverbial apple gone
bad, spoiling all
the good apples
in the barrel; and
this conceit
of not being the
self that we
are, an unreal self
that lives life
and dies and is no
more, fills
my nostrils with
such a stench
of spiritual malevolence
that I could retch.
Saturday, March 16, 2024
Georgian
Bay, Ontario
The Mathematics of
Poetry
A poet does not
have to be dead to belong
to the dead poet’s
society; in fact, many
living poets are
members, like the dystopian
author of many
genres, poetry being her
favorite. That’s
why she was elected most
honored member and
three times president.
“The desire to be
loved is the last illusion,”
said she; “and when
you give it up, you
will be free.” But
what else can we expect
from the most honored
member of the dead
poet’s society whose
signature line is, “All
we have is hope, but
what hope is there?”
Her wild hair is more
alive than Medusa’s,
and her poetry can
turn your soul to stone;
and every time I read
her, a cold wind chills
my bones, and I have
to put her poetry away
to keep the devil at
bay; and I turn once more
to Wordsworth,
Rumi, Jane Hirshfield, and
the divine poetry
of the blessed poet’s society
whose signature
line is: “Life is love in action,
and the more love you
give, the more life you
have.” And that,
the gods of literature say,
is the mathematics
of poetry.
Composed in
Georgian Bay, Ontario
Sunday, March 17,
2024
The
Dying Poet
She’s
dying, and reading her poetry
on social
media is like watching a frog
cooking
in a slow-boiling pot of water;
it’s
agony. How I so wish for her to step
out
of the paradigm of her life-long
patterns
of thought that shaped her story;
it
would do her poor soul a world of good
to
let go of her smothering belief system
and
try something dramatically different,
like
the promising age-old idea that when
our
body dies, we step through a door
into
a whole new life that gives us another
opportunity
to realize our true self. I’m
sorry
to say, really, I am, that as much
as her
sad little poems ache to move me,
my
heart refuses to weep for her, because
I
know that all of this is true, and I would
so
love to see an essential shift in her frantic
verse
before she takes her leave once more
from
this beautiful, misunderstood world;
it would
truly be a joyous miracle.
Composed
in Georgian Bay, Ontario
Wednesday,
March 5, 2024
Not
Facebook Folly
“I
am what I am not, and I am not what I am,”
concluded
the “little ball of fur and ink” in his
great
dialectical inquiry Being and Nothingness,
failing
to resolve the paradoxical nature of soul’s
inner
and outer self and the core mystery of life
that
preoccupied the founding father of depth
psychology
to the last draw on his pipe at the ripe
old age
of 86, ferreting out the secret way with
the dream
life of his patients and ancient Gnostic
texts;
and the strait gate of the narrow way gave
the Wizard
of Bollingen private entry into life’s
sacred
mastery of soul’s individuation—and oh,
what
a joy meeting him in my dreams to discuss
my
book The Way of Soul that I had just written,
putting
the biggest smile on his venerable face
with
my disentanglement of the Gordian Knot
of
the human condition that plagued the world
since
Heraclitus: “I am what I am not, and I am
not
what I am; I am both, but neither: I am Soul,
my
true self.” That’s
the mystery of the mystical
marriage
that 99.9 percent of the world cannot
apprehend.
But as merciless and cruel as life may
be, it
is equally fair and sweet; and if we don’t
get it
right in this lifetime, we will keep coming
back
until we do; and that’s by Divine decree,
not
Facebook folly.
Composed
in Georgian Bay, Ontario
Tuesday,
March 5, 2024
The
Golden Heart Pendant
Fate
kindly brought us together. She, hurting
badly
from her teenage son’s accidental
drowning
when his snowmobile went through
the
ice, and her separation from her alcoholic
husband,
and me from an emptiness within
that
could only be filled with a mature woman’s
love;
and she delighted taking a lithe young
man
into her arms, and I an older woman’s
sweet
comfort. But as time went by, the emptiness
within
began to disappear, my hurt healing
faster
than hers, and I knew that soon it would
be
time for us to part; but I did not have the heart
to
break up, and I asked my inner guide for help.
Then
my lover had a dream, losing the golden
heart
pendant that I had given her for a birthday
gift,
and she panicked and woke up. Relieved
to
know it was only a dream, all the same she wore
the pendant
every single day; but her dream had
prepared
her for what was to come, and when
she
read the letter that I placed in her hand telling
her why
we had to part, she cried, I cried, and we
hugged
a tearful goodbye. We both hurt, she much
more
than me; but the wrenching hurt of breaking
up
was a good hurt, because in her broken heart
she knew
our love was true but not meant
to
be, and we parted with dignity.
Composed
in Nipigon, Ontario
Date
unknown: 1990-2000
