Come with me into the expansive gift of poetry to experience a disruption of habitual ways of thinking and perceiving. The magic of poetry happens when it is spoken, heard and felt as vibrations in your body.
You didn't come here to get mangled
by the gleaming machinery of the Mind.
You didn't come here to get welded and forged into a
Republican, Democrat, Sunni or Shi'a,
to get angry at your jagged shadow in broken glass,
or see your own reflection as approaching disaster.
You came to be astonished by a dust mote.
You came to find the Maker of all things
embodied in a dandelion.
You are here to be torn by laughter and pain,
then healed by the tang of a berry
on your wild tongue.
There are no right angles, no straight lines
in the serpent body of the earth.
Valleys, rivers, and hills are the only borders.
Dark-eyed Mother Raven looks down
and sees them as restless waves in the ocean
of Holy Matter.
What makes this planet sacred
is the unfinished circle, not the wall.
What guides us is the wayless curve
in a labyrinth of fallen alder leaves after the storm,
a cloud that stains the soft rice paper sky,
brushstroke of geese in flight.
Why waste another moment arguing
for or against
when you could slip back down a beam
of breath, soft as moonlight,
into the silent radiance you Are?
- Alfred K. LaMotte
Your anger is holy.
Your grief is pure.
Step quietly out of your shadow
like a panther
who leaves no tracks.
Let your fierceness fertilize the void.
Fling generous curses
into musky voluptuous furrows
so that fiery petals
of inexpressible bliss
spring up for no reason
in the forest of your nerves.
Be what happens in tombs
and bridal chambers,
among lovers and mushrooms.
Let your bruises ripen into juice.
Keep rooting down
until you touch your vacuous core.
Precious the dung.
Sacred the manure flower.
This is the only way up
to the Rose.