Scribe
Scribe
2017
We Met at Starbucks
we met at Starbucks over coffee
and her copy of The Four Agreements.
We had arrived at a similar place
in time, space and matter.
In the same place of eternality
beyond that oneiric triad.
We were winging it like eagles
without parachutes.
Dating is not for the weak,
Nor for the incautious …
Stars passing through the void,
sailing byways of cause and effect
circling each other,
gravitationally bound,
gasping from dream hypoxia.
From their cores of being,
recognition pulses into the vacuum,
spirals a kiss upon space,
then rides solar prana
into each other's heart center.
Drawn down from the supernal spheres
of transcendental consciousness,
lifetimes converge in the irresistible pull
of karmic imperative.
Unconditional love embraces
in a ruse of duality pretense,
feigning soul mates of itself
in a game of hide-and-seek,
The play of Lila
where hider and seeker are both.
All e-all in free! …
The peal of transfinite thunder.
One light winks, the other nods,
and eternity smiles.
Smiles through the human condition,
smiles through the game
of hide-and-seek,
smiles through the maya
cloaking liberated being.
On entering this plane of matter,
and its buffeting cacophony
of sensory noise,
human-child spirits retain
a silver cord bridge
to ultimate reality,
holding to its inner pitch
of non-differentiated oneness,
growing their consciousness
from dream to non-dream
to old soul.
Life is music of the spheres,
a song and dance of consciousness,
a many-instrument concerto grosso
playing existence that is at once
many and one, real and pretentious …
A child is hope for the future
but is not the future or the past.
It is timeless rhapsody
and movement congealed
into rhythm and tempo,
falsified into time-based
mistaken-identity reality
with endless births and deaths.
From its parents
must come loving attention:
water, sun, shade, and good soil;
the kind that is rich in the mineral
salts of self-valuing and self-worth.
Mom and dad must till
the young one’s ground of being,
carefully turning the soil
so as not to break the spirit;
farming its consciousness holistically
that it may grow true
to its unconditioned nature—
a mirror of Supreme Consciousness.
A child requires protection
from the elements,
and like the moth seeking the flame,
from its own curiosity,
the guidance and discipline of “NO!”
A little tyke needs beauty,
the gift of open-wide eyes
to splendor everywhere.
Beauty is the soul of Creation
and a ladder to higher consciousness.
Little ones must be initiated
into the supreme mystery of listening:
listening to the voice of reason
listening to the voice of intuition
listening to the voice of wisdom,
that is both audible and silent.
Childbirth is serial beginning,
a recurring genesis reechoing
who we are—zero gravity
in time, space, and matter;
unformed spirit plasma
suffering amnesia.
A child is the dawn
that dispels the darkness,
the lamp of our own simplicity
made complex through our dreaming.
A child is the chording
of our own forgotten melody.
Both parent and child we are,
yet neither.
In the starburst
of exploding consciousness,
we met at Starbucks over coffee
and her copy of The Four Agreements.
We had arrived at a similar place
in the galaxy of the gods,
quaffing the soma of immortality,
thirsty for the jolt of Liberation.
Winging it like eagles
without parachutes,
risking the knowing of memories
of other times and places,
of other lives and relations.
We met at Starbucks over coffee
and her copy of The Four Agreements,
looking inside each other
for non-time, non-space, non-matter;
non-existence of sequential existences.
Interrelating our journeys
through time delusion,
the mind-splitting of Spiritus in two—
two breaths: in and out,
back and forth, to and away.
Figments of start and stop,
somewhere over the rainbow.
Yet, all flows to the center
in continuous continuity
The center is All That Is.
Breathing as one
is simpatico relationship;
the ultimate joining,
where eagles disappear
into the transformational sun
of ultimate intersection.
Dream intersection is
the meeting of storyline reality,
where dreams meld or collide
in time, space, and matter—
the awake-asleep sleep
of fool’s truth.
Non-dream intersection is
the meeting of literal reality,
where non-dreams meld or collide
in time, space, and matter—
the awake-asleep awake
of absolute truth.
Light meets Sound,
in linear narrative,
in the gaps between breaths.
Breaths are breathing’s bookends
or self-induced optical aids
for sighting-in on the big picture
of infinite manifestation
of infinite possibilities—
without beginning or ending.
You are and that is enough.
Come, draw from my wellspring
of deep feeling
the oil of friendship,
anoint thy forehead with my trust.
Dwell in me when in need of comfort,
for I shall house thee
and give thee to drink,
lay open my cupboard
and break bread in thy name.
Lay thee down to slumber
in the hammock of my heart,
as I burn an offering of myrrh
to cleanse the ethers
calling out to you.
Awaken Beloved!
And rejoin the billowing wave
of human activity.
Brace yourself,
as the world rumbles by,
spinning the fabric of earth time.
Reaching for the stars,
we met at Starbucks over coffee
and her copy of The Four Agreements.
—Thinning of the Veils (Work in Progress)
Copyright © Carl Hitchens 2017
Sunday, June 18, 2017