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Metaphysical Poetry

This tag is associated with 7 posts

Light

light_and_magic__water_by_xanthicThe power of the universe is the power of Light. Photons, particulate waves of matter and energy, an incantation and a breath. This is how it all began, the beginning of everything that is us. And the power is all around us. It enraptures us. It beckons us onward in endless pursuit.

In cosmic streams we encircle all that is. We intertwine and interchange. We are all in all and all at once. We move as one and then dissolve. We are the stuff of souls. We are the inspiration and the thoughts of dreams. We are the words of poets and the Divine.

We are light.

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Soulstuff

Susurrations of the soul intensified with time. Music and rhythms waxed and waned and rounded thrice. Forms of consciousness swirled and cooled in spiritual broth, traversing the senses like petrichor and summer rain, vexing vainglories and self-servitude.

Surreal and serene, a Jovian chorus emanates from magnetized plasmatic fields, a bow-shock of Spirit and Cosmic Stream.

Like children castigated by karmic conscious strings, we focus and transcend locality beyond limits and time; Sine Qua Non for souls, inebriated hearts and maudlin moods and all things specious and sad.

We rise and then we fall, stardust-covered we breathe the morning light, immersed in photons, particulate waves of matter and energy, we breathe the incantation with each breath of life.

Transcendent we become. Bathed in splendiferous waves radiating from the sun, outward from the very fabric of God.  Thus have we aspired to be, far beyond the meretricious makings of malicious-minded fools.

The Secret

Beyond the reach of stars, beyond gravity and accepted laws of time; across the known cosmos and guided by the light of rainbows arching different worlds; the satyr sulked and leaped into the flame.

“The secret is protected.”

“The satyr knew, and is no more.”

“Why have you come?”

“The door beckons and begs me into being. I have looked into its eyes and heard it speak.”

“Machine men, zipping round, seductive, pulling millions and millions of Mah‘dor‘mon**…. They never rest nor never sleep, they search the Earth, go round and round. They will find you, my dearest, my darling dear, they will find my love and you will die.”

“How is that to be? I am older than the hill and longer than the tree of legend-length; older than the moon, more seasoned than the suns; my time is squared, though gained for loss; I fell before, I rose again, by righteous will I die no more.”

“Surrender. These creatures do not belong. We will not fight them. We must trust the bridge. We will not fight. We will not force. We are true. We are real. The great mystery is our strength. Cast your light into the door, the door will move. Your energy is in your light.”

“I will bend the cosmos. Press my light into the fabric and roll the galaxy into my palm and fly beyond the sun.”

The door, opening, revealed in truth: “Because it they, who never speak, though in their thoughts do dwell, they never, nor for nary ought, best to their thoughts do tell. And though through those, thrice they therewith, my quaking heart can’t quell, my mind for naught but wicked words, in propense-ed pain do spell.”

That is the secret of the stars.

**A type of canned stew

Flight

At the center there are monsters, invisible, beyond the reach of everything, where light becomes dark. Hypocycloidal shapes surround the surface, along the edges of a chase that never ends. The pursuit pays a price, but a price at what cost, and to what possible end? How much is this one worth? Or that one?

“The hate of men will pass when dictators die and we possess their power.”

The power of the masses, flowing into form, a single power-mass far flung into the center where the monsters roam in shadow.

“Relax. Let it flow. You are the creator.”

“Is this real? Or just a ride?”

“Whatever you think it is, you can change it anytime. Don‘t be afraid.”

I hold my finger to the moon. I fix my gaze until the finger disappears. The ground begins to quake. Vertical potential surpasses downward pull, and I begin to fly.

Ephimeral

Projections of a shadow world, inventions of morning light, breathed in, breathed out, footprints on worlds of oceans with fifteen billion suns. Stretched out, rolled up, ripped apart, and weather-worn; spaces of matter and twisted time, between two verses and ion shifts. The key to everything, a single photon, particles of energy turned into mass.

What is real there, really?

The mind sees, the brain detects; stimulations and time-dependent waves. An effect of cause, a focus, from one to two and on and on.

Recognizing, we see. Seeing, we believe. Touching, we feel. Thresholds surpassed, reset, surpassed again. The key to everything is nothing.

“Reflection.”

“Yes.”

“What do you see?”

“The image of a face, a moment, the things you see?”

The palm of the hand, inside out, energy and time; the faster we go, the bigger we become, until we become all at once the zero and the one.

Yore

To be American is a frightful awful thing. It is the opposite of meaning.

Meaning, the direction of unified factors, a square, a trapezoid, shadows of the fifth dimension. A life devoid of panache, the eagle above the cloud. Lateral pressures in a raging stream, debts in torrents, drowning men.

Kids. Children. Young men. The procession of ages stops and staggers and races past.

The last day of summer. Pick-up games at the Pony League. Afternoons of clouds and eagles and my dad’s ‘62 Chevy.

“You ever think about the future?” I asked aloud.

“Nah,” they answered. And I agreed.

The light of the world was polarized.

How could we see the world at forty-five degrees? We knew nothing but the days in the sun, dauntless days of chasing geese on the lake and shagging flies in the dirt, days in quarter arcades, sweet taffy, grilled burgers, and eight millimeter film; days in the clouds and nights in the stars; days of stolen centerfolds and copping feels; days without end, dying embers and dreams of youth.

We piled into cars and raced the block. The block, the square, a flat plain in planar space. Locality intertwined. Leaves fell, clouds burst, we huddled behind bleachers, trading cards for ancillary light.

The grounded state. The end of everything and the beginning of nothing. Days of summer into Fall. What would we do, when the square became the cube? Where would we be? Who would we love? Would we still play ball? Would we still race cars? Would diffusion of perspectives correlate our distances and time?

In the end, there was nothing. We were sucked into the cube, its entanglements paradoxical and dark. The eagle skimmed the clouds. The books became our games, and flies changed into ladders.

“I want to play here when we’re fifty,” I said, teasing my words with fingertips as they slipped beyond the light.

“I sure hope so,” they replied, words drifting into night, the upper slit of continuity where dreams of children dissociate and die.

I reversed my baseball cap, stretched out my arms at ninety degrees, and closed my eyes. Particles and waves surrounded my senses, backwards moving and incoherent, adrift in seas of light, discontinuous and irreversible, intuitive and non-distinct. Unbound, I disappeared, a distinct memory through time, where time and distance were the same.

Colors

Quantized particles permeate like bursts of super-charged plasma.

Fluctuations of time ripple like narrow slits in diffused matter.

Four forces converge like rain in empty space. And I, the mass-less part of me, feeling pain, increase the causal threshold by a square.

Red, anti-red, blue and anti-blue… these are the colors of my mass-less self.

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