She laughed a beautiful tune and twirled around
to blow a sweet breeze across the muggy woodlands of a Midsummer’s soul.
This was her only answer.
Always and forever.
The same lonely song,
the same unwilling sonata refusing to be written.
In today’s Wisdomism, I ruminate on Rumi once again. Enjoy!
AN EMPTY GARLIC
You will miss the garden,
because you want a small fig from a random tree.
You don’t meet the beautiful woman.
You’re joking with an old crone.
It makes me want to cry how she detains you,
stinking mouthed, with a hundred talons,
putting her head over the roof edge to call down,
tasteless fig, fold over fold empty
as dry-rotten garlic.
She has you by the belt,
even though there’s no flower and no milk
inside her body.
Death will open your eyes
to what her face is: leather spine
of a black lizard. No more advice.
Let yourself be silently drawn
by the stronger pull of what you really love. The Essential Rumi, p. 50
How often do we find ourselves distracted from the fullness of life by the old crone? How often do we miss out on the grand design because we are focused on one unimportant fig?
In this poem, I believe the crone represents hollow pursuits, including material gain. The crone has the young man “by the belt”. She has his full attention, even though there is “no flower and no milk” (she is lifeless, dried up.) in her. Meanwhile, the beauty of life passes us by until finally death takes us and we realize just how much time we wasted joking with the crone. We live in a world now where the crone has us distracted nearly 100% of the time. So often we must forsake the stronger pull of what we really love in order to survive. The crone holds all the keys and she constantly dangles them before us, tantalizing us, lying to us and telling us our dreams are just around the next corner. Just a few more years to retire. A little more money to save up. A little more of our lives lived and gone forever until it’s too late to do anything about it. No more advice.
We have the power to change the world. We have the power to write our own stories. All we have to do is turn away from the crone. All we have to do is look up from whatever has our focus and see the limitless possibility before us. We are only slaves because we choose to be. Because we believe the lies that have been ingrained within our collective consciousness. I, for one, choose to believe it’s time to wake up and follow that stronger pull.
before they are
screwed or blued.
Nothing to talk about
talk about nothing.
crying to mother
(her stolen mascara
running down smooth cheeks
in rivulets of watery night)
because coffee was cold
and life’s unfair.
She’ll make it alright
with hugs and promises.
No more tears.
Only smiles now.
tomorrow is always a new day
for cool hipsters.
beyond the boundaries
of secret folklore.
Do you know of what I speak?
Whispers of soft velvet dreams
blanketing you with naked grace.
Three hundred and eleven eternities
inside the black liquid glass
that paves the road
into the heart of nightmares and waking visions.
Awake, you sleeping giants.
Jason DeGray 2012
A short piece, but a powerful one. Enjoy!
An Egypt that Doesn’t Exist
I want to say words that flame
as I say them, but I keep quiet and don’t try
to make both worlds fit in one mouthful.
I keep secret in myself an Egypt
that doesn’t exist.
Is that good or bad? I don’t know.
For years I gave away sexual love
with my eyes. Now I don’t.
I’m not in any one place. I don’t have a name
for what I gave away. Whatever Shams
gave, that you can have from me.
—-From The Essential Rumi translated by Coleman Barks and John Moyne.
like the Wind’s laughter
or waves lapping against
a gentle shore.
Bask in simple radiance,
to absorb that perfect Light.
Can I give…
just so I can breathe in your enchanting voice
cascading sweetly into…
Only for a moment I want to remember
I want to experience
I don’t think it was so long ago
when the only catalyst separating
fantasy from reality
was a hopeful step off the edge of perception.
Back then we could plummet into possibility
I know that somewhere wishes are granted and fairy dust is more
than just glitter adorning the shoulders of those the devil
an incarnation most tangible
flesh and blood
(if it is possible for emotions to manifest themselves into a righteous vessel).
Or WAS SHE
a synaptic misfire?
A ghost in the machine of my neurological nightmare
Like a Freudian slip only
my mother or my dysfunctional psychosexual development.
These can be cured with pills,
but those tiny offerings of escape made her vividly real
-a fallen angel-
burned into my holy memory
a vexing harbinger of shadows to come.
Another piece from Rumi. Wisdom? Judgement? Even the wise judges can lose sight of their God-given wisdom. This is illustrated in the following poem: Enjoy!
SOLOMON’S CROOKED CROWN
Solomon was busy judging others,
when it was his personal thoughts
that were disrupting the community.
His crown slid crooked on his head.
He put it straight, but the crown went
awry again. Eight times this happened.
Finally he began to talk to his headpiece.
“Why do you keep tilting over my eyes?”
“I have to. When your power loses compassion,
I have to show you what such a condition looks like.”
Immediately Solomon recognized the truth.
He knelt and asked forgiveness.
The crown centered itself on his crown.
When something goes wrong, accuse yourself first.
Even the wisdom of Plato or Solomon
can wobble and go blind.
Listen when your crown reminds you
of what makes you cold toward others,
as you pamper the greedy energy inside.
This needs to be read and applied by EVERY world leader today. And a vast majority of the laity could benefit from this simple lesson too. Unfortunately, humanity has become too proud to kneel and ask forgiveness.
Today’s bit of brightness comes from The Essential Rumi as translated by, Coleman Barks. I can’t get enough of this book. Beautiful metaphysical and love poetry. Almost every poem tugs at my heart. Truly a timeless joy. The selection comes from a poem called, “The Worm’s Waking”. Enjoy!
This is how a human being can change:
there’s a worm addicted to eating
Suddenly, he wakes up,
call it grace, whatever, something
wakes him, and he’s no longer
He’s the entire vineyard
and the orchard too, the fruit, the trunks,
a growing wisdom and joy
that doesn’t need
One day, all us worms will wake up and realize we don’t need to devour to survive, that we don’t need to consume to find happiness and completion in our lives.
Alien Jesus has robot eyes
There is nowhere he cannot see you.
He dines at Chile’s
with Chucky Manson
discussing the End of All Things
The Helter of all Skelters
while drinking fish flavored fluids
disguised as vodka.
“It’s all a sham” is their motto
They say it twice, pay their bill and go.
Even then, he sees you.