Larry's sorta-poetry

Prosettes

The Baggage Sutra

Manifest existence is spontaneously arising divine delight.
The far pole.

Existence as lived is merely lila.
Whose play is joyfulness,
And easeful devotion,
And remembrance of the divine.

The true forms are simply these.

It is not fall from grace.
Or karmic unfolding.
Or even spiritual quest.
Only play.

The near pole.

Dancing the dance, we start from the near pole
and journey to the far.

All else is baggage.

Or Not To Be

"You must have discipline" the chorus chants.
Discipline . . . with its subtle sense of the earned reward

There are no earned rewards
Only grace.

Simple joy.
Pleasure,
Indulgent and lanquid.

Undoing all firmness.

Pleasure,
melting, sliding, dripping

Intoxicating.

Eyelids half-moons,
knees weak with the press of it.

Just nearly to disappear,
to remain a fine mist at the edge of form.

To give in.

Taken . . . away

The universe needs no discipline to unfold its magic.
You need no discipline to flow in its mystery.

Nothing to be done.
No work.
No effort.

Nothing to learn.
Nothing to master.
Nothing to get right.

Nothing to be done.
Nothing.

Except to swim and slid and melt,
And be swept . . . away

Dhuni

A million dhunis from a thousand lifetimes
still smolder in my soul.
And the lord's ancient names still echo in the flames.

Softness

When softness seeps into all the tissues of your body,
and all the folds of your mind.

Then the flower you seek,
will begin to bloom.

The Sparrow

When brave Arjuna pulled his bow on the battlefield of Kuru-Kshetra,
his arrows flew straight and true.
He knew his duty and he knew no fear.
The song he heard was that of the sparrow, a gift from his charioteer.

When Jesus sipped that bitter cup in the garden at Gethsemane,
his final thought was not of self, of betrayal, or of the agony drawing near,
He thought at last of that sparrow he held so dear.

When Gandhi stood at the sea's edge, the roar of thousands at his back.
As he bent to scoop a palm of salt, defiance was his aim.
But he saw not salt, nor even sea, on that important day.
A little sparrow was all he knew, was all he had to say.

As the arc of your life rises then falls.
As you pass the seven ages of your days.
As you busily make the world a better place,
and yourself what you always longed to be.
As the swirl of great events paints the pattern of your stay.
Don't forget and don't neglect,
that quiet gift that shows the way.

This I that pulls me around,
like the ring in the nose of the plow-ox.

Dumb as an ox, ankle deep in mud, I haven't got a clue.

I can't see the ring, nor understand the pull.
I know only the weight of the plow-yoke on my shoulders,
and the furrow in front of my feet.

Dumb as an ox, ankle deep in mud.

The Ego Prayer

May the Breath of God stream through the core of my being,
finding no more resistance than a ghosttown breeze rattling
through an empty shack.

1000 Lifetimes

A thousand lifetimes of grief left my heart today-
A single touch sent it on its way.

The rickety structure seemed so solid-
But a simple touch blew it all away.

A thousand lifetimes of sorrow left my heart today.

The Path of Ease

There are many paths by which the traveler may arrive.

All paths are difficult, save one.

Surrender to the Teacher is the path of ease.

Surrender deeply to the Teacher's touch, and the path will reveal its gentle caress.

The Gun Under My Pillow (short version)

A dear and lovely friend confessed to me her fear,
of nameless terrors and city dreads,
of crazies in the dark.
Of rapes and ravages and the stranger's hand around her gentle throat.
Of babies bloodied in their sleep and everything profaned.

Escape she thought must be the key, so from the city flee.
But where to go must be the rub that made it all in vain.
And much supposed upon this view that much is so insane.

For if, I thought, it be true, as some have always claimed,
that God unfolds our raveled fate,
and God the story tells.
Then where to go and where to hide to escape our private hells.

And if God were our one true playwright then it becomes less pat,
less confident and clear,
that certain fates are to be embraced,
and others to be shunned.
The weasels that rip my flesh may be the right and proper ones.

But then why suppose and why affirm that fate will take such darkening turns.
If the universe is unfolding as it should then we have no grounds upon which to infer its course,
based upon the nightly news,
and the counsel of our fears.

To arm to the teeth against our plight, to lock and to guard,
presuppose a bitter faith,
a dour and lonely heart.
Whose guidance comes by what we think, and what we see,
and what we hear by ear.
Who reasons to conclusions firm,
on Aristotelian machines.
Who forgets that the only heart which knows is the heart that dreams.

I Wish I Wuz A Poet

I wish I wuz a poet, in love with words.
Not a philosopher, in love with only concepts.

Words are a form of music,
Concepts are only words.

Concepts dazzle,
sparkle on tip of tongue, gleam at point of pen,
flash and sizzle.
Sinking no deeper than the blue of eyes, rising no higher than
the brain's capped dome.

The poet knows of buried pleasures,
of passions and stirrings,
of mad intoxications,
of dark moist wombs of rest,
of earth and mystery.

The philosopher knows of fascinations.
The poet knows of life.

I wish I wuz a poet, in love with words.

Haiku

The traditional Japanese Haiku is restrained, delicate and precise.
The form demands three lines of 5, 7 and 5 syllables.
The form is hard to achieve, the quality harder still.

The Shiva Quintet
Golden Mist A golden mist rises Lotus petals caressed Unfolding their joy	Sweetness Sweetness pools at gate Watering new flowers clothed In saffron splendor
Tree of Life The inner garden Rain upon the tree of life Happiness blossoms	Upper Pass The field of the heart Watered with the mist of breath An upper pass opens
Thousand suns Yellow eagle soars Through white porthole in blue sky Realm of thousand suns

Dreaming Still

A tattered silk shawl
Faded matron dreaming still
Of her young brocade

Concrete Curbs

A weary concrete curb
Edges eaten round by time
Every thing crumbles

God Is A Drug

Tasting spoon sample
Deep chemistry slowly stirs
Inner junkie awakes

Mother's Smile

Hopeful hearts await
Brass bells ringing, ma ma ma
Holy mother's smile

What More?

Mind polished brass
Heart like bell on clear morning
What more is needed?

The Follies of Youth

I wrote these poems when I was very young. I can't think of any other excuse.

A Poem For You

"Will you write a poem for me?" you said

I often write poems for you,
when we are making love

Poems without words

Momentary poems of touch and glance

Soft and subtle and fleeting as breath

Woman

I long in some primitive place beyond all reconciling,
to know woman.

It moves, and squirms, and swarms, and seeps, without relent.

I long, if truth be told, to be lost in it.

to dissolve,
to disappear,
to be taken whole.

At first I thought it was that you and I were so close,
that we were mated of soul.

But it was none of that.

It was that you were so of woman,
alien and not-me in any way,
but so very much of that which I longed to know,
beyond all reconciling.

You hold it quiet and soft,
without show.
One has to feel for its presence,
and know what to look for.
But the instinct is strong,
that place knew and was drawn.
Though my mind took forever to catch up.

My body is filled with images of you,
residues of your flesh and spirit.

My thighs, the palms of my hands, my belly,
from time to time give forth an issue.
A memory,
an image of your nakedness,
a moment of our intimacy.
Flooding my eyes mind,
drenching my form with long-past longings.

I cannot recall, but I always recognize, your scents,
your signature in the subtle airs.
And your tastes.
And the vision of your wetness raining down your thighs.

The way you invite with your arms,
The way your legs murmur of earth,
The way you say "kiss me" with languid urgency.

Whispers of primal wisdoms.
You speak to me of longings found quiet,
of ancient lakes full of promise,
of disappearance,
of mists of knowing.

You showed me woman.
I have never recovered.

Your Song

Your body knows the music of my longing

Your touch whispering of woman
images from ancient dreams

Your face so new, but your touch so old

The musk of your presence
sex in the air
Lingering . . . in my linens

The way you play so,
the girlish delight you take in your
womanly delights

Your promiscuous enthusiasms
excite us both

Sometimes just to place my body
along yours
harmonizes
my whole being.
Everything quiets,
finds its home

Sometimes a quick embrace
and my heart gives up its sadness

Sometimes I die that little death
with such willing abandon

Sometimes your flesh sings to mine

Your body knows the music of my longing

Poet's Heart

My sentiments are those of the poet.

Sensual, luxuriant, romantic.

Caressing.

Desiring,
to be with woman to lose myself in her.
To linger at the folds of her sex.
To blur all boundaries.
To dance at the edge of form.

Such a mood is sometimes a disadvantage,
in a lover.
For a woman sometimes wants to be taken.
Made love to.
Rushed beyond in the push of a man's passion.

At such times we are wildly out of phase,
The moon and sun trying to mate.

At other times we are the breeze-kissed rose.
When the phase is right.
And my poet's heart shines.