The Wholesome Alliance

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The Wholesome Alliance

 

"We are all in a house of mirrors.

Always take a second and a third glance."

--Kuma-sensei


JOGGING THE MEMORY

Some will see these words

and they will be nothing more than passing birds.

Fortune cookie nonsense.

A distraction.

A nomenclature that doesn't light up the cells or the bones.

 

No harm, no foul. 

We'll see you on the other side.

 

Others will hear these words leap off the screen

and there'll be a resonance

like an old familiar fragrance

that reminds them of that place

where we once all felt at home.

 

Maybe this is a funeral.

Yours, mine.

 

Maybe it's a feast.

I'm hungry for something real; aren't you? 

 

Maybe this poem is an angel arriving on the scene.

A guide.

A bodhisattva.

A well-meaning soul, 

confused by the grasping chaos of the world,

who just found the trailhead

that leads out of it.

 

Whatever, and however, and whenever...

the words stitched here are woven from a pulsing thread.

That thread ran through the sun and the moon

and your grandmother's hands

as she held your tender form

in your early days of being here.

 

You see:

Whatever the labels and connections,

whatever relational bonds were

or were not

'in place' upon your arrival,

something

has been pulling for you

since the beginning,...

 

...and I

was asked, 

quite clearly,

to remind you of that tonight.

 

MOVEMENT AS RECLAMATION

It's not going to manifest from just sitting there.

Sitting has its place.

Morning.

Early-Evening.

Mid-Day.

Sit like a mountain.

 

But there's quite an ancient fractal memory

that has taken up residence inside your bones

and the only way its secrets will be released to you

is if you

get up

and move.


(c) 2018 / Frank LaRue Owen (Wandering Stone Lantern) / purelandpoetry.com

sound: top: Nangoku / Mist / Chihei Hatakeyama

sound: bottom: Future Tribe / The Serpent's Lair / Steve Roach + Byron Metcalf

 

 

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.:. imbibe .:.

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.:. imbibe .:.

SOMA

You and I are not a body.

Though most of us treat these sacred garments like second-hand robes,

they are each a holy temple that will go the way of ash and bones.

You and I are not a body.

We are a heart-mind-river instead.

We journeyed here from ancient times

and enter The Great River in the end.

 

MOUNTAIN-DANCING

Last night,

I heard

the moving arc

of the stars again.

I'd forgotten how their song can be a trustworthy companion

if we listen closely enough.

 

I gazed into the cicada-blessed darkness,

as a ringing in my ears spoke of unspoken truths.

The Rain-Callers chirped their precious refrain

as the spirit of the trees reminded me all over again;

a silent contentment awaits

when we remember our place

in the great weave of the ten-thousand things.

 

GETTING BACK TO SQUARE ONE

Guard well the heart-mind-river in these times.

Take back up the old peace-tending practice:

quiet-breathing by candlelight.

Step into autumn's inner work:

a deep study of the difference

between pretending, and tending a life.

 

In the school of soft-attention,

we ask questions of ourselves

in the morning, and the night.

 

Where is this heart-mind-river meant to flow?

What or whom is blocking where and how it is meant to go?

How am I sabotaging a clear-seeing of what the soul is trying to show?

 

THE NIGHT WE DRANK FROM THE INVISIBLE CUP

The Great Eye

of the Heart-Mind-River

sees all things.

 

But,...

you

already

knew

that,

didn't you?


(c) 2018 / Frank LaRue Owen (Wandering Stone Lantern) / purelandpoetry.com

sound: Kali / Yearning / Robert Rich and Lisa Moskow

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Down : Back Up Again

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Down : Back Up Again

Pulsing Shards On the Way Down

All of us have to travel down.

Travel.

Down.

Downward to the Place of True-Seeing.

 

The place where we pull the film from our eyes

and remove the thick barrier

placed over the Heart-Eye by pain.

 

Some wily mountain-Buddhist types

speak of how rare a human birth is.

 

The image:

Suppose this great earth were totally covered by water

and a hand-sized wooden hoop floated on the surface of the ocean.

A blind sea turtle, who travels down and up, down and up,

comes to the surface once every hundred years

and sticks his neck into that ring.

This is how rare and precious a human birth is.

 

Arriving here in a body was the easy part.

Actual birth-within-a-life,

if it happens at all,

happens much later on.


Spinning Fractal Dream Snapshots On the Way Back Up

I can't help but wonder

if in the moment

when the last drop is poured

we'll be able to say

"We were actually here."


After a Night of Golden Nectar

"In the end, isn't it the case,

all we really want to be able to say

is our life was something of a work of art."

--Kuma-sensei


(c) 2018 / Frank LaRue Owen / purelandpoetry.com

sound: Tiruvinamalai / The Landing Zone / Ujjaya

 

 

 

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.:. Holograph .:.

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.:. Holograph .:.

Tendrils loosened yesterday.

For some, invisible chains dropped away.

For others, self-definitions tightly-wound,

rigid forms that have been nailed to the ground,

were disintegrated by the gentlest breeze of renewal.

 

Through a luminous coaxing of a sort,

we've entered a new drift on a Great Tide.

The heaviness of the Dense Body has been lightened.

The fierce hooked-in compression of the Desire Body has been loosened.

The thirst of the Peace-Seeking Body has received unspoken permission

to look for deeper wells and farther-reaching tributaries of nourishment.

 

In my own encampment,

I feel the Triune Body Within the Body

being pulled by forces I cannot see.

A Three-Fold Waking is perfectly reflected within each.

 

Waking; as if opening eyes after a long sleep.

Waking; like the Irish 'joking men'

who come in after a funeral's keening women

to move everyone along from mourning to celebration.

Waking; like a small boat

pulled in along behind

a moon disappearing over the horizon. 


"Holograph" / from an evolving collection entitled Alightenment: Dispatches on The Way

(c) 2018 / Frank LaRue Owen (Wandering Stone Lantern) / purelandpoetry.com

sound: We Continue / Spiral Revelation / Steve Roach

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.:. Third Vesper .:.

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.:. Third Vesper .:.

Peering Through the Veil

Last night, you and I were walking

in the brightening air of evening

overlooking the blue-green sea.

 

The hiss of the incoming surf soothed us

from the shock of "normal" living, such as it is.

 

We laid down in the crook of a meadow

and talked of dreams and stars,

and maple leaves that look like stars

fallen to the path beneath our feet.

 

Your face kept changing. 

So did mine, so you said.

And then I saw it.

The hidden gold just beneath the surface of things

laying dormant like honey-in-wait;

the frozen amber of the infinite

containing all the stories, poems, and songs

that haven't been released yet

into our shared movement, mind, and breathing.


Love Is Not Enough

Some old romantic flower-toting part of me,

that I probably inherited from a grandmother along the way,

didn't want to believe it when I first heard the turn of phrase.

Love is not enough

 

I recoiled.

I may have even retched.

It up-ended something in me,

for I had shown up with my heart on my sleeve.

 

"What darkness-ladened audaciousness is this offense!?"

A woman I'd fallen for once

had the gumption to posit such a salt-in-wound theorem as this.

Love is not enough.

 

I wasn't really 'seen' by her.

[Are we ever?]

I didn't really see or know her either.

[I've since revoked my travel visa to the Land of Blindspots and Wishful Thinking]

 

And so, after nearly traversing the gauntlet of five decades,

I now have to agree.

Love is not enough.

Love is not enough. 

 

Love is not enough if, by 'love,' we mean possessiveness.

Love is not enough if, by 'love,' we mean trying to nail down another's ever-changing soul.

Love is not enough if, by 'love,' we mean someone trying to corral our spirit

or hammer us into a shape like an object to sit on a shelf.

Love is not enough if, by 'love,' one means:

'You are the outer image of my exiled inner lover. Play your part, or else.'

Love is not enough.

Love will not be enough.

 

If, however, we have flung open the shudders

and let the light back in.

If we've thrown prayers and salt into the corners of our 'house'

and chased out all of the ghosts and other unwanted tenants.

If we've finally Sourced ourselves in The Source,

a force so vast it encompasses everyone and everything else,

then Love will be enough.

Love will be enough, for nothing and no one stands outside of it;

and what once was a desperate prospect

of trying to be healed or quenched from the outside-in

becomes an inside job.

Then, and only then, will love be enough.

And from the inside-out

love becomes communion.


(c) 2018 / Frank LaRue Owen (Wandering Stone Lantern) / purelandpoetry.com

sound: The Ghost In Me / Wanderlust / Terra Ambient (Jeff Kowal)

--in memoriam: dedicated to the life journey and creative journey of the late Jeff Kowal (Terra Ambient), a good-hearted bruddah and talented composer, whom we lost to pancreatic cancer in 2016. Also dedicated to the love journey of Jeff and Caitalyn...whose love was more than enough. 

 

 

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Transit .:. Having Crossed

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Transit .:. Having Crossed

.:.

A door opens. 

A landscape appears.

You're only allowed to bring one thing with you;

that which you've cultivated within.

 

What travels with you, Traveler?

What do you carry with you on the road ahead?

From where did you come?

Where will you go?

 

- questions from a traveler, dream snippet #372 -

.:.

 


Having crossed, 

the mirror-like scales holding indentations

memory-impressions

fall away.

 

Past perception.

Self-conception.

Even nostalgia is left behind 

where water meets the shore.

 

True;

nothing holy

ever truly leaves us completely. 

But today, the Blood Moon

grants a full transfusion of the rest.

 

Iron and steel

from our melted down swords

flows through our veins now

and a fresh suit of armor is placed upon our form.

 

Tempered in Fudo's fire,

the ancient vest is made to last ten thousand years.

Glowing yet invisible to the naked eye,

the only ones that will take notice of it

are those who can see garments of woven light,

or those who notice

you aren't carrying around any useless weight anymore.


"Transit .:. Having Crossed" / from Alightenment: New Dispatches from The Way

(c) 2018 / Frank LaRue Owen (Wandering Stone Lantern) / purelandpoetry.com

sound: Edge of the Infinite / Particle Horizon / Ascendant

Liner Notes:

Fudo: Fudo Myo-o is a protector deity in Mikkyo (Shingon Esoteric Buddhism) and Shugendo. In his left hand, he holds a rope for catching and binding demons. In his right hand, he holds a devil-subduing sword (representing wisdom cutting through ignorance).

 

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