Old Songs

These old songs I want to remember are an ancient doorway - an entrance to life's house where melody keys are a puzzle and perfect repetition illuminates the unlocked rooms of the mind. In ritual chant, a flood of consciousness flows almost seamlessly into the darkened corridors of the forgotten and unconscious; music is the soul's keyhole to insight. Spirit deftly sings through these songs - they're the spellings of life become animated, where swirling galaxies become the soup of seas and the backbones of DNA made spines that uphold on strings the world we get to see by dreams. Here, the incense smoke of life's flame is rippled by the breath of wind from the lips of shamans living in the eyes of animals who stalk these wild moments. These liminal moments when we sit in prayer, in trance singing the elder's songs, channeling the alchemical wisdom of ages. These songs that weave the patterned fabric that covers the hearts of every human, like a quilt. You'll hear this patterned fabric if you remember - so remember, this is where we're from! The songs that grandma sings & babies cry, that dolphins make and insects create with legs on wings, that runs the symphonies of forests and makes blaring in the silence of deserts. These songs are played in rush of blood through your own ears, almost hidden, but listen! The primordial beat of something we almost forgot; these old songs, I want to remember.

photo: rock man.



Can you only know immense suffering
 after it touches personally?
Will compassion only be skin deep 
until the mortars break apart everything you´ve known?
Who builds the walls between "us" and "them"? 

A wall is a division.

On windy nights, my cheeks touched with the freezing frosts of horror,

I am left stumbling and gasping at endless hate
Still warm to life’s goodwill, though growing cold by the second, and though my own hate cools, too,

I try to catch what life remains with peace throbbing through veins.

Is it true The Wall Will Fall? Whose wall?

I wonder when will bullets echo, and finally shatter into emptiness,

ceasing, and no longer hitting human shields carried as hardened human emotions.
What crumbles in the softness of tears?

Vulnerability is a human thing.
Every pool of blood,

it laps at eyes and hands and feet,
but festers only in those who swear it isn't theirs.

Buddha said breathe it in:
every scream, and fear and pain, 

every ache and sob and shudder -
 every mortar, every dead child.
all of this is ours to breathe in and out, released beyond the borders and walls of experience.

For each of us have these walls insde.
 Each constructed by every division.
And renewed we will be, to go past these walls in ignorance laid, past the headless graves, 
where concrete turns soil. Here flowers grow again 
despite what they know -
 despite what they saw.  Between the hard places and the soft. Heart.

We don't have to try to heal the pain from these walls. The pain is too great, too deep in our viens.
But Listen! What throbs! Memory touches deep into our cells.

Life enduring through every imprisonment, every death and every ricocheted dream.

Because oh! how our hearts keep persisting. Know we could be free. If the wall falls. 

All walls are just as high. 

(image: banksy, 2005)



Poised between Heaven & Earth is life.
Humanity – pulsing like a heart at the hearth –
the sternum cage holding us in breath.
There is a better way than what we think we lack,
a way of being in service to that which we belong to.
Here, in the centre of all we know, of all we are.
Knowledge originates from a verb – honour & doing -

An inner explosion of Awareness to follow the journey, weaving
In & Out: a thread that joins together all frames of perception & experience.
The Compass, and a Sense of Purpose are tools from within.

Humour of sweetness; Sword of Precision; Map of Mindfulness;
and Honed practice of listening to what draws us here, 
into the enormity of Heaven on Earth,
where we stand or sit or lay.
Our Mother is holding every story
of why our compass points towards reconnection with the web 
we only thought we were no longer part of.

Never Separate - only in various states of re-membering this state; embodiment,
poised in life between Heaven and Earth.

(photo: Samborek)