esta caballero

Pin Pun – Lapiz Conciente

https://www.youtube.com/embed/nAC_nbHjtEg?feature=player_embedded
THE CHORUS.
When I walk home.  Whoever is walking behind me.

Will always be able to tell when the bass kicks in.

DANNNG tonight, after all the dopamine from four hours of hardcore exercise, I was literally dancing my way home.  So happy.

_________________________________________________________________________

What we speak
becomes the house
we live in.
Who will want
to sleep in your bed
if the roof leaks
right above it?

Fear is the

cheapest room
in the house,
I would like
to see you living
in better conditions.

There is only one reason

we have followed God
into this world:
to encourage laughter,
freedom,
dance and love ….

God and I are rushing

from every corner of
existence,
needing to say
we are yours.

The sun never says

to the earth,
even after all this time
“you owe me”.

I once asked a bird

how is it that you
fly in this gravity
of darkness?
she responded,
love lifts me.

I should not make

any promises right now
but I know if you pray
somewhere in this world
something good
will happen.

–Hafiz
 

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galaxies scattered around their feet

there are so many things I can’t wait to introduce to my eventual-kid(s).  Rumi.  Bollywood dancing.  Bachata.  BOOKS!  Spring after winter…. Snow! Sledding! Swimming!  I can’t imagine being that young… where everything is new.

The Music We Are

Did you hear that winter is over?
The basil and carnation cannot control their laughter.

The nightingale, back from his wandering,
has been made singing master over all the birds.
The trees reach out their congratulations.

The soul goes dancing through the king’s doorway.
Anemones blush because they have seen the rose naked.

Spring, the only fair judge, walks in the courtroom,
and several December thieves steal away.

Last year’s miracles will soon be forgotten.
New creatures whirl in from nonexistence,
galaxies scattered around their feet.

Have you met them?
Do you hear the bud of Jesus crooning in the cradle?

A single narcissus flower has been appointed
Inspector of Kingdoms.  A feast is set.
Listen. The wind is pouring wine.

Love used to hide inside images. No more.
The orchard hangs out its lanterns.

The dead come stumbling by in shrouds.
 Nothing can stay bound or be imprisoned.

You say, End this poem here, and wait for what is next.
I will.  Poems are rough notations for the music we are.

Rumi

Stay Shook.

Recently finished reading “Saints and Madmen” by Russell Shorto.

Basically asks the question, why is something considered a mystical spiritual experience in some places…. and a psychotic episode in America / the Western world ? (and how do we change that?)

Very very interesting.  Apparently there was a revolution to look at psychiatry through a more spiritual lens at one time, but I gotta tell you when I was in the hospital that was CERTAINLY not the case. 

Also the book delves into the topic of psychedelic drugs as well.

Always find myself thinking of Rumi, when it comes to madness as a religious experience.  Here is one for you.

Shreds of Steam

 Light again, and the one who brings light.
Change the way you live.

From the ocean-vat, wine-fire in each cup.
Two or three of the long-dead wake up.
Two or three drunks become lion hunters.

Sunlight washes a dark face.
The flower of what is true opens in the face.
Meadow grass and garden ground grow damp again.
A strong light like fingers massages our heads.
No dividing these fingers from those.

Draw back the lockbolt.
One level flows into another.
Heat seeps into everything.
The passionate pots boil.
Clothing tears inot the air.
Poets fume shreds of steam,
never so happy as out in the light.