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Tag Archives: Personal Prayer

Note Found On The Refrigerator Spring 2019 [and its Source]

“Go to the workshop where the universe was made, and see the Worker. But since the work has become a veil between you and the Worker, you can only see Him in His work. And since the workshop is His dwelling place, those on the outside cannot see Him. So enter the workshop — that is, non-existence — and see the work and the Worker together.”

MASNAVI II:759-62

JALAL AL-DIN Rumi

Pilgrim!
Hear Ye! Hear Ye!

Not all Princesses, can become Queens!

Not all Princes, can become Kings!

The gates of this Royal courtyard?

Only Nobles can come through,

regardless of origin,

for this castle to rule.

 

     Entrance may require everything and anything; bare feet, socks in sandals, just socks, wing-tipped shoes, polished with sheen, or anyone with a broken high-heel. All who are benevolent, where history is irrelevant, and find the moment is only a scene, may carry themselves through the gate that is without a latch or a key  .

Princes and princesses are born

from the same seed —free.

Independent of royalty,

they come to sit at the table

without dismissing similarities.

 

      Rising in fragrance through the courtyard, children arrive from the womb with porridge and cream. A meal fit for a king and queen.

      Outside the courtyard, some arrive at the gate incoherent and confused, having to learn to stop jumping in place and wait until the wings of Common Spirit carries them silently through.

      A kingdom awaits you here. The courtyard gate is the passage through —where you are bound to find your castle; where dreams are a story or two and where children are taught about their wings that once carried you, through.

Hear Ye! Hear Ye!

 

 

   Little Pond Legends… R. K. Garon [ZQ Draft 2]

 

 
16 Comments

Posted by on April 15, 2019 in Children, Life, Love, Prose Poetry, Spiritual, Zen

 

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A Pilgrim’s Egress In A Hundred Words

One leg dragging, the other —behind bended knee

I reverently balance. Wavering from doubt,

I fall prostrate, head on the ground…

Toes need a shoeshine.

I pay homage in acknowledgment, in humility;

Everything is greater than I am.

 

Womb of essence; ignition of light to life,

Great Lover in wisdom and without gender—

Give me a Faith free of guilt

 Through this chaos of doubt.

 Plume my wings

In my ascent. Unravel my bondage

From this self

In transgression.

The moon waxing,

Reveals an awakening without history.

 

Greetings soul! Spirit and spark of truth!

      Oh, transition in created to creator.

 

1st. draft posted 2014

Rev. 2016

 
16 Comments

Posted by on November 26, 2016 in Advent, Beginnings, Poetry, Spiritual, Zen

 

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On the trail to ZoralinQ:


The Merchant and the Gypsy

Oh my God, open my heart so I can see

So that my mind can soul the truth, I know.

 

Let me resonate the Love that chimes the light

into life and silences darkness by showing me the moon.

 

I have no lamb to sacrifice nor special gift to wrap.

Let dusk welcome me with the fruits of my day

Let me sleep at Your feet knowing You

and who I am; inseparable through Love.

 

Awaken me from the shelter of my self

with the vibration that transcends’ my own sound

abundantly impoverished in these words.

 

A merchant and a Gypsy came dancing through euphoria.

Skipping, banging cymbals thumped and jingled

to the beating of a racing heart.

 

They skittered here and there,

forwards and backwards,

sliding sideways and all about.

 

The gypsy with ringing bells

from dangling strings of magic beads

had clipped on her hip, in a loop on her belt,

my image

on a well-stretched tambourine.

 

The merchant moved with confidence,

assurance in his gait;

with a smile so well advertised,

it overlapped distinction

and recognition

of a very familiar face.

 

silencing the bells, with permission of the Gypsy

he displayed a wooden pony, which “he had to sell.”

 

“Rode through heaven and hell; to promises of fulfillment!”

for this moments “Special”.

Winking with sincerity and honesty,

stroking the slightly scorched metallic paint.

   

with the sweep of his hand and a nod to the Gypsy

came a thumping sound and the resuming of the bells.

 

Clouding dandelion puffs, pumpkins, and snowballs,

not to mention the “no vacancy sign” in my head,

popped the Gypsy in my face

but at a distant with quite a lot of space.

 

One arm outstretched rattling her un-clipped tambourine,

painted face playfully disguising her many races

of father, mother, birch, oak, eagle, dove, worm,

excetra, excetra.

flashing images of gala fantasies,

in unimagined mysteries of blended colors

rode the quivering wake of her tambourine.

 

Mind painted galleries stretched from history

 and pulled from the future to the present.

Music, pottery, healing herbs,

seeds, grain, sand, and necessities;

all found in the scratches

beneath the merchants’, shiny thing.

 

Starting from her toes to her nose she shook and rattled

erasing the image on her tambourine.

 

Things started falling out of her pockets

Treasures found on her path; those discarded and forgotten.

fallen through the holes in my pockets.

 

She was willing to exchange, with me,

these common things;

for things hoarded from the merchant,

not knowing, that I still keep.

 

He, the merchant, still quite involved,

knowing the value of my inventory,

smiling, completely disagreed to oversee.

 

Poof!

There they were!

Gone!

Their campfire was as bright as the moon that framed them.

I watch the sparks of their fire being poked,

blinking with bright sparkle into a glowing sky;

lifting light from gold to silver to ember and back into dark.

In an eyelid blink

bowing in such graceful arks,

the merchant and the gypsy, exited with my mind.

As the curtain of decision and indecision lowered

I saw the wick of infinity

in the hands of my soul’s standing applause.

The Night Before Breakfast: An Outlaw Journal    Chapter III Pine Cone Diaries   

 
8 Comments

Posted by on February 16, 2014 in Beginnings, Love, Philosophy, Pine Cone Diaries, Poetry, prose, religion, Zen

 

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