First Day of Autumn

Mushroom scent of Goddess on the first Fall afternoon; rhyme of the happening apple, worm and all; sky within the sky, cloudless, blue, infinity self-evident; gift of the world to itself, unnoticed... In this ashram with spider-web windows and no roof, there's only one rule: don't fall asleep. Tomorrow will be even more wonderful. Virgo gives birth to Jupiter. Have a blessed Autumn!

Elder Song

For the first day of Autumn...

Older now,
I travel the stem,
sink seedward,
returning to sap,
then explode into scarlet petals of death,
the ones you see on the last rose in your garden.

I am the musk of eldering wine 
scented from the two oak barrels in your heart.
I am the worn letters of blood
on your stone tablets of breathing.
I make medicine drip from the berry
in your pineal gland.
It runs down a string of pearls
into the place your songs come from.
What kisses happen in the jasmine pistil
of your hypothalamus?
I have felt them.
They set off thunder under your breast bone.

I know what the sounds of unseen wings
in your lungs mean,
and how often stars make wishes on your fingertips.
I hear the chime of darkness, translate it
into your eyes as sunrise.
I smell what inebriates the midnight wind
that rummages through the garden in your hips.

If you knew what I know, which is only one
very small thing, like a black worm
in a bright apple, yet more succulent
than the knowledge of philosophers,
you would keep your tongue naked
and wordless for the taste of the next inhalation.
You would surely understand that though
the journey seems long, when you walk
slowly with the Truth,
you polish the earth, each step
the planting of a rainbow.

Remove your graduation gown,
your belt, your socks and underwear,
your memory, your name.
Now enter the forest, glistening,
slow-reeling through rings of mushrooms.
Don't do it in this poem,
do it tonight in the real forest.
If you don't have a wild place nearby,
you are living in the wrong world.

To dance alone in the exposure of old trees,
bare feet dew-stung, ankles
gathering spider silk and threads
of tomorrow's morning glory,
may be the one solution to many problems
we have not yet tried.

Now let the golden moon make honey
of your silence.
When you return, don't tell.


Rummaging through my mind, I couldn't find any past, or future, or now. So I concluded that past, present, and future are all a dream. This very inquiry woke me up.

Then I looked at the shining blue sky, and the shining blue sky was looking at me: mirror-like vastness gazing into itself, beginning-less, boundless, ever-expanding.

This infinite gaze into Itself is all there ever is. This gaze vibrates as Love. And this vibrant loving gaze beholds itself in the hollow of each nutrino, each atom, each cell, each breath, each flower, each sun, each galaxy.

The shimmer of consciousness celebrates the ecstasy of formlessness in the form of you and me, waking again and again to its own Beauty, which is the substance of all matter and energy, the first cause of creation, and the final goal.

Look into the petal of the last Autumn rose, look into the burst of a supernova, look into the eye of the refugee child who seeks a new home: you will see one invitation to love, fall, fall in love, fall deeply into who you are...

Merely to awake is why we are here.