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When Twilight Comes.
When twilight comes and consciousness sleeps in,
Age-old echoes from prehistoric times begin to hum
Ego’s cradle-song .. first with low, dark-brown
Cello tones which cause bone-marrow to tremble until
It flows, and then with high, glossy, unheard shrieks
Which can only be made by angels who mean to provoke.
In time, my uneven breathing becomes transformed
Into turquoise-colored waves which whip my oversensitive
Psychic fortress from sobriety, and near panic.
There are no guarantees that I am ready for the
Extraordinary gift that I am to be given:
A glimpse of existence in its unbelievable purity, which
Is so personal that I am forced to grab onto
My earthly reality and smash the perfection
Into countless, cloudy bits of mirror which rain lightly
Upon my consciousness. I awaken sweaty, but not
Completely empty-handed .. and I am not the person
I once had been.
Nocturnal Journey.
In the twenty-fifth hour,
As sleeplessness concedes
To Jungian twilight,
The inviolate ticking
Of the bedside clock
Betrays consciousness
With sinister rhythm.
It is a requiem of
Abandonment, whereby
Unprotected souls are
Magically ushered to the
Threshold of time’s end.
Clockhands melt into
Surreal images of groping,
Disembodied appendages which
Pull me down into the
Infernal swirling oblivion.
I seem to fall forever;
Plummeting past floating
Sandstone ruins, through
Prehistoric jungles and
At last into a vast galaxy
Of translucent emerald shards.
The heartbeats of innumerable
Still-terrified predecessors
Urge me to scream before
Striking bottom, and I
Awaken in panic: grasping
For the luminous dial
Of my unwitting timepiece.
Retrospective.
Over the decades,
Endings muted into beginnings
Like swirls of blue-grey smoke
Creeping toward alabaster palaces
In primordial consciousness.
There, in the garden of creativity,
The ashes of one zillion charred
Impulses rained heavily upon
Furrows of expectation,
Cultivating dreams with experience.
Mirror of Darkness.
Quite enraptured by my own image
In a mirror of Darkness,
I abandon both reflection and shadow
For a glimpse of the Unknown.
The night offers no refraction other than
The glint of an inner eye:
Yea, the paradox of Blindness is revealed
Through discovery of Self alone.
Mushroompicking in the Kingdom.
Barefoot, I stumble through
The forest of the kingdom
Without a hint of
Either understanding
Or danger.
I am on a treasure hunt,
And looking for the mushroom's
Hidden secrets -- much
As a naive child
In the age of fantasy.
Every now and then my
Beauty sleep is
Disturbed by nature's stillness,
Which brings forth the
subconsciousness'
Agitating and enchanting
Images from places without
Time or name.
Behind a fern from
The era of dinosaurs, and out from
Under a moss-covered rock,
Peers the most beautiful mushroom I
Have ever seen,
With a broad red surface
Speckled with gold.
I extend my arm
Toward the precious find
And pause just
As I am about
To touch it.
The rock has begun to glow
Like an emerald:
First with the quiet
Intensity of
Red hot coal, and
Then with the overwhelming
Light of God's eternal love
And mercy,
Mirrored in a trillion smiles.
At that instant I rise
Out of my body, and
My chakras line up
Perfectly while
I look down at myself and
The totality of
Human existence from
Far above.
And in the perfect harmony
I re-experience life
As in the heavenly periods
In between earthly incarnations,
And all of my daily worries
And obstacles seem just as
Dreamlike and insignificant
As a midsummer's daydream.
I never fully return back
To the consciousness that
I once knew,
But retain a small
Portion of the glow that
Has now touched my heart
In such a wonderful way.
In my backpack I carry home
Not a single mushroom, but truly the
Most sought after treasure from
The forest of the kingdom:
Certainly, a simple rock --
As a souvenir from
Life's journey of dreams.
(Image: ”Singapore Night”, oil painting by Adam Donaldson Powell)
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