“Soft Politics”
I don’t want to have to share my thoughts
with crude politicians and priests —
the world’s disgrace.
Cold, dry words
coming from their tense mouths
have nothing on my unending silence of being,
so allowing of love,
so allowing of peace,
so allowing of bare skin to skin.
I’ve always known in my gut
— always —
that their policies are dishonest,
full of carefully thought-out strategy,
inhibiting any creative force,
any flicker,
any spark,
from springing through the cracks
of their pointless defenses,
saturated in man-made grandeur.
And I know by heart —
I know it in my blood —
that the violence they scatter
is nothing like the tender kiss
or the soft-spoken poem
from my warm, wet mouth
on a hot summer’s day,
lying next to lovers,
lying next to friends,
all in our mother nature’s nurturing embrace of life.
Overwhelming with violets,
roses,
and vine;
a lush garden so oversized
that even Eden
would be ashamed of blooming.
Truthfully,
they cannot be part of that garden
because they have forgotten their true nature;
their grey masks ache
to be cracked in half
and left behind…
Still,
still,
still they don’t realize
that nature is rich and maximal,
fearless in her oh-so-ordinary extremeness
rather than minimalistic,
plain,
or timid.
She is never ashamed — never —
of her powerful creativity
which springs forth
with such self-pleasure and fullness
it’s almost erotic in hue.
Her all-encompassing colors
dashingly reflecting
even to the blind.
We are the apple of God’s eye.
I don’t really consider myself spiritually awakened,
but whatever a spirit is,
mine would be earthy,
mine would be mindful.
For that reason,
to anyone who tries to blind me,
take a message back from me:
You can demand it,
but I won’t ever surrender my soft thoughts
for different ones…
And should you discover a desire —
a deep desire —
for pure remembrance nevertheless,
go to nature.
Go to uncover our new world.
You’ll recognize our tribe
only if you focus
with a softer kind of gaze,
right where the sunlight
meets the pond of the waterfall.
Where each moment
fleets away from you with grace,
we are there.
Where snowflakes
smirk back at you
in impossible technicolor,
we are there.
On every edge
of every cliff we can find,
we dance —
oh, we dance —
with a most maddening rhythm.
A silent sobriety
is ready to engulf you —
surrender to the dance.
Our poetry in motion
is so urgent,
so urgent
and inviting.
Join us;
is it by choice
or compulsion?
Or are you in the in-between realm?
Do you think one day
you’ll be able to tell
whether you’re outside
and far away from it
or right inside it?
In any case,
this is the place,
the only place,
where the choices
made from your free will
will decide your soul’s final fate.
Right here,
and right now,
a moment can easily feel
like eternity.
No absurd policy can exist here.
No oppressive religion
for that matter.
So by choice,
I took a dance
on the edge
with you —
just to remind you.
And to be honest,
I’d happily do it again.
Again.
Again.
Anything
to remind myself again.