BACKWARD THROUGH SPACETIME
In the long, long ago before there was spacetime…
In the closeness of the Here & Now,
Weaving through this rhyme-time-life called reality,
There exists a Word so pure, that
None can speak IT. A flow so sure, that
All souls seek IT. The Word is… Allah-HU!
All souls seek IT. This life-giving force,
No one can speak IT.
This primal eternal Word,
Weaving through this rhyme-time-life called reality,
Through the Hereness of Now,
Before spacetime was, IT IS!
A SACRED BREEZE
A Sacred Breeze blows deep across
The edge of silent sleep and
Slips behind my mind.
To what
uncharted sea
Do you
carry me
On
this swirling ship?
“BEYOND ETERNITY,” whispers the Breeze,
To
unlimited Truth
That lies
unhidden
To naked
eyes
To the
Great Beyond
That
remains forbidden
To
clung-to lies.
Sacred Breeze that blows deep
Across these ancient ruins of time
And lifts these veils to see
To what endless universe
Do you
carry me
On this
distant trip?
“BEYOND ETERNITY,” whispers the Breeze,
Just be still and know I AM.
SIDETRACKED
I fell through a crack in this world
On my way somewhere else,
And in the meantime
Forgot to climb back through.
Caught up in a spiral of spacetime
This place of pain and pleasure,
By some quirk of fate or fancy
Appears to be reality.
No distance too small
Nor infinity so great to measure,
I take it in at my leisure
As it swirls around me.
If by chance or design
I should ever find that crack again,
Without a doubt I would step back out
And free myself from this hideous coil.
CHERRY BLOSSOM FALLS
A cherry blossom falls from the sky,
Floating downward, nearly lands
Ever so softly, kisses the ground.
A cherry tree grows there,
Green and sturdy, small buds reaching upward
To the sunlight, blossoms full in crimson array
Of velvet softness, amber sunsets,
Golden sunrises,
A cherry blossom falls from the sky.
ECHOES IN THE VOID
The Poet’s eye is one that sees
Beyond the veil of the
Illusion of Life,
And reports back to humanity
What it has seen.
The Poet must be both mystic & pragmatist.
The Poet’s message should be ambiguous
And direct at the same time, like
The fragrance of a rose that lingers
Awhile. Though the rose is not seen,
It conjures up the image of a rose.
There should be no doubt what is meant
By the Poet’s words, and yet,
There should be an air of mystery,
As if some gemstone were still
Hidden within the lines.
Ben Douglass has been writing poems and short stories since his twenty-first birthday. The poems presented here are the result of his spiritual journey during the turbulent 1970’s. In 2014 he released a brief memoir, Confession of a Former Zombie. In 2017 he released his novella, This Ain’t the Waldorf Astoria, Honey! Most recently, in 2020, he released a collection of poetry about the Great Mojave Desert called, Beneath the Surface. The author currently lives with his partner, Ave Marie, five cats and two dogs, in the Concordia neighborhood of Northeast, Portland, Oregon. Mr. Douglass has held a wide variety of jobs during his life: tannery worker, health food store clerk, crisis line worker, social service worker, and most recently, grocery story worker. He is now retired.
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