Sunday Services

I went to spiritual services at the Baha’i Center in Las Vegas today. I think I’ve written a poem earlier in this blog about Sunday Service or the local Baha‘i Choir. Today’s theme was virtues.

I never get tired of listening to the local Baha’i Choir. The Choir is made up of Baha’is from all over the Las Vegas area. It is a wonderful experience listening to the choir. I grew up listening to spiritual music. When I was a child I loved to listen to the Baptist Choir sing in the Mission in Blackwell, Oklahoma. My grandmother never missed a church service unless she was sick. I still like to listen to gospel music. In fact I enjoy listening to all types of religious and spiritual music. It is through music and poetry that I feel the presence of the Holy Spirit - the spirit of God.

Anyway today’s entry is about music rather than simply spiritual or mystic poetry. The reading from the sacred writings speak to the human soul in one way, while the music speaks to the spirit (soul) in another. I always enjoy going to a spiritual service with music. In fact that is part of my definition for a spiritual service, i.e. one that includes music of some type. I don’t think the music necessarily has to be religious or spiritual songs and music. The music can include different instruments such as the harp or flute. The music can be written by Brahms or Beethoven, it can be a person singing without accompanying music, but (at least for me) a spiritual service must include music and or singing. It just doesn’t seem like a spiritual service without it.

(11 Sultan 162 B.E.)

Spiritual Poetry

NOTE: These are my rambling thoughts on spiritual poetry.

Spiritual Poetry

Spiritual poetry is the essence of the soul. It is the written record of the seeker’s search for truth. It is the joy of God’s love reflected through the human mind. It is the record of the seeker’s transformation into lover. It is the lover’s song written in the language of matter. It is the soul desire inscribed on the mirror of the human soul.

Spiritual poetry is the sacred scriptures of humanity. It is the fragrance of the rose inhaled by the lover’s spirit. It is the matter’s poison ingested and transformed into the spirit’s nutrition. It is the over coming of doubt and the mystic dancing in the market place. It is the wind in an olive tree the sun rising above a snow capped peak.

Spiritual poetry is the mystic’s testimony to humanity. It is the soul seeking the valleys of faith. The mystic travels through seven valleys to reach fulfillment. The first valley is search where the mystic seeks the beloved. This is the beginning the search begins the mystic’s quest. From the valley of search the mystic goes into the valley of love.

Spiritual poetry is the mystics patience and the mystics pain. It is the mystics expression of search, the lover’s expression of love. Spiritual poetry becomes mystic poetry as the seeker, the mystic and the lover travels the valleys. From valley to valley the journey moves through valleys and across mountains. The traveler moves, the wonder roams, the lover, the mystic and the seeker always search for that which is just beyond. A trace is found and a poem is written. Then the lover moves on, the Beloved is always somewhere and the lover finds a trice writes a poem and moves on.

Matter, the body holds the essence on the material plane. Something happens during the seeker’s life and she (or he) realizes there is more. Realizes that matter and money and material objects do not hold the key to true life. The search begins, the soul its wings covered with the mud of matter tries to ascend, but is pulled back. Still the attempt is made and then the soul begins looking for a way to clean its wings. Prayer, meditation and the sacred scriptures. The journey never ends the seeker becomes the lover the lover becomes the mystic. Life moves to the curtain of death (or what is called death because the soul is eternal).

The lover catches sight of the Beloved and writes a poem. The lover travels through the valleys writing the journey in the ink of transformation. The Beloved is closer the lover then the lover’s own pulse, but the lover is as far away from the Beloved as the universe’s receding rim. Still the lover, the seek the mystic continues. Sometime, in a moment of forgetfulness, a stranger may take the place of the Beloved. At those times difficulties become obvious or something happens to get the seeker, the beloved, the mystic back on the journey.

Spiritual poetry is the sacred scriptures. It is verse from the sacred scriptures of humanity. All the sacred scriptures speak to the mystic on her journey (the soul is referred to as female in many traditions). The sacred scriptures speak to the seeker, the mystic and the lover. All the sacred scriptures speak to the mystic, at different times in the journey different scriptures speak to the mystic seeker. The mystic writes a poem based on the sacred scriptures, the mystic writes and moves on. Sometimes the mystic poet writes in the sand, sometime in the red ink of strife and sometimes using a computer program to compose. How the soul of the seeker lover, the mystic lover writes in the next world in the world of the spirit is unknown to those of us this side of the veil, but we can guess or imagine.

In the next world does the lover write in shades of light? What is the ink used on the spiritual plain? On the plain of matter we write and rewrite attempting to get the line or the verse or the stanza just right, perfect. In the next world does the mystic lover seeker poet rewrite?

Winter Is

Winter Is

Winter is the absence of the Beloved.
It’s the missing warmth that cradles me at dawn.
In winter there is no place to turn without missing Him.

I wandered long through the snowfields of fear and desire
until He heard my weeping cry
and sent his angels to rescue me.

Now I live in the warmth of His bright glory.
Spring is here and winter has fled
into the mountains of memory.

The snow capped peaks feed spring melt
that waters new growth
and new births

Winter becomes spring beneath
the equinox of love
when the Beloved returns to the hearth’s heart.

I Forgot

I Forgot January 14, 2006

I forgot to take the time to watch the sunset.
I forgot to say thank you for the day of my conception.
I forgot to say a prayer of protection, when I left the house.
I forgot to laugh at myself.
I forgot to meditate on the joy of living.
I forgot I am not supposed to berate myself.
I forgot to stop the mental recording of belittling comments about myself.
I forgot that the deepness of the darkness indicates the brightness of the light.
I forgot to revel in the things I have, rather the crying for what I do not have.

NOTE: Creating spiritual poetry is more then just reading the sacred scriptures and meditating, it is a combination of daily tasks that go into the creation of the poem. While there are certain things that a person must forget, there are other things that can not or should not be forgotten.

Someday Soon

Someday Soon

Someday soon, I will....
fly
I will rise above the changes and the chances of this world
and fly into the realm of love.
I will ascend above both doubt and faith
into the garden of certitude.

Someday soon, I will....
will see the beloved in His new attire.
I will breath without air,
there in the space between yesterday and tomorrow
the space that exist between the atoms of reality and illusion.

Someday soon, I will....
Someday soon, has come
I stand looking out into the world and know
love without chains,
Beloved
I see you standing in the Garden of Paradise,
Standing in the Garden of Eden,
Standing in the Garden of Gethsemane
Standing in the Garden of Ridvan,
I see you standing beneath the Tree of Life beckoning to Humanity.

A Garnish of Joy

A Garnish of Joy

Your love is a garnish of joy on the plate of my desire.
Your words adorn the scriptures of my life.
I see Your splendor rising in the east,
Your glory reflected from snow capped peaks.

Your forgiveness is the garnish in the wine of my faith.
Your beauty is the clouds above the garden of my soul.
Your names reverberate across the wall of my fear.
Your voice speaks to through the verse of religion.
I see You honor reflected through the Mirrors of Your Manifestations.

My Dreams

NOTE: This poem was inspired by a prompt from the yahoo group Daily Power Words: Reflect on dreams of the past you may have lost sight of. How can you reestablish this part of your being? What would you really like to accomplish in this life? What are your unique talents and attributes you have to offer? Work on keeping your dreams alive.

My Dreams

Beloved,

My dreams are strewn along life’s highway
cast to the shoulder when the going became too steep
for the load I carried.

I cast them aside
for lesser more urgent matters
because called my attention
away from You.

I have wondered beneath
dark clouds
tear streaked face,
lost without You.

I used to envision worlds
where Your love bloomed
along rivers,
on plain,
in tall mountains.

I trudged along life’s way
looking for what could not be recovered,
then I saw You standing at the crest,
at the point of no return
calling to me,
beckoning me,
encouraging me
on.

Glory of God,
Beloved,
Pen of the Most High,
without Your presence
my dreams would never have returned,
I would still be wondering
aimless and disinclined
to face each day‘s tests.

Mid Week Reflection

NOTE: Journal prompt from yahoo groups Journal Writing: "Take some time to write in your journal. What's happened so far this week?"

Mid Week Reflection

Morning’s pastel joy
reflects dawn’s red radiance
through Black Mountain’s steel towers
into T.V. sets
scattered across Las Vegas.

In the city,
I look out my living room window
awed at Wednesday’s radiance.

Wednesday’s scarlet dawn reflects
the clouds that come between
myself and the Beloved.

I intone the name of the Beloved
and His sacred spirit
transmutes my clouds of doubt
into faith’s crimson radiance.

The Keyboard

NOTE: The follow promt from the yahoo group free-writers inspired this poem. Freewrite for ten minutes about a keyboard with a mind of its own.

The Keyboard

I am the keyboard that You play
with the hands of love.

Beloved, forgive me my obstinate yearnings
for the thing that sour my notes.

I am the keyboard that rebels
ignoring Your will, Your desire.

Beloved, forgive me seeking the stranger’s strokes
when You wait in the wings to play.

I am the keyboard that You created,
with the hands of power.

Beloved, forgive me for the sins of matter
that interfere with Your sweet chords.

To Write

NOTE: The following prompt came today from one of my prompt groups: "What are your resolutions for the new year? Or if you don't like the word "resolutions," what are some of your goals for 2006?" - The Writers' Spark

To write the words that come to mind.
There is nothing that can compare with the creation of a rhyme.
To write the saga of our love on page and tell the world about desire.
To inscribe the joy of the Beloved and the struggle He aspires.
Describe the test that faith engenders while I seek to overcome .
To write of the Beloved of the resurrection and rebirth.