by Alan Harris
2000
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To find eternity, lift up the minute. |
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Free PDF download of this entire book: Just Below Now in Adobe Acrobat PDF format (38 formatted pages including color photos) Free Adobe Acrobat Reader is required. |
Contents
(Click on any divider between poems to return here.)
Prayer for 2000
To a Reading by Alan Harris|
Undecimated by a new thousand (flow flows on), abruptly we in 2000 seem to be where we've always been (and busily been), still wishing for a wish (still praying for a prayer) to make our earthlife right (or righter). Were we to dip silently (each) into a minute (untimed), we could scarcely come up unwashed (unchanged) by (I falter at "Your" for dualism) some transcendent gentle rightness (grace) guiding our souls like boats (adrift in when) into a nowness found just below now. I would pray (if I prayed, and I do) from within most central us (where one is allish) for easings where we grasp (egolike) and gentlings where we (too quickly) scold. Feeling safe and strong in softest You, inexplicable Lord most high (most deep), with Light never seen (Force never unfelt), I pray and pray (and somehow always pray). |
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Freedom Grounded
To a Reading by Alan Harris|
Hypnotized by young freedom, I chased bedazzling baits of my choice until pain came crashing through my doors. Thank you very much, freedom. And I ate choice foods with delight until my older arteries became clogged with a near calamity of consequences. Freedom, do you need to be fatal? Computer-enabled, I freely flew commodity futures like a test pilot, with precision eyes trained on my instruments--then crashed. Hello, is anyone there? Freedom, you truly stink. Can I at least be free not to be free? "Serve," says no voice. Serve? Why serve? "It works." Serve without pay? "With or without pay--but with energy." No more freedom, then? "Remembering your former agony while serving where the need is, you gain a grounded freedom." From whom do I hear this? "From the call without a voice." |
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Beside the X
To a Reading by Alan Harris|
Today I opened a checking account, helped by a friendly banker lady who pointed to all the X's. She took my driver's license and called a phone number to make sure people think I'm honest. After the bank finally permitted me to let it profit from my money, I walked outdoors with only lockbox keys and deposit slip as evidence of worth. How many bank accounts will I end up having? Is this one the last? (I get like this sometimes.) After I'm finished, will someone empty the lockbox for me? Turn in both keys? Will a bank clerk close my account efficiently while planning dinner? Will the friendly banker lady be pointing to X's for someone new? Will anyone know what's beside my X as it goes through the shredder? |
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Two Wrinkles in Bliss
To a Reading by Alan Harris|
The sun is where it needs to be. Every breath in every being breathes the rhythm of the Drummer. All is permeating every bit of all. Except for the peskiness of atoms and egos, might not this place be heaven? |
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Nominal
To a Reading by Alan Harris|
Nothing got my mother's goat for long-- she'd settle it. I had become far too old to be calling her Mommy but still was and didn't want to but couldn't change. One day while practicing my trumpet in the basement (in deference to TV watchers) I needed her attention and yelled a questioning "Hey?" up to the kitchen. Catching my copout, she opened the door at the top of the stairs and announced, voice taut, "My name's not Hey! If you don't want to call me Mommy then call me Mom." And that settled it. I did after that. It was easy. |
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Bond
To a Reading by Alan Harris|
I am the you that you can't control. You are the I that I can't admit. PDF for printing |
Nine Steps to a Poem
To a Reading by Alan Harris|
Get born. Have a confusing non-fatal childhood. Grapple with religion and let it think it won. Work at a job that has nothing to do with poetry. Be amazed at how people can act the way they do. Revel and fail in love x times before a settling occurs. Struggle with y dilemmas and escape z threats to life. Fail to let go of an idea that fails to let go of you. Hold onto your pen while the poem writes itself. |
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thursday
To a Reading by Alan Harris|
open you up any thursday yes dare be sure to unzip it completely and let all perhaps of it fall into crows on a breeze which land in three trees where they raucously planlessly fidgetly caw then skittishly fly toward an east deep in maybe kids into thursday most bicycle fast chase whylessly after because without is until gravel turns skin into gauze bumble thursday all companies every one muddy with strategy moving into moremore hired groans crank oh hum the moneygrind perhaps on a thursday perhaps on a now some crow will discover what when is turn human and lose all that zen is |
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Quiet
To a Reading by Alan Harris|
When every somewhere falls away and all nowheres turn into the main everywhere-- where is there then to go but quiet into here? When love turns to sand without any other in view and nobody cares except groanings of self-- might quiet no thinking deep breathing be salve enough to allow tomorrow? When demands on time money time love time patience time agonize the brain choke all muscles as deadlines approach like freight trains honk-honking beware of broken futures at whatever is you-- does a chair still exist in a quiet room for a fortunate sitting-- does air still surround for a breathing-- does the quiet beneath all crash of all brain embrace you for as long for as long for as long? |
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Three Kisses
To a Reading by Alan Harris|
The first says hello. The second says how are you. The third says it all. |
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Big Smile
To a Reading by Alan Harris|
Big Bang is a fashion of imposter proportions, insultingly pat. If true, where did it happen and where were all the other wheres where it didn't happen? Simple theory, it is, suspiciously reminiscent of how each body of us is a big bang out of our mother. Presto. Pat. Four questions: Is all that exists and all that insists atomic? What universe did our universe outbang from? Was there love pre-bang? Was there wine at a quarter till time? Observers delight to tinker with hunks big and tiny, but couldn't folks ask if a grand benevolence flowing beneath and between all hunkness smiled atoms into every allness, big bang or no? Could that Big Smile be lightlessly glowing through all times of time as ungenesised Watcher, bemused by flashchanging its cosmic clothing behind screens of stars? The Big Bang's surmise makes a neat stitch in time, but the Big Smile feels more like eternity. |
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Easter Wish
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happy so very Easter from under when beyond where through bluest maybe above cloudy ago in loving quiets of with |
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Relief in Relife
(Written in 1984)
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Does evening raise a fear of no more dawns? Does autumn's chill forever kill our lawns? If not, then why dread gray hair in a mirror? If dawns and lawns recur, is death to fear? Is body all I am, a soft robot conditioned by blind chance, then left to rot? Is heaven just a slide shone on the sky to keep believers honest till they die? To think extinction ends our too-short life-- to think a void replaces child and wife-- to think a shroud blanks out all consciousness-- all far too grim for me, I must confess. I'm reassured from deep in bone and heart that when I and my body come to part, I'll slip it off and leave it like a coat, retaining what I know, but free to float. Our breath comes in, goes out, and so do we who end each earthly life, but then are free to roam bright inner realms with opened eyes which see through physicality's bleak lies. We thrive in heaven's symphony of mind uncounted blissful years, until we find we thirst again to join the physical where atoms quickly teach what's practical. Like gravity, a pull of destiny reels in our soul from near infinity and helps us choose as home some mother's womb-- what most call birth, our trammeled soul deems tomb. Then choice and aftermath on earth are learned-- like school, where each promotion must be earned. With open-hearted deeds we all progress; with selfish acts we duly retrogress. If death is no more end than western sun-- if Soul appears through bodies, one by one-- then life is no more opposite of death than breathing is the opposite of breath. |
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Grandstand Fantasy
A Study in Emptiness
Photographic Version
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Grandstand at sundown embraces an emptiness replete with potential watchers and watched. Screams and cheers, none, nor any spilled soda pop, nor adolescent boys testing their fear of strangers-- Greased pigs won't play before an empty house, nor will jockeys race fast horses for just nobody. Shiny seats wait, all pretty in rows, for homo sapiens to bounce upon their boards from planned excitement. Soldier-like in rank and file, bright red backrests stand at rigid attention where no eyes are and no announcer is. Low sunlight plays to the stands (since no performers are), revealing geometry never proven by Euclid. Emptiness is given shelter under one generous roof, pillars reaching up and out in a far-flung Calvary. No one departs and throws away no trash, asking "Where does an empty grandstand go at night?" |
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At Sea
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I work very hard and I tire-- when will this work be done? I long for sweet enlightenment to provide a blissful rest. If contentment is enlightenment, then a cow is Buddha. Rest, yes, but within the work is the bliss. Just smell any swamp in repose. I want to walk the path but how without a teacher? So many paths are beckoning that I'm at sea with confusion. At sea is a good place to be beneath millions of stars, each at one time bewildered but now guiding your journey. I feel that I may be ready but the teachers appearing seem prophets eyeing their profits, unschooled in even honesty. Will your teacher knock at your door? Be found on some random sidewalk? Have you listened? Inwardly heard? Serve and create; serve and listen. |
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A Love Song
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From heart of space all gift all give no star too small to pass it on Where up a flower how down a cloud can any heart with love unbloom One breath of spring one second on the spatial clock but oh the breath When bliss is work and silence bliss up down our cord no song unsings All alls need more all mores need all yet love is nearer than purest most |
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Preparing the Colors
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Blend faith with impossible for an enlightened off-white. A yesbeam can brighten doubt when droll is mixed lightly in. Ego turns a palette all black-- speckle this with stars of give. Gold turns gold into more gold leaving little breath for seeing. Painting a ceiling invisible makes the room rollick with sky. Where find invisible paint? Be liberal with stars of give. |
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The Builders
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Temple: none but spirit Book: an open heart Mission: help to give Path: up past the known |
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Sensing a Future
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In this shaky world where up and down are definitely known but gravitation still poses big perplexities we'd sometimes like to shake off atoms and take a guided tour of the possible and if such a ride were available for a dollar or a million we'd buy a ticket but since no booth sells these tickets we continue with our work yet vaguely sense this ride is going to happen sometime because we see clearings and glimpses especially when mind and air are perfectly quiet and love is flowing up and down and all through our being as if red lights were at some railroad crossing flashing to announce an unseen movement much grander than anything stoppable |
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Roses
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If only one rose ever in history were seen to bloom, what awe might be! Now people yawn at roses by dozens, pretty weeds to eyes that won't see. If we but knew we're each a rose asleep in a bud, might bloom we? |
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Kind of
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Is is all biz Seem smacks of dream Why goes with cry Love always in the of the from the out of the all through the |
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Recourse
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All roads out are blocked by this rockslide in your mind? All roads in await. |
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Grief Is a Thief
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Grief is a thief you have urged to take you away but with your own key locks you, wet with tears, inside your musty woolen closet and turns out the light. Dark in your trap shared with moths you cry long past dry and choke on all why. When you know it's time (and you will): burst the closet open into a room, burst the room open into a sky, settle for no moons, pray past all suns, inhale from Cosmos. Not earth are you but the damp wick of a future shining. Strike your match and light the way. |
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Turvy
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I rise to sleep some bliss to take then fall awake to earn my keep. |
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Autumn Glimpses
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Autumn's puffy wind tickles my maple silly-- the leaves die laughing. |
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Lifelong summer's leaves flutter down through fall's abyss to safe root places. |
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Through deep leaves we tread, seashore sounds in mid-forest rasping at our feet. |
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Mahler's 5th Symphony
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Overfull fountain, he rises abundantly from where springs are fed, creates from why hearts must beat timpanic against gravitation. His concerted breezes blow confusing beauty in through windows where merely walls once were. Triumph, sorrow, fire, spirit, love, joy-- all play and pray in sonic sanctum. After the applause we bring our amazement home and listen to the wallpaper sing. |
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Storm
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when the storm comes aprons turn into kites and meadows roll up their grass as you hang on tight to unknowing when the storm comes all sayings gain great meaning aha is as real as rocks but the gale isn't hearing you when the storm comes the mast breaks away and floats off before you can lash yourself to it and the sirens won't stay on the shore when the storm comes the moon jumps under the cow and laughs at the little dog then takes back the spoon and the dish when the storm comes all yes becomes quite maybe all no seems not so bad as you hang on tight to unknowing when the storm comes flowers recite scripture trees are genuflecting and logic's good for a laugh when the storm comes all history rolls up in a ball all tomorrow was never heard of and the now impossibly grins when the storm comes thunder and winter both weep clouds seem turned by a crank the crank turned by an ogre * * * when the storm abates the waves all merge into one which is as good as calm but you hang on tight to unknowing when the storm is all over the sun is back in its place everything is everywhere again but you're still not sure moons don't laugh |
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Every Christmas
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Every Christmas never dawned but as pulses beating in a caring heart. Every star was never less than holy leading the wise to kings newborn. Every mother always gave to earth a child who never declined her love. Every child was nearer than breath before its birth made glad all stars. Every angel never less than gave a blessing to all babies new on earth. Every true gift was never not given from open hands into grateful need. Every unseen world is now unsilent as it rings with timely songs of joy. |
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Above poem is included in the
Christmas Reflections PDF book Holiday poems to print for gifts or for keeps Free PDF Download - 2.0 MB, 18 pages Requires Adobe Acrobat Reader (also free) |
Santa's Interior Monologue
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Boy, it's dark. Sure is cold. Housetop--whoa, boys! Got the bag. Suck it in. Down the chimney. There's the tree. Gifts out of bag. Stockings are here. Stuff 'em. Eat the cookies. Drink the milk. Wink. Suck it in. Up the chimney. Ready, boys--away! Sure is cold. Boy, it's dark. (Repeat a billion times.) |
PDF for printing
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Above poem is included in the
Christmas Reflections PDF book Holiday poems to print for gifts or for keeps Free PDF Download - 2.0 MB, 18 pages Requires Adobe Acrobat Reader (also free) |
Restaurant Miff
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An old couple, both over 80, look at menus. He mumbles. She scolds, "Oh, you're always disappointed." Argument now.... An argument 60 years bitter-- stern faces, trembling hands. How many lifetimes will they require to smile, care, give, feel smoother? Love is nearer to them than the germ of an instant, yet they fight on for fleeting rightness. Old antipathies butt their heads, bam bam bam, straining old hearts that do well just to find their next beat. |
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Fireplace
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By the fireplace tonight we are helping the fire warm us. These flames are as old as pain and as new as tomorrow's journey. While the logs listen, we think of stories to tell that crackle and sizzle and laugh into the air. We confess old secrets and fresh hopes, surprised at the fire's way with truth. What warm gift is here? If fire were aspiration, would its color differ? If fire were catharsis, would it not still crackle? If fire were love, would its flames fail to dance? By the fireplace tonight we and the flames are one. |
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Mother's Secret
A Ballad
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Tell me a secret of living, dear Mother, a new one I've never been told-- some hint about life to remember you by that will stay with me when I've grown old. "An overlooked secret of humans, my child, is that each is a seed that will flower, and that each has a future of limitless joy, whatever the pains of the hour. "And I tell you that no love has ever been lost nor is anything out of place-- that your work is to strive, to give and to know in this journey through time and space. "Your grandmother told me the same when she died and I willingly pass it along. May your living go deeper than what you can see and your heart hear the Infinite Song." Now rest, dear Mother, and sleep your sleep in a region where pain is unknown. As long as I live I will treasure your words and will pass them along to my own. |
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Benediction for 2000
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Long beheld, this cosmic date brought in a spook named Y2K and a few predicted woes, but still we move along, up, beyond, in, planting fresh creative seeds, casting away old husks, dropping vestigial outlooks because lacking in heart or confined to the seeable or opposing a grander flow. Busy in a planetary spiral around day's fiery light, we persist in our journey toward an infinite unknown, trusting that humanity's third-millennial lungs will always find new vigor while blowing away the dismal dust of death. We feel deep awe for all that has ever happened but marvel even more that anything at all can happen. Infused and confused within the unfolding Cosmic Aim, we seal our past in glass and welcome, as all there is and will be, our future. |
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