Author: asoulinprogress

She’s on your side

Writing is kinda like this: lions and wild elephants chasing you through burning forests while bandits and thieves trip you up and tie you down and you’re saved by a mysterious flood that later leads to you drowning in evil spirits. In a spot like that you need you some Green Tara. You know who I’m talking about! The natural guardian and protector of all that which plague a writer.

Now then, you gonna need some White Tara too. It’s still the same Tara, but with your White Tara you get even more compassion with extra healing thrown in too. When the writing go wrong and you need some relief it’s the White Tara that’ll guide you along back to health and vigor!

Take both the Green and the White and let’s throw in some trickery because woman has a sense of humor love her for it! This is the ally that guided you so gently into looking away, and in that looking away is the poem. But, that times a thousand. That times a thousand more.

Trust and communication

You’re writing, and without realizing it you are exiting and not saving and you ask is there something I should know? and the reply is even I don’t believe it.
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There’s a word for it

There’s a word for it,
that thing we’ve danced around all night, but never got to.
Those cross sections of the multidimensional, which I call continuum strands in my Poemcraft.

Poemspace is a dimensional shift which can occur in one of two ways: 1) naturally or 2) summoned by the dark arts of the seasoned wizard.

In cause the 1st you learn how to sense poems, how to hone in on them, and how to let them happen.

In cause the second you meditate, you empty, you transcend. The stained glass window shatters in a blaze of golden light, oh glory!

And praise and bless!

Buddhists have a word for it, the unity that welds whiplash tails of continuum in a single moment as he approaches enlightenment, awakening.

Poems are mini-awakenings!

In poemspace an infinite number of hungry mouths roar out of their egg sacs. They lunge and snap in infinite hunger. There is no hope no escape, all you can do is stay still and study the disfigured mouths. Look close behind those ragged teeth and torn lips and there are tiny Buddhas with semaphore flags. Each thousand mouths is a letter, each thousand thousand a lesson in dread.

In poemspace infinite lilies bloom infinite seeds of compassion. It’s true, there is one who awakened but chose to stay behind to empathize with tortured souls.

In poemspace now shifts to craft. That is… a tilt of the head and swirls of golden orbs flash in and out of here/now. Sometimes they leave streamers. Those streamers are the connections between dimensions, the strands of continuum—the things you go after.

A Practitioner’s Guide

It’s the pastels that draw you into the cover,
and then a brown on brown on brown tree becomes beside a woman in green and white robes.
She whispers to the horizon and when you look up five-pointed stars and outlines of stars spin and dance higher and higher
she reaches back and plucks an orb from the tree.