There’s a place, old and musky…
up on a green hill, where the witches go.
There, under the full moon,
they dance, sing, and take out their brooms.
Their existence was forbidden,
so they had to learn to go to this place in the dreaming,
from the earliest intents of creation,
to unite with God in sexual surrender.
Here, in the true church of the living flesh.
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They took our lands.
We give our fruits.
They took our language.
We give our poems.
They denied our gods.
We give our prayers.
They changed our names.
We gather under The Tree.
They took our water.
We give our thirst.
They tortured us.
With our tears we clean the soul.
They massacred us.
Our blood feeds the future.
They buried us deep,
but we are seeds.
They erased our memories.
We remember the coming of the New Sun.
–Koyote the Blind
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What is the “it” that rains when we say “it rains”?
What exactly is the “it” in “it’s a wonderful life”?
What is IT? Does IT matter?
It’s full of wonder.
It never goes away
but it’s always changing,
forever covering itself
with this or that or the other.
The future seems
like it hasn’t happened
but it is like another room
in your house,
and you just have to walk
You have been moving through
aeons of life
in one form
and this human
experience is only
a fraction of
what you have
Disengage your consciousness
from what the senses
Even the thought
is not really
~Poetically curated notes by Season Cole from a lecture by Koyote The Blind.
How paradoxical, the nature of the search!
That which we seek, keeps moving away by the mind that places the attainment outside, beyond, later.
The immense vistas of freedom emerge, instead, as the vast horizon, always separating and unifying, in the same instant, Heaven and Earth.
And as the horizon, our aspiration remains present yet unreachable, dividing yet unifying, always perceived and never touched.
Ah, paradox of my path, holding the way and the why! You are the rim of my hat, and I but the clown who kicks his hat away every time he bends over to pick it up!
There is no mountain that can take me to the Sun.
No ladder tall enough.
There is no tree tall enough to burn its crown on the solar sphere.
Yet, just like the Sun seems to travel across the heavens,
unperturbed and untouched by clouds,
or planetary event;
so my true self moves across the surface of life,
unperturbed by all that happens,
undisturbed by the sufferings and joys
witnessed by the mind, felt by the body, and held by this heart.
In the vastness of time I stand in this brief moment between a dream and a dream with no name, no face, no past and no future; alone and naked, giving the light of not-being to the false dreams of prophecy and the path; breathing hope to the hopeless hearts; narrating the stories of the void; burning my light over and over until nothing remains of me. — “Stories For Ugly Children” by Koyote the Blind
Today is the Transgender Day of Remembrance. It is a day to remember those who were murdered for having the courage to be who they are.
Here is a token to all transgender people, my people, a haiku in memoriam of your beautiful lives where you have had the bravery to find yourselves and to seek to reflect the inner in the outer.
You join a long list of people killed for being themselves. Every cultural, political, gender, religious, sexual, racial, condition, and national label that has caused you to be discriminated, assaulted, or killed is one of the deepest shames of humanity.
To have the courage to continue to pave the way for a humanity that is just and enlightened is now our burden.
I am that I AM.
Beyond all labels and names,
I see me in you.
Koyote the Blind
The Heart is a Light
For Koyote the Blind
A light shines in darkness
A heart blazes
A flame in the wilderness
Under the blue canopy of sky
A bush the burns in the desert
The truth has a friend
Who makes introductions
In the sacred tongues
To the cool moon and warm sun
A friend who stalks
hidden pathways amid the wavering stars
flashing out of the purple deep
winking with the rhythmic breath of the gods
who each in their turn
whisper a name of the Beloved into his ear
A friend whose eyes never shy
From the tears of the One
Who is our beginning
Ever flowing waters
That pour from his mouth
Into our hearts
Now alight with pure intent
–gnosticman (Gerald Porter, requiescat in pace, will be deeply missed)
Every thought comes and goes.
Every second of time comes and goes.
Every aspiration comes and goes.
Every lifetime I’ve had, it comes and goes.
Every second of time, it comes and goes.
Every flicker of time, it comes and goes.
The watcher watches; and when I move,
the watcher watches.
When I dance, the watcher watches.
When I love, the watcher watches.
When I kill and consume the flesh of my enemy,
the watcher watches.
When I sin of hatred, the watcher watches.
When I sin for love, the watcher watches.
When I pray to God, the watcher watches.
When I blaspheme against God, the watcher watches.
The watcher watches all the time;
and it does not change;
it does not move.
The watcher watches;
and the watcher inside me is what the five watchers
perched on the Tree of Life,
and through the darkness within them,
watch the watcher within.
(The Watchers, from Koyote’s Angelic Host series)