What Happened to Last Night’s Storm?

What happened to last night’s storm?

Where is the lightning and the rain?

Where, the furious stentor,

and the rumbling of heaven?

What happened to the pleasures of youth,

Where did the touch of your fingers go?

Where, the ecstatic sigh,

and the shirtless defiance against the past?

Whatever happened while I drifted away

into the limitless hug of death?

Now, is only a clean world,

bright and fresh,

sprinkled with songs of birds

and the smells of spring,

of soil,

of dew.

Now, only the aftermath,

a world renewed and the ample breath

holds my soul

after our light-storm took me into the night.

Advertisements

By the Road’s End

Emptiness pouring itself into emptiness. Light merging with light. Darkness hiding behind darkness.

Nothing is, nothing will be, and no thing ever was.

All witnessing is just the intersection of these gentle soft strings; it’s just the interplay of word over vibration creating the illusion of continuity, creating the sensation of tapestry and feel.

In the intersection of light and dark, there by the Road’s End, the weaver weaves. The hands create tales and sights untold: untruthful, meaningless, fathomless, groundless.

There by the Road’s End, where the ways intersect, you can almost hear the weird sound of the ticking and tapping of the Kindly Ladies weaving your life, ending your life.

All that begins one day comes to an end, there by the Road’s End.

Through the Cobwebs of Illusion

Illumination is not some unreachable and mysterious
attainment.

Eliminate the distractions.
Know
it is possible;
for it is already in you.

The process of connecting
with your truth begins with
removing the shadow of forgetfulness
that you were assailed with
when you took an organic incarnation.

In this uncovering
there is truth.

When the vast dark consciousness
is clear and clean
the truth shines
like the reflection of the moon
in water.

Truth is beyond any notion
of lineage,
of tradition,
beyond any history.

If you don’t have it,
no one can give it to you.

It is not in learning.
It is in the removal of the dross
that obscures.

Anything that can be given to you
belongs in the arena of mentation and ideas:
equally false and only partially true.

And the truth,
which is above that,
you have.

The only thing you can attain
is
yourself.

It’s just that ‘yourself’ is
a lot more
than you suspect.

(From a lecture by The Telling by Koyote the Blind. Poetically curated by Season Cole)

Susurra a mi Oído.

Cada palabra surge del silencio, y de cada frase emerge un suspiro, un aroma, un pedacito de conciencia.

Así cada memoria surge del olvido, y de cada conjunto de vivencias encadenadas en la serpentina ondulación de vida y experiencia, de ensueño e historia, emerge un yo como emerge el aroma de la flor, el esplendor de la luz, y el amor del sentir.

Bésame pues cataclismo. Roza con tus ojos el oculto centro. Toca con tus dedos de seda las notas que surgen de mi voz. Mírame, y déjame conocerte en los brillos y destellos que despierta tu mirar. Escucha el clamor que brota; manantial de rezo y poesía del olvido.

Susurra en mi oído abierto al misterio y recibe de mí todo lo que puedo ser, disolviendo cada memoria y transformando en silencio cada uno de mis actos de amor, de rabia, de angustia, y de orgásmica visión.

–Koyote

To Dispel the Fog of Dreams

There is a real power,
a true heart in this land.
The true preciousness in this continent was not taken.
It is not gone.

It is alive.
Because it was not a book.
It was not a building.
It was not a painting.
It was not a “history”.

The true wealth of this continent
has simply been dormant
in the trees,
in the bones of the people.
It’s alive in the silent
coming and going
of the blood in our veins.

It is in the sky.
It is in the curve of the eagle
as it circles it’s prey.
It is in the roaring sound of the waves,
speaking for centuries,
against the rocks.

It is in the depth of that ocean
that we can never touch,
but we can all feel
if we grow in silence.

It is in the air I breathe,
and in every person that died-
that fed with their blood,
those creatures that spoke to us
before the false god came to this land.
So that one day they may awaken once again,
and enter
my body,
and crawl around my spine,
and emerge as a serpent
over my head,
and see through my eyes.

Those are still here
and talking to us.

This continent is awakening.
The continent is about to utter,
in poetic explosions,
the wisdom of all times.
To speak through the sounds of the brujo.
Ancient sounds in modern words.

We are about to experience the drunkeness
of ancient wines in ever-new cups.
We speak directly with the powers
of the land, of the stars, of nature.

We speak directly with the voice of the blood,
and the signs on the skin.
No need for a holy book,
a sacrament, building, or hierarchy.

We speak things of power.
And they are opening their eyes,
and awakening once again.
to dispel the fog of dreams.

(Season Cole’s poetically curated notes from a lecture by Koyote the Blind.)

What Can Be Said when Silence Devours Each Word?

What can be said when silence devours each word?

What can be taught when an infinite unknown surrounds each moment?

What can be added to this moment of silence?

What can I prefer, when every thing is nothing but a horizon?

Emptiness pouring itself into nothing.

Light merging with darkness.

Darkness hiding behind the splendor.

Nothing is, nothing will be, and nothing ever was.

All witnessing is just the intersection of gentle, soft strings.

It’s just the interplay of word over vibration, creating the illusion of continuity; creating the sensation of tapestry and feel.

And in the intersection of light and dark, there by the Road’s End, the weaver weaves.

The hands create tales and sights untold: untruth, meaningless, fathomless, groundless.

And there by the Road’s End, where the ways intersect, you can almost hear the weird sound of the ticking and tapping of the Kindly Ladies; making, weaving your life; ending your life and all.

For all that begins, one day comes to an end.

There by the Road’s End in the intersection of paths.

The Immense Distances of Your Voice

And it is precisely at this moment that I see the silent shivering of the stars that have traversed not just the vast empty ocean, but also an immense ocean of time to be able to be here, as light and as silence, among sounds and shadows.

But I see more, infinitely more.

I see clearly that precisely like this you, my beloved, have emanated your silence and your light through the depths of the abyss of void so that my eyes might open, so that my ears can hear your silences, so that my mind might dissolve in the immense distances of the eternity of your voice.

Vuelo con Alas de Viento

Vuelo con alas de viento. Me elevan al firmamento cubiertas en plumas de luz. Se deslizan sobre el plateado resplandor de la conciencia vacía y sin fronteras, y así veo desde las alturas la cambiante y fluida creación del pensamiento y la experiencia.

Y así la creación misma, efímera y eterna a la vez, se presenta en su aparente extensión bajo mis alas de claridad solar.

Extiendo entonces mis alas, agarro altura, y me elevo aún más hasta que ya no tengo alas ni viento, pues soy el corazón del cielo, y mi rostro se extiende hasta el límite de la ilusión, cubriendo el espacio entre el mundo bajo el sol y el infinito vacío que sostiene al sol y las estrellas de donde todo surgió y donde todo se disolvió.

I’ve Learned

I’ve learned to show strength
when there was weakness.

I’ve learned to lure an enemy with weakness
when there was strength.

I’ve been manipulated into someone else’s morality.

It’s the way that they say:
He’s not a tattletale.
He’s honest.
He’s kind.
He’s generous.
He’s a ‘Good Christian’.
He sacrifices for others.

It’s the way that they say anything
to get you to do what they want you to do.
It’s their own lie they plant in you.

People manipulate each other
by praising each other’s weaknesses.
When you buy into these lies
and neglect your higher duty
to not violate the moral control of others
you compromise the things and people around you
that are of that higher obligation
and there to help.

There is only one question:
What is truth?
This truth is your compass,
not the illusion presented before you.
If you know what truth is,
you will act in truth.
And what others do doesn’t matter.

It’s a game
and it’s all happening in a dreamland.

When you can think ahead 10 moves,
you’re getting good.
When you can think ahead 20 moves,
you’re an expert.

The Grandmaster see’s only one move:
the right move.

The right move is truth.
And that is always done from above.

(From a lecture by Koyote The Blind, poetically curated by Season)