Green Goes Colorless Crazy

[Guest guest]

Sufi green, spread out across

the Valley of Bewilderment and Awe.

One long water and wind weaving shawl -

 

a Joyousness.

Life embracing embraced.

 

Some Kindness gone Glad,

of green

wrapping up these Hearts

like seeds

in Mother Earth.

 

Divine Sea Green,

Seafoam green,

Rania Nedia green.

Emerald spear-wielding,

wonderful, wild angels

sitting astride the poets.

Riding the moment

and each other.

Reaching from the sound of Laughter,

rushing in from this One to take the shawl.

Take

Rumi in a shawl,

Coleman in a shawl,

Bly in a shawl,

Grandmother Mettie in a shawl,

and take it. Strip it away.

Toss it in that river we're in,

and see it turn into a boat.

A boat filled with singing

bodhisattvas breaking into green.

 

Would you want to wear it,

could you bear it,

this green shawl of Bliss?

Take off everything.

We go naked in the death rush,

peeling off things,

dreams and reams of this and that,

running madly, dashing madly,

madly running to the stream.

 

Sea rising in some translucent looking

wave of white, yet not that, not colored

as such. Not green.

Not green.

Not white.

Unbearable Un-Color,

i cannot paint it,

cannot say it into anything

 

Comprehendable.

 

So i fall back on Unutterable.

Speak Unspeakable things.

Say Unsayable things.

 

So this then. This, then.

Dale must be Buddha.

Or maybe Jesus or even Hanuman.

Dale's the next door neighbor.

 

He really loves to talk to his flowers.

Like some strict guru might do.

Not alot of many, Ha!

eh, can understand this.

Can understand the guru-disciple thing

that maybe, these plants and Dale do.

Maybe Attar tore bread,

or tossed rocks, cookies,

anything,

with the neighbor.

Everything, eh?

Something got tossed.

Maybe their clothes and heads and

soul skin.

 

Maybe Dale's that Alhambraic

Avadhut's long-lost brother.

Maybe i birthed both of them.

Maybe i'm their Mother.

 

Green fields

in the Land of the Reindeer Trees.

And this is nothing.

This is nothing.

Abundance of,

what else, brother?

 

A simple and carefree

flick of the wrist.

Really.

Really, it's all in the wrist.

Ask any bread-maker.

Ask the baker

making cupcakes on St. Pat's eve.

 

 

LoveAlways,

 

Mazie