Walk With Me

by Nicholas “The Bard” Andrea

These beautiful days must not be forgotten
they must not be left alone to be be outside on their own
but they must be played with –
the rocks, the trees, the kisses by the breeze
swans, lakes, and chirping chickadees

and cardinals flying to happily
leading my spiritual growth as is their job –
these are the real cardinals, see;

nature is my cathedral
as it was for my late grandmother,
in whose rose beds nature orgasmed in pink, red, and yellow
in the late afternoon Sumerian sun
which smiles upon her forehead in this infinite moment,
before that land became rife with destruction again;

I am told there is a never-ending birdsong around the Earth
as God’s Sun rises ever somewhere, and
our winged friends sing their praises –

why, we don’t have to wait for Heaven
the Angels are already singing in our midst
and continue their chorus even in the lands where
blood still flows upon religious grounds, where
material greed denies hungry mouths to feed
despite nature’s ability to provide
vastly more than each and every one could ever need;

so, my friend, she beckons
forget about that thneed
come out and play with me
pick up my rocks
hug my trees
solve the problems of today, tomorrow, and forever
by walking with me
come, friend, come
walk with me.

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Mysterious Grace

by Nicholas Andrea

This moment is always a practice of receiving grace –

even though the mind divided against itself
cannot believe that such mysterious, benevolent, loving, guiding
Presence is so freely given;

conditioned minds do not believe in fantasiac magic
but, Anita Moorjani says, “Peace is more like doing absolutely nothing” –

that it is not what I do – not prayers, not mantras,
not prostrative acts of humility – that earn God’s love
but, rather,
that I have the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven by virtue of what I am;

when Doing finds its home in that Being, something miraculous occurs, it discovers
a Mind within the mind (Enana)

that makes me lie down in green pastures
leads me beside quiet waters
restores my soul
and, guides me in the paths of benevolent truthfulness
like David;

I have asked the Guardian Angel in my midst how I might find that Mind
and the reply:

breathing in the universe
breathing out the universe
pause;

breathing in the universe
breathing out the universe
pause;

breathing in the universe
breathing out the universe
pause
until the next call comes;

repeating, ad infinitum.

*inspirations:

  • Mark 3:25
  • Psalm 23:2-3
  • “Enana” – translated from the Aramaic literally as, “The I within the ‘I'”
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I’m Hanging Out with God Tonight!

by Nicholas “The Bard” Andrea

I came home from a long, hard day of work
desiring a simple, warm presence by my side
a soft touch, a sweet voice;

but the lady had other plans –
and I was left alone

but not alone
for, I’ll be hanging out with God tonight;

I’m always hanging out with God, tonight,
though, so easy to forget when that
gorgeous damsel sits by my side
crooning sweet nothings in this ego’s ear;

but, what for
can I depend on another human being –

that when chose to marry you, Enana (the “I” within the I)
I committed to accepting this
just right here, just right now

this

as the bread of life, trusting it is
just what I need, whatever its flavor
despite my propensity to repulse it
or savor;

I may have no successful relating
with that gorgeous lady I call “my partner”
unless this I understand –

that I’m hanging out with God tonight!

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It’s A Poem For Leaving

by Nicholas Andrea

It’s a poem for leaving, O!
it’s a poem for leaving, for
everything has a time and a season
and we don’t need a reason for grieving
it’s a poem for leaving, O!
it’s a poem for leaving;

you know, things may change
but they never actually die, just
shift form from one thing to the next so we can
find together a new way to fly

it’s a poem for leaving, O!
it’s poem for leaving;

to go with no regret,
to end

to feel the sweet longing of stepping up from one valuable thing to the next
to ascend

walking forward in truth
I shared myself tonight with you, forsooth
with childlike and trembling vulnerability
with integrity to me, for all of you to see

it’s a poem for leaving, O!
it’s poem for leaving;

tonight, I saw on her sleeve a heart
like I’ve never seen before
beauty, like a work of art, that
I never knew she bore

and that man, from that hard
man, compassion did I see
an understanding I have never known
that existed inside he

sometimes it’s the moments that feel like death
where we do truly see
the value and light that we all carry
deep in the underneath

it’s a poem for leaving, O!
it’s poem for leaving;

so easy to remember
the bliss together we did find
and easy to forget, that
there was a shadow side, which
to overly romanticize
the truth would be denied

but upon those negativities
we do not linger
for when change comes upon us
we choose to focus on the finger

of love that has moved us
through laughter and the smiles
that kept us flying high in rhythm
sustained us for a long while

and, what greater pleasure, I daresay
could there be
than to bring smiles from ear to ear
to strangers on the street

as did we, with by
the sharing of our joy
playing like innocent children
loudly with our toys?

Boy, oh boy, such
selfless fun it’s been
to play the drums
in rhythms wherein

the human spirit
is celebrated
beckoned forth
and elevated

oh love, oh love
how you’ve touched us all
which is why we stand here
with no ego, just awe;

now, speaking our truth might not be easy
but it is part of the flow
the river of life we don’t create,
contain, nor to control

but, to be human is to experience
bittersweet melodies
like the haunting sound of a bagpipe
playing sorrow’s remedies

it is a poem for leaving, O!
it is a poem for leaving, yes
but, nothing really leaves, because
nothing is ever unpossessed
by That Thing, That Thing that lives in our own heart
That Thing, the source, of all our human art

no, nothing ever actually dies, just
shifts form from one thing to another
it’s a poem for leaving, O!
it’s poem for leaving,
but not really, not really, my sisters and brothers.

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How Much Faith Do You Have?

by Nicholas Andrea

Desire, that is, the thought that I’m not enough
is what keeps me from the present moment –

if I try to change the world for myself, alone
life will up the ante with a bitchslap –

show me that I’m already getting what I need

in

this

moment –
how much faith do I have?

This morning
the irritation of her insistence on staying in the room –
our room, MY fucking room –
and continuing to do her thing
while I was doing my writing

became a bloody finger when I
grabbed my mat and stormed off, bending
my nail gnarly back
in the fury –

here
you
go, my friend –

how much faith do you have?

Desire is a veil that obscures the truth that
God does everything, even
the things that I think separate me from that being, that

provides for all my needs, that
guides every movement of my hand, every
step I take in the sand, every
breath, every breath
cannot even happen without that deeper command;

and so I sit, suspended,

hanging
off the edge of a cliff
by my teeth –

wondering

waiting

for the next breath to breathe me, as
life, itself, the same

life that guides the stars, the same
life that lived as the dinosaurs, the same

life that looks through your very own eyes right now;

tell me, God, tell me
am I really ok
am I really ok, God, just as I am?

And he answers –

“How much faith do you have, my son
how much faith do you have?”

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Love Poem for Thanksgiving

by Nicholas Andrea

Love is the most maddening thing in the universe
for now that I’m full of it, I have
no fucking clue what to do
for my ambition has been hijacked by a thief
who grabbed it and flew;

Service,
see, is not doing
for it comes from being
’cause being is what happens when doing and intuition start agreeing
and there’s no space for me-ing
because there doesn’t need to be-ing;

but, I doth protest
it makes no sense
it just makes no fucking sense
in my defense!

Jesus, you are nutty whackjob, pal
what the fuck’s a matter with you, how
do you give the most irrational thing
Don’t you know everything good in life is earned, not received???

Silence, he says nothing

and I just sit, seeing
nothing to do
nowhere to go
nothing to realize nor attain, I am
in disbelief, so

I watch the candle’s flame before me dancing
and I learn how I am to be living;

That is all, this Thanksgiving.

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Green Shoot of Spirit

by Nicholas Andrea

Good morning, friend, I’m
giving back these sacred books, I’ll
no longer be needing them, it’s been
good and I’m grateful, please
keep on your way and do great things, I’ll
see you in the Light at the end of the tunnel where it’s all true;

Good morning, friend, I’ve
got this resignation letter for you, I’m
going to feed the hungry birds of opportunity
that have born of my belly, it’s been
good and I’m grateful, please
keep on your way and do great things, I’ll
see you in the Light at the end of the tunnel where it’s all true;

I’m going, now,
to opportunity, the land of my birth

shutting doors and I’m mourning
the gifts of relationships that have been the
wind beneath my wings these past few years, that have
lifted, nourished, and sustained me, that have
carried me out from the pit of creative poverty and into the promised land of
Self
discovery – to give up the relationships that have fed but no longer nourished, yet honoring the connections that have shown what one is capable of;

to feel is not easy
but it is love, and I
I never spit on the ground that holds me;

friend –
I’m going now to walk into the Sun,
please,
have these sacred books back
and thank you, please
have this resignation letter
and thank you

until the end where we are one;

***

The morning star rises upon the periwinkle canvas of morning
a new day dawns in this life;

Spring has been on my heart, of late
Spring, yes, though
tomorrow’s forecast foretells a high of 28 and a low of 7 –

no, this Spring is not of the Earth
(though, I always look forward to that)

it is of the soul;

there is a green shoot growing in this body and mind
a green shoot that remains
ever young, ever fresh, ever vibrant
even as I yet age
even as the seasons within pass
that should wither its succulent leaves;

what this shoot is I cannot, for sure, say
only that its branches reach out and touch all the disparate parts of my psyche
connecting them in One Life;

last night I read the words of Alex Grey,
who saw all things as toroidal patterns of energy
endlessly rejuvenating and discharging
in an unbroken network with all else;

Yea, and I thought of one such pattern that I hated

and yet saw the ground we both share
that one and I, nourished in the same soil;

So grow now, shoot, grow
grow to fill me
and
as me
bear fruit of lyric
and drop them for others to eat and be nourished by –

like those prolific trees of old – Rumi and Hafiz –
who never stopped giving
and still give today;

intertwine my roots, shoot,
in an endless and unbroken system of interdependence
with all other shoots in the universe –

I am ready, green shoot
so become me

I am ready
so become me

and I thank thee;
Amen.

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How I Write Poetry

by Nicholas Andrea

The witness awakens this silent winter’s morn,
finds itself again in a body of swirling energy
looking through these eyes to the clouds of cotton outside the window
painted on the canvas of a blue sky;

a lone bird crosses the space between, the space

between breaths lengthens
as does the silence

poetry are the words that do not let me be free until I speak their name
and silence is the filter that lets the dirty river water pass through
leaving only nuggets of gold behind;

sitting

waiting

listening

for the next lyric to speak its name,
the next direction to call –

this is poetry
this is life;

the word that cannot be spoken
is the mother of them all –
and its cauldron, deep within my belly;

all good things come therefrom,
like the desire for God
or the love of a partner – sex
that is, love-making of the most sincere kind
and God
come from the same place

a place deeper than me;

And, how to access this belly?
It’s simpler than we think, dear brother
simpler than effort –

love is simpler than effort –
like what Jesus was talking about –
not a system of techniques
but the truth, itself;

now, that is –

the warm scent of a candle;
the soft sound of her breath from across the room;
the metallic taste of winter’s chill;

who knew that an order of cosmic proportions
could be apprehended through these senses?

What dry yogi knew that such life in the world,
through
the world
could impregnate this belly with children of such love and beauty and humble praise of a
God that moves through all things and
graces all things and
leaves no stone unturned and
unprovided for?

Who knew that mere, unadulterated perception of
this moment
right here, right now
simpler than thought,
could light a fire swirling at the base of this spine
reminding me,
undeniably,
that I am alive?

I do not make the art of this world
I merely frame it.

Sitting here, breathing
if you ever forget how to write poetry
just ask this

Amen.

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This Winter’s Afternoon

by Nicholas Andrea

I am called outside upon arriving home, so
I take to foot upon the soft Earth

and

what I catch is the space, between
one step after one step;

looking up to a fading Winter’s afternoon sky
catching a glimpse of the evening lightbulb
already hanging proud and high in her shining silvery brightness –
that one, oh that one,
to which so many before me have written song,

she never disappoints, does she
in her majesty, ever
there and beautiful
like my own mother;

yes, because of Luna, I know God exists.

One step after one step
a silent mind sees a silent world

and, how clearly
in Winter’s chilly dormancy
when nature’s party is over for the year
and all comes to stillness – the

barren trees sleeping naked, the
placid lake, with nobody playing in her – her waves come to stillness – the
human beings, whose general absence from this moment tells their tale –
for, who likes the cold?

Now I have come home again and sit in this room
dusk has left it darkly, only
a lit candle before me on the floor
licking them with flames of light –
that chair with the shirt hanging there
and the bookshelf with the books arranged so square
and the guitars standing so tall and fair, they are

looking back at me
and I have to wonder, who is really in this body, what
is the energy moving through this spine, and
who does it really belong to, there is just

seeing, just
hearing, just
smelling the warm scent of the candle
wafting through the moment; there is just

breathing, just
hearing the voices talking downstairs – that’s
God talking, no need to reject, to
attain
some great state
beyond
this;

just

this –

I could never have become myself,
this winter’s afternoon
if I was holding onto an idea
any idea at all.

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Willin’ (to feel)

by Nicholas Andrea

Late and vulnerable
I asked you, yes I did,
to break this heart and mind
knowing the best lyrics come
from a soul who is lost and
wandering, for a light that ever shines;

yes, the shadows are the place
from which we can create
a longing for something that we must have left
long ago, that
left a scar inside,
when we chose to go;

the feeling of being alone
despite all around me, trees,
their faces showin’

but, alone or not’s an inside game
a movie projected onto the world –
what we see outside and inside are the same;

these cracks in me
God will come and fill them
with a light I can see
so, it was told to me, for real
but such things we do not believe
until them we feel;

that’s just it, isn’t it?
Each person must, their own cross, bear
reveal their heart’s true song
and hope that life, or something, cares;

like a child who took off his acorn shell
one walks this unpaved road
into heaven, or hell;

not to know, that is real
and one can only hope
it’s a good deal.

As I sit and look through these eyes
this face and body don’t lie
there’s still a soft and tender child, inside
who, at some point, tried to run and hide;

far away to go he tried
driven by shame for the vulnerability inside;

but, the truth cannot be denied:
you’re still here, Nicholas
you’re still the same one looking through these eyes;

so, as I walk, today
I’ll regress to a 2-year old state
where wonder filled my perception
and every experience felt
like a life or death proposition;

yea, pure, raw emotion
unquenchable save by complete immersion and devotion
to being who and what I am
a lion and a lamb;

phew, little one, how I’ve left you
hoping you’d just get over it, too,
oh , soft and precious child
you never felt anything mild;

generations of intensity filled
your DNA and spilled
out from the pot of control and onto you
finally, a one born to this lineage who
couldn’t run from the truth,

that there’s work to be done
there’s feelings to be felt
can’t run, can’t run, no
can’t hide in work or stimulation
can’t live life as a simulation;

got to be here, now, true
got to cry for the lord, around you
got to feel hurt when people hurt you
got to show elation when they feed you;

oh child, child in the cave
I know you are brave
and you’re also afraid
come, come forth,
come forth and be saved;

child, this may not mean much
but I love you
like a desert that finally tastes the rain
it’s been missin’ all these years, and needs, again,

I love you, child
I know you feel deep
a gift, truly a gift to keep
I can’t make you do anything
and, I’ll never try
but, I want you to know
you don’t, any longer, have to hide;

I love you, child
the one deep, deep inside.

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