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.

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?”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Heartdrop

by Nicholas Andrea

What changes me is that heart drop, that
sinking feeling that leaves my chest vacuous with an emptiness so intense
that it grips my very life, saying, “Wake up, man, you gotta change!”

It is only when that wounded little boy leaves his comfortable abode, his idle sitting place deep within
and screams his name for all to hear
that I see his gold
and what I most dearly need;

Oh, love, as Rumi you wrote once, “The wound is where the light enters you,” and
God, if I don’t expose my stigmata to the world like Jesus,
if I never reveal the truth of my vulnerability, even to my own self,
how can I ever truly be happy?

How can any one
be happy
clutching
to safety?

I watch those pundits on TV, you know,
the Dick, Cheney,
and the Boehner (Boner), John,
and the Bush, George, etc.,
Oh
how those mislead children take themselves so seriously –
(I guess, they never read the Little Prince);

But they, like my father, and his mother before him,
play the game of self-protection and self-preservation
their craft – the iron shield of bullshit,
and bullshit is made of words
and words are made of thoughts
and thoughts are what we use to avoid our own crucifixion,
to avoid the cutting away of the false self
to reveal the one within, who cannot die;

and so, we cut ourselves off from true life –
for, remember, whosoever would give up his life for the sake of love and truth would find it;

Sadness –
I am that Dick, Cheney,
I am that Boehner (Boner), John,
I am that Bush, George,
that raging liar-to-cover-my-own-ego because the truth is
too,
damned,
scary
to admit to myself
bullshitter;

and I am that dying grandmother on my deathbed,
suffering so much from ego that any sane onlooker would have to ask, “where, woman, do you still get the strength to fight life?”

and I am that post middle-aged father
drafted into the military as a young man only to witness tragedy dying in my arms,
to later tell myself, “Hey, that’s life,”
(the 5-second cope, you know)
’cause I gotta go
gotta build a life, there’s no
time to slow

down and feel, ’cause I
just might let the raging torrent-of-tears I’ve been holding back since my first breath
come up and drown me;

to, forty years later, still be so
disconnected from that soft spot in the middle of my chest that I’d rather
go up north on Christmas
(for business, you know)
than be with my four-year old
fireball-for-a-granddaughter
who is doing cartwheels in the living room as she asks, “When’s grandpa comin’ to town?!?!?”

Unless I make a different choice;

Oh and I did, last night, phew! Did I
feel that wound, boy, and found – again –
it’s the only thing that changes a man;

apparently,
another fella was better at giving my love the presence, the attention, the focus she really desired in that moment;
as she said when asked, “I felt a twinge of attraction when he looked at me so presently”
(a twinge the size of Texas to a bleeding heart, that be);

ooooooooh ahhhhhhh eeeeeeee
Tsssssssss
the burn!
the heart had an out-of-chest experience and
stopped doing its job of
damming the ocean that normally lives in the belly of this body;

and all that water rushed to fill the chest and the throat, drowning “me,” anyway;

but a fish out of water is like drowning, too
and I was that fish
caught for the killing;

it’s a thrill to be filleted, you know –
to see how inauthentically you’ve been telling yourself, “I got this. I’m NOT just another fish in that sea. God (and a woman, for that matter) love me, especially; I’ll never be caught;”

it’s a thrill –
though not one I particularly care for –
but energy
energy moves through the system, teaching along the way,
energy
is the only thing that learns a man,
for words mean little;

but energy grips us by the balls –
Mother Kali with her fangs –
and oh Boy do we listen
(because we want to keep those balls)

we listen to that father fucker
because becoming a man is initiation into humility, see
accepting that I AM just another fish in the sea,
to God and to the woman beside me;

that is, until I accept that, unconditionally;

then, I become not just another fish in the sea
then, do I rise from my death table, a Lazarus-fish,
and put my guts back into the cavernous
space left empty by the willingness to feel, authentically;

I’ve got my heart back, now
yea, crucified and humbled
but, an arisen Christ
a truer reflection of the one who put it there
than yesterday;

now
here
I am
woman

looking
into your eyes, resting
my hand on yours

thoughtlessly
choicelessly
undistractedly present
with you

watching
your face light up like the Sun as you
share your piece of God with the world –

powerful
female

and
doing my job as the Man-Christ to support that;

here
I am
woman

feeling
my inner body as I
feel
yours

energy
running through my feet, legs, and spine, and
cascading
down into my hands
and into yours, our
bodies
the dance of a single energy
playing with forms of “you” and “I,”
like toys;

here
I am
woman

looking
at you from across the room
our eyes meet at the same time
as if we were
thinking
with One Mind
“you” and “I,” symbols for something greater
that underlies us both;

woman
here
I am
for you.

This Insane Brain

by Nicholas Andrea

This brain has gone insane
so, I must abandon it for a deeper plane
where an unreasonable peace ensues
and good, bad, right, and wrong collapse into the same;

The relationship has gone bad
with an abundance of mad and sad
and a notable lack of glad,

cause we related only from that brain
that insane brain that seeks only to control, claim;

Can we run, can we hide
can we pretend these problems are not, of us, inside,
that it’s not our own responsibility to
that deep and abiding peace, find?

Egos clash, unceasingly, see
looking for righteousness in one’s own self, relentlessly,
proclaiming, “You should see things my way, because
my pain is greater that yours, I say.”

Yea…who doesn’t have pain
the day they realized they were
separate and alone, again
no longer basking in the blissful warmth of mother’s womb, but
reincarnated, here, onto this plane?

No, ego will never solve these problems,
“I’m right and you’re wrong,” can never
pave the way for relationship harmony to stay, for long
for, how can we sing together when, “I, my, me,” is our only song?

But, to relate from the place of non-duality
finding ourselves standing on the same ground, interconnectedly
where right and wrong cease to be…
is this not the only way to create true connectivity?
Is not trust in this deeper plane where
we are indivisibly connected
the only way to stay sane?

And, how do we access, my friend,
this deep place of grace
where shines our most beautiful face?
How do we live from that
even when conflict beckons our egos to spat
negativities in another’s direction,
futile attempts to change their inner complexion?
How do we plant our tree
in the deepest part of the sea
where, at the bottom, things never change
even while on the surface
they may never stay the same?

I sat quietly, and this is what came:
(Enter your own spontaneous expression of presence, here, OR read on…)

Sitting here, breathing
pausing with each exhale, suspending
thought, awaiting
the next breathe to breathe “me”

and allowing it to, when it comes, naturally;

always suspended, waiting for the next call from
within;
like hanging off the edge of a cliff
holding on with my teeth, to a branch, thin;

Now, the sound of a crow calling, *caw* *caw* (crosses the mirror of mind),
and then silence;

and then another call, *caw* *caw*
and then silence;

and then another call,*caw* *cawwwwwwwwwwww*
but still silence, underneath;

feeling the inner body, now
sinking back, like falling, into Self – how?
A sinking, yes a sinking,
getting low, not high in feeling;

low,
into the lower back, now,
where the hips meet the body, and the breath,
there is an ocean in my belly
tingling, chi pulsing;

feeling it now in my hands and legs and feet,
energy dancing with sweet
delight, animating this vessel of spirit,
so happy to have a body to play with;

Now, opening these eyes
the world looks clearer than before
“I” am more detached, and yet more connected;
“I” am more who I am, therefore,

we have now come to the end
of this, so, let’s self transcend:
how can we be one, friend?
how can we be one?
Amen.

Gentle Crescent

by Nicholas Andrea

Gentle golden crescent
Hanging low in the nocturnal canopy, this eve
Reclining like a hammock strung between two trees

How you steal me, tonight
How you pull a broken man from his shell
I asked the Lord to break this heart
and you appeared, a most unexpected savior,
my friend of the ages;

when have you ever let men down
In all these long aeons?

Your golden hue reflects the one that gives light
to all these things, seen
just as the one deep inside this heart
reflects that which that created it;

what does it mean to be created in the image and likeness of the One
and what is the way home to that
if not upon your vessel, mother
the light that travails the
mysteries of the dark?

How can a man such as I
look upon your beauty
and not see his salvation
a sure guarantee?