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merkaba-weltkugel

So, welcome now to other half of space
in time untellable, a few parts still untouched
these planes and curves of tetrahedral night
through journeys have no end, they are not mine
or yours, they are—and timed precise to follow
neuro-logic beats from zero, empty, slow,
to speedy seventeen, the time it takes upon
initial thought to grow a system beam
of argument, to feel connected or alone,
deprived, inspired; better, worse. We fell,
some say, to density but have never been apart
and all that glitters (why ever not?) is gold
we seek with more than measurable eye
when led by starry realms, we see ahead
to all that is, to which we may add words
of sweetness and soft cushioning. No king
could claim the finer—all the while, the girl
who leads this tale continues to be born.

Soon, she started noticing while traveling, apart
from increased speed, that others sought to follow
her approach of conflict-free. Some touched
her feet; others tried to write her words,
which seldom worked; for what I say is mine
and you, yours; all the meanings that you fell
and tripped on were inherited; and thus the night
of suffering appears to jaundiced eye
to never end. However, our intrepid girl
moves on, approaching ever closer to the king
she seeks whose edifice is just ahead,
so close you’ll see the filigree of gold
around his bed. He sleeps alone
and sports quite merrily by day. Born
to natural abundance, he’ll sometimes slow
for pleasure’s sake, no other, and the space
he claims and freely reigns upon
is infinite. He thinks in exponential beam.

All you thought of him before to space
dust has returned, and what befalls, befell
our heroine has vanished too. For Now is born
continuous, which means that all I claim is mine
by saying so. To argue for assent is slow,
exacerbating loneliness, when alone,
All One, imagining is fabulous! Our girl,
her fable of ever-weaving tabulae of gold
is lifting her to heights ne’er touched
by any but the ecstasies, exalted beam
of graces, cubed, quadrupled. Words
fall short, though if we carry on, the eye
can lead us through immensities, a part
beyond, including sacred and profane. Follow
where untroubled leads, and joyful night
encompasses the day. You might well sit upon
the carpet known by Al-lah-Din, ahead
he was of his own time & thus became a king.

Too much of same perpetuates the slow
in thought streams that are born
a-fresh in dreams. With all being mine
our monarch too forgets that light of eye
must be renewed in ways apart
above, beyond the flesh and thence to beam.
One day, a young gazelle began to follow
him, fearless, even while he hunted. The king,
perplexed, left grain for her one night
and when he woke she stood alone
in his encloséd garden whereupon
he thought he’d lay a trap and so fell
at her feet to offer charming words
that always brought him praise and gold.
The tawny creature stepped back a space,
wide-eyed, recoiled when he touched
her, and to his disappointment ran ahead
into the woods. Of course, she is the girl

who, running, left behind footprints of gold
that worlds material spent until they fell
and wars broke out and angry words
became the currency that holds apart
what never was unjoined. Had he touched
her prints or gathered them, to follow
would have been impossible. Through space,
through layers, twists & coils, he closed in upon
his object of renewing desire, and the girl,
confused, knew not why she fled. Mine
has been to journey here; by cruel night
and day, I’ve shaken off insipid eye
and feeble thought, have mastered born
and born again, yet now this kingly beam
disorients and I feel more than anything, alone.
If I should stop, consent to what the king
might say or do, if I should slow
myself to let him run ahead…

She backed into a quiet space
dissolving in a way that few except the girl
had learned. To think she was alone
would be inaccurate. Countless others fell
before her to this state, newly touched,
unable to discern from practiced eye
of history a remedy for overwhelming beam
that led her to this voice proclaiming, mine
you are, without the tinge of slavery. Slow
and cautious, she crept behind, apart,
surrounding her pursuer like a mist to follow
and know better the nature of this king
whose dreams through every reborn
state included her, and all the gold
she thought and left behind at night
appeared to be the same prosperity upon
which he constructed kingdoms. Ahead
he ran. Not seeing her, he turned to words.

To you, who are my life, I am your king.
To think that I had everything, apart
from you, I could not know. If all is mine
and you are not, then futile are my words.
By thinking that for you I have been born
opens a chasm of impossibility ahead
that no current measurements of human eye
can see as real, apportions me a space
that if I could, through mastery of night
unfear what talents this young girl
displays, I’d move beyond palatial gold.
But isn’t this how kings and nations fell
before my time? Meta-states pursued alone
with neither cause nor rhyme, of touchéd
mind they are a sign. That I must follow
if you choose to lead I swear upon
this puzzled head to do, and beam
me with an iron cauldron if lazily I slow.

Too much of rank suspicion had the king
consumed through envy and competing space.
That infinite might rearrange if born
within new thoughts impelled the girl
to creep into his room at night
and stroke his arms and hair. He fell
with each successive dream upon
new planes with greater destinies, a beam
of light became his bridge, untouched
by mere solidity which moved too slow.
Allowing symmetry and wholeness of alone,
he learned pure imagery to build and follow;
crusts of centuries of shame from eye
and ear dissolved, replaced by gold
the pure vibration humans seek to mine
in ways corruptible and fevered. Ahead
lies everything, no need to stand apart.
The simple thing now, to draw down words.

The wedding feast became a part
foundational of all the holy books: mine,
yours, and every metaphor of eye
and ear to pluck or lend, their role alone
to amplify. For when the king & girl first touched
in full desire of awareness, thereupon
the limitless becomes inheritance. No night
so dark, no lies of hopelessness, though born
will live to overthrow the fulfilled king
whose partner, spirited and free with words
cavorts in lively play behind, sometimes ahead
of him to bring back caravans of gold.
And should you decide, one day, to follow,
leaving behind the unworkable and slow,
to meet unseen the brightening beam,
your tale untellable of not who rose and fell
will reach the eardrums of a certain girl
who soars, a comet, through galaxies of space.

Though apart we’ll never be, illusions of space
of mine and yours will link us like the girl
whose fixéd eye ensured the one who fell
would never be alone. Believe the lighted beam
that’s touched you will accelerate, not slow
the dreams upon your pillow that you follow
every night flawlessly to earthly and divine gold.
For these you were born. All that lies ahead
is promised by the king of infinite words.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2013
Image from merkaba-weltkugel.jpg

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