Beloved Coming

 

 

My Beloved

should you ever come to me

where my head lies unconsciously

would you be there

shining and melting

like morning through the bedroom window?

 

If you should come

here to the bar of the brimming wine-hearts

you find me drunk as stars

and you say aloud, “Drink and shine!”

 

Should you come

when I am fighting silence in the Garden

you ask me

to listen

the way soil takes in the rain.

 

Should you come to me

when I hide under a cloud

like a teenager refusing the get out of bed

you  say, the way a lover might say,

“wake up, dear one,

there’s no use pretending.”

 

Should you come to me

when I shiver far apart

from myself

you unravel your robe

and speak with body heat,

“I see you.”

 

Should you come to enter

the tipsy burlesque of my mind

fill my arms with a coat and hat

and you say

“there is snow outside on the Temple–

Come and see!”

 

Should you come

to this shy corner of my bedroom

you kneel and say to me,

“Let us pray in the way

a candle burns.”

 

Should you come to me

Beloved one

when in ignorance

I have taken sides opposite

of our love

you say nothing

but gaze at me like the moon

stares at the world.

 

 

 

Chapter 5: A Musical Conversation

Knat of Spirit

 

I am Spirit
cast into parcels
flung like an arrow from God’s fingernail
like a knat I land, stuck
into this great dusty basin
of Life’s oil.

Spirit dives into itself
as thirst
and the drinking—
fills itself with nourishing fat
and drowns.

Now, here I am.
Lost in it.
This oil might as well be wine—
I am so drunk
I forgot where I came from.
Being so bloated in oil
I think I am oil.

I forget Myself—
I sink deeper, again
and again.

My every effort
is frustrated,

yet,
a silent Knowing
never abandons Us.

Even as the oil
begins to roll, and I
am churning inside
riptides of myself,

somewhere deeper
in the quiet
subtle Knowing,
a Spirit is bathing
in delight
and a voice whispers into the pot
containing me, gently
I hear it say,
“Keep on swimming.”

 

 

 

Musical Conversation

 

A musical chord strikes out of the night
by the sound of lovers
two reeds in white sheets
speaking with musical conversation.

A visionary musician becomes enchanted
into the practice of his Art.
He sits deeply in the moonlight
and loses himself
to it All.

The stars are in Kirtan
with the Moon.

That musician forgot himself
into the Names
chanted by that Sky.

A Woman who felt the love stir within her
stretched her soul across her hollow body
to become a drum
for the hands of the Earth.

A musical chord strikes out of the wilderness
by the sound of the warrior
breaking his bow on the shot
for that white Elk of his Soul.

Hearts as clear as singing-bowls
come walking out of that forest
from time to time.

Meanwhile the world of heavy hearts
crowd into the Tavern
with live music.

They hear the reed-music
playing on the roof.
That musician from the forest
who plowed a wooden root from his Mind
and carved it into a love-singing flute.

That musician who struck his own mighty chord
now surrenders himself to a constant
ongoing
musical conversation
with the Sky.

 

 

 

Temple

 

Kneel to pray
the way
a tiger by himself
leans over a lakeside to drink.

Completely natural, with a thirst
more powerful
than the animal.
Not a religious creation.

Be genuine
and heart messages will be sent
like the time the jasmine
flowers caught fire, and then the winds came.

Now those blossom-embers
blow through my library
bringing it down in flames,
all because I asked
“How do I get out of here?”

The Earth and Consciousness
longed for Union
so long, until they made together
Temples to walk in the lands and love.

We need no other building
for that purpose
but Our Selves.

Develop the courage to be
like the sweet apple who merged
with the lean deer. Transformed
into its grace, forsook
the orderly rows of the orchards
to experience the wider connection
of valley roaming
and watering foothills.
Be brave
and tear away the Robes,
the Books.

Swing open your own window
inside the Temple of Faith.

 

 

These are a few selected poems from from the fifth chapter of the published book-title,  “Temple”.  To see the rest of the poems from this chapter and from the whole collection, the book is available for you at the link below:

 

http://www.amazon.com/Temple-Joseph-Montgomery/dp/1494483211/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1397747722&sr=8-1&keywords=Temple+by+Joseph+Montgomery

From Chapter 4: A Mountain Wilding

Day and the Moon

 

The Sun rises quickly.
I get out of the way.
Open the dark robe from around my body
let it cut the mists
right through me.

Last night, my soul left the body
the way a breath exits a hot mouth
on a freezing day.
I go on opening
as the roof is dripping—
my shelter is melting
alongside the frost—
I am thawing apart.

The Sun is rising now
to end sleep.
This is the way the song-bird
wakes to its own music—

I don’t know if a tree falls asleep.
But they do
dream.
And when a whole forest is dreaming
without doubt, full
of wonder,
it comes up
like the Moon.

And when all that dreaming thought
is carried into one sincere
vision of growing
for the expansion of each limb
and root of the woods—
that’s when
the Sun starts rising!

I wish to be there
when it does.
The Sun shines
on participation.
Sometimes
by way of the Moon,
so don’t go rushing to bed!

This day is stirred
well awake.
Here I am
still wearing last night’s candle like a moth.

Time to open the shawl of the Mind—
clean my eyes.
Walk into the Day and the Moon
with new-born
Vision.

 

 

 

Father’s House, Mother’s Country

 

It is a far and flooded road
to the doorstep
of the Father’s house.

Rain on rain
this stone in my heel
and a sun-beaten hat after
that lifetime spent in the fields—
these conditions in my mind
feel hardly suitable to weather
this mountain-hearted country.

However, my Soul
is five million years to the day
when I was an unconscious sleeper
in dust bowls
and gas plumes, in great space
still looking
for my Father’s house.

I was once smoke
filling this good house
when the Earth was
still bleeding from birth.
It is true
a woman must be on Fire
before her breasts are full
with motherhood.
We become Love
bearing children by
becoming children ourselves.

And every man
who calls himself Her lover
or Her son
must work enflamed
with muscle and conviction
in that old wilderness,
again weaving the grassroots
of his Heart
into Her’s.

A lamp swings in the window
of the Father’s house.
I am a soft moth braving
hard nights out of the womb,
wandering for Light through the wild
of my Mother’s country.

 

 

 

Wilding

 

I’ve become an aching, naked root
devoted to this undefined effort,
working through these fear-teeth
facing me out the wilding
of some Great Spirit.

Hearing this body cry out,
barren island
raped stone by the sea.
A mind dies
a clotted cave’s root
full of darkness.
Spirit makes up the difference.
Gradually sending, loving winds,
waves of passionate weather,
and these bathing changes of light,
wearing on
grinding the soil out of pain.
Rain on
rain on
rain,
begins sprouting the loving.
The earth-heart forgives,
reaches in
deeper
and begins wilding!

What was once fear
has become a tiger
in the eyes of a daughter
who loves you.
What was once an unbearable
Spirit, is a Wife
who takes you by the hand
into her wilderness of Beauties
and tenderly
devours us.

 

 

These are a few selected poems from from the forth chapter of the published book-title,  “Temple”.  To see the rest of the poems from this chapter and from the whole collection, the book is available for you at the link below:

 

http://www.amazon.com/Temple-Joseph-Montgomery/dp/1494483211/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1397747722&sr=8-1&keywords=Temple+by+Joseph+Montgomery

Chapter 3: A New World Word

World Word up in Flames

 

The stars have lost their minds!
Raising and raining,
spinning
a contradancing wildfire.

Flaming arms are the tongues
loaded with wisdom
a word spoken
from this
cascading
Empire.

Burning also, was the pelvis heat
that melted this planet, once—
let it rest—
and then again, many more times,
kneading bread.

Bear in mind
you smoke-swallowers
light shines somewhere in those billows.
The spark comes
from deeper in.

A suggestion to you
pyro intellectuals—
burning your mind down
with another man’s knowledge
can be useful
when it brings someone you love
with a bucket of water.

If it weakens your legs
get down on your knees.
If you’re thirsty
lap up a river full of fish.
Drink until you yourself
are liquid—
a fish’s breath.
Drown
inside a minnow’s heart.
Dive
through a Heron’s neck.
Fly into the mountains
and freeze
into snow.

Some seeds you crush
and their flavors blossom.

Some seeds you hide in the Earth
and their true nature rises up.

We burn through a forest
to awaken dormant saplings.
Spring will return
from the ashes.

Wake up!
The stars are burning!

A wind is coming
to carry the message
to the next watchtower.

Be Alone, Tall,
as a mountain spire.

Fortified by your awareness
you will hear the news
coming in on the air

the latest word saying
the world may be
going up in flames.

 

 

Cheap Metal and Moisture

 

Doubt-thoughts are a wind
stealing moisture from travelers
on this long heartland pass.

Build Awareness
when it seems we are traversing unknown
desert rocks, filling ourselves with fatal imaginings
of how we might
slip
and turn out a meal for the scorching sun
or some laughing dogs.

When our souls are up
and mighty, a tent city
flapping like an ocean—
stay even more Aware!
Uncertainty will come in through mice passages
and begin chewing on ropes.
Merchants come through the back
under the cover of reason
ready to sell us out.
Deceptive thoughts always arrive
mentioning the name of an old friend
we used to trust.

Why bother barking rhetoric
about the aromas of soul searching?
Who can understand the spectacular differences
between wood bark
and chocolate
when they intellectually abuse
any thoughts of sweetness?

There are many ways to lose
the moisture that keeps our basket flexible.

This kind of doubting
is a good wheel
spinning in sand.

You have a journey
to move on with.

Keep the lamp on
and do not sell the secret
to your flame
for coins we stamp out by the millions
on cheap metals.

 

 

 

Between Oceans Apart

 

It is a long, deep breath
between the World
of the Metropolis
and the untouched
Misty-Hearted Mountains.

A Man of Spirit—
A Woman of Soul,
they are the only
who know.
Who are subtle enough
to zephyr that path
between both.

I am thankful
that there is a shore
inside us
unbeachable
by this world’s
armor-clad profiteers.

Their smoky cannons
are their minds.

Their wars
are their creations.

I am calling for
that pure direction
where I am the Vessel
with godspeed sails
and a forest for a body.
Undivided
between the rising
and the setting
horizons.

I am here
seeking that clear breath
between kingdoms.
Where to worship Silence
on the most transcendent mountain,
yet trade my Art-of-Living
in the commerce
of the people.

I am here
for that long, deep breath
between the City of Men
and the Heart of Heaven.

A Man of Spirit—
A Woman of Soul,
they are the oceans with their tides
reaching to hold
the breast of those two coasts.

 

 

 

These are a few selected poems from from the third chapter of the published book-title,  “Temple”.  To see the rest of the poems from this chapter and from the whole collection, the book is available for you at the link below:

 

http://www.amazon.com/Temple-Joseph-Montgomery/dp/1494483211/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1397747722&sr=8-1&keywords=Temple+by+Joseph+Montgomery

From Chapter 2: A Loving Friendship

Big Heart Sun

I can’t seem to stop
talking about the Heart.

It has dropped me like a teabag
into another pot for cooking
with mountain water.

So I won’t jump out,
it turns the heat up
slowly.

Does that lead us to the conclusion
not to trust the Heart
with the temperature of our bathwater?

Before you answer, notice this:
how one cup of tea
from that kitchen
fills the house
top to bottom
like a whole shipment
of chamomile from China.

One loose leaf
which you cut with unquestionable
tenderness,
you cut
and stored
as your only link
back to the Sun.

But the garden was already
grown through your hair.
The whole day
already rose
across your forehead.

Just get to work
amongst the tea-leaves.
They can’t seem to stop
talking about
the Big
Heart
Sun.

 

 

 

While Feeling and Fire

Somehow, my dear,
you set a fire
subtly to me—
It is happening
that I am a brushpile
of beautiful night-moths
and aggravated scorpions
being raised from their sleeping.

This fish bone in
my throat now
wants to start singing.

My heart apple has asked
to merge
with your deer body—
then perhaps a promise lies within us
that a blossom will be created
from the seeds we sow.
I do not know
so much
about the way I feel toward you—
I have only observed in your face
is a whisper of the name
I should sing to open the heart-cupboard
inside me.

I do not understand
so much
about how this is
suppose to happen—

but I have played
the unlovable
with great strength.
Now something gives way
and I am composing poetry
with love
beside the fire in my mind.

 

 

 

Mundane Lovers

How does the mundane
cope with this Loving?

Two lovers pull a long white cloud
across their bodies
and the Universe between them
unlocks!
Time and duty
vanish.
Bliss is in their exploring fingers.

A freckle
calls out to God.

A tongue
touches the fire that drives nations
away from contentment
into conquering worlds, or building wonders.

It’s all there.

The jackals of hunger
quiet their whining.
The mind is a bird
listening to the song of its mate.

They stare into each other’s eyes
as if a star was born
from an eyelash.

Yet, like all plumes of light
and dust
gravity slowly gathers all things.
All particles contain
their own duty to the whole.

The lovers must, once again,
draw back the curtains
and dress themselves as actors do
before their parts on stage.
A time to put into practice
playing the game of civilization.

The rhythm is still theirs
to play on harp-bodies.
To take with them
into the tap on brass cups
slap on the steel pails
of the market
street-music.

Shake a bag of chickpeas
and they remember their beloved
in a way
I cannot begin to describe.

Somehow her bartering for turmeric
completes the poem
he wrote on her body.

Pleasantries with the baker,
merchants hustling silk,
mounds of uncrushed pepper
or the dance of coins in exchange—

somehow all these
things
become to those who love
not what they seem to be—
but begin to join the Spirit
behind
all
we
Do.

 

 

 

These are a few selected poems from from the second chapter of the published book-title,  “Temple”.  To see the rest of the poems from this chapter and from the whole collection, the book is available for you at the link below:

 

http://www.amazon.com/Temple-Joseph-Montgomery/dp/1494483211/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1397747722&sr=8-1&keywords=Temple+by+Joseph+Montgomery

 

From Chapter 1: A Spiritual Living

A Game-show Miracle or Self-Realization?

 

Is this a Realization
or just another audition
for a pour paying gig?

So often
we talk about change,
but we return, still too impressed
by weary-old game-show marvels.

What is necessary for realizing
is to pick ourselves up
and participate
in our own lives.
Engage in the prizes
and the bankruptcies
with sincere
and alert
performance.

Automatically
we begin progressing.

Its not going to make any sense to you
at the start.
That’s because our mind
is the King-debater.
Egoic Reason is the stick
for playing Ball.

The Heart is not a contestant
of that game-show.
It’s just always there, centered
in great tides of winning
and losing.

Just notice who you are
and see if there is a longing
to evolve.

This isn’t like an academic pursuit.
Its more like
a natural development.

This isn’t a government handout.
It’s like inheriting land
which requires consistent
and patient
conservation.

This isn’t for everyone.
You don’t have to
throw yourself into jeopardy
over paths to Self-Realization—
most of those
are just game-show miracles.

But If you suddenly
realize
that you are
walking—
then you’re already
on the Path.

 

 

 

In the Question

 

Inside me
is a burning Truth
left unanswered.

I go looking for answers.

Everywhere around me
are unanswered truths
particles of the same
uninterrupted Question.

The Rain says to me on the roof,
“I have the Truth.”
So I ask, “what is the Answer?!”
And the Rain
goes on raining…

 

 

 

Swimming the Experience of Water

 

When a fish has been introduced to its own fins
it begins swimming deeper
into the experience of water.
That day the hawk first felt
the wind it could harness under its wings
meant it would give itself to the practice
every day thereafter.

Today I have discovered the propulsion
of Sadhana, when gathered
beneath unseen
passionately beating wings.

It lands us into arms that remember
the Moon is waiting
behind the rain.

Some connections
usher us away from fantasy,
bringing us back like a breath.

That’s why if the opportunity comes
we need to catch the right attitudes
under our fins.
Swim
courageously
through the waves cast by that pillar
which fell from around your head.

It may feel
at first
like drowning—

We may appear, for awhile,
like a piece of driftwood
pulled around by coastal waters.
But a time gradually comes when we land on the beach.
The waves touch us
but do not remove us.

It becomes easier
for more of our beautiful, rugged forms
to dive into those waves

playfully joining
some lean-hearted love-dolphins,
to explore together,
hug like lovers, and feel
the heart-beat of the ocean
drumming in the tides.

 

 

 

These are a few selected poems from from the first chapter of the published book-title,  “Temple”.  To see the rest of the poems from this chapter and from the whole collection, the book is available for you at the link below:

 

http://www.amazon.com/Temple-Joseph-Montgomery/dp/1494483211/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1397747722&sr=8-1&keywords=Temple+by+Joseph+Montgomery