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How Will the Human Race End?

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Author Topic: How Will the Human Race End?  (Read 4268 times)
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Posts: 47

« Reply #90 on: April 17, 2014, 12:42:43 pm »

The Blind, The Horse, The Mulberry Bush, and The Water

“But where will God lead us?” ask the bureau-
crats of visionaries. “Far away from
knowing,” they respond. “God’s mission thorough-
ly expects that we children will all come

to enjoy all the rides at His county
fair, His fun times playpen, and resist all
that peace affords, to dance in Earth’s bounty
and stay lost pursuing Nothings: that call

of the Mountie, chasing criminal ghosts
to return what Grails they have stolen to
their rightful owners, all those hopeless hosts
who know less than what laws allow.” “Are you

sure?” The bureaucrats ask. “Our only task,”
say visionaries, “is lifting the mask.”

You’ve all ways been, you are here now, you will
be all there is. There’re books they’ve found from times
long past that state this like a quiz. What’s still
stays still, what moves is change, all life has rhymes

with both; our yin and yang trade lots with Tao,
so all can know life’s growth. There is no end,
there is no time, there is but here and now.
All else is hopes and dreams and turns to send

us back to ‘how’. The times we’ve come and gone
and come and gone we cannot add. Each age
is when God blinks an eye, or lights life’s dawn
a tad, or writes a page for fiend or sage,

so games are fair and fowl. So mind the prowl
of cats and snakes that hiss and strike and growl.

You are that he, who knows no bounds, whose home
is time and space, whose box of crimes is filled
with rhymes that ask what drives life’s race. You’ll roam
this stretch of Hell’s great depth with all that’s billed

as fine; but what you share is your own fare,
you will not draw the line. You are the first
to see the script; you should have looked with care.
You did not know the loss you’d find, the worst

prize in death’s square. Your tree of life is all
there is as source and goal in time. Your task
was snared with what’s been aired; it fits this crawl
through slime. There is no grace that solves the mask,

this game of peek a boo; so blast right through
these veils in life, and find out you are “who.” *

*(The owl is not wise at all; its truth is in the game;
  for wisdom lies in what it says, the “Hu” which speaks your name.)

When God the Mom and God the Dad sit for
a game of chess, and fiends and saints choose sides
to see which moves will curse or bless, their score
is tied at one to one, with love that hides

their plans, where hands of fate are charged to see
which plays will lead the clans. The game will cross
an age or more, and all moves will be free.
The give and take of pawn and knight is loss

that feeds life’s tree. This game is staged from charts
while sides choose arms and shields and wards. The rules
can change to suit the play, so too with parts
and boards. The game is played to see if fools

can bridge blind holes with peace, so those who lease
a square in time can move, when played, or cease.

If You Were Wondering

First the good news: “We’re immortal.” Now, the
bad news: ”We’re immortal.” With minds wide o-
pen, forever, there’s need for simple a-
musement with aspects of Divine Self, so

awareness of permanent solitude
is not a constant. There you have it: all
of the games of persistence and the rude
persistence of games in a nutshell. Fall

from grace is viewed as diversionary
moments in materialization,
play time in a play, excursionary
visitation far from Realization,

that state of Being One, far from the fun
of, “Now we are here; look what we’ve begun.”

“Green Grow the Rushes…”

“One is One and all alone and ever
more shall be so.” How can a song older
than dirt say all there is to know, never
hinting at depths, what’s hotter or colder,

though placed in scriptural terms, or leading
farther on towards what’s based in native rhymes,
wind’s pages, water’s letters, sand’s pleading,
fire’s breathing? Who makes for crow’s nest climbs,

searching, needing logic’s lands of why, that
leap across fluid‘s rights to share certain
death for all trying to escape Hell’s mat
and lair by hiding behind Eve’s curtain,

that Nothing left to show: One is One though
all alone and ever more shall be so.

When Payment and Raiment are the Same

When God provides mythologies for all
His children dear: variety of pi-
ety that seems so damned sincere; those tall
tales are a smoke screen blinding all and hi-

ding Truth, with lessons leading nowhere for
each ghost and tramp and sleuth, revealing not
a single clue for passage through Hell’s door:
that locked exchange between the worlds that’s rot-

ten to the core. Diversions that we think
are life are roving games of chance, that change
with every thought we think, or when we blink
or glance, or view these worlds we think aren’t strange

while drifting through our dreams, where nothing seems
to offer peace that’s free of Hell’s extremes.

All is as One; there’s no divide; One’s Soul
is all there is, though forms are infinite
in kind, God knows All Soul is His. One’s goal
is in revealing The Divine that’s lit

within, that hidden spark that’s One with All,
that’s never touched by sin, that breaks forth from
its form and shell, its limitation’s stall,
a home away from Om, that is the sum

of Mother’s call. We all are part of One
Great Being, infinite and free, that share
a common origin that was begun
with three root causes: flame, light, heat that bear

all worlds within their sphere, while sparkling fear,
through light and love, helps burn our funeral bier.

Illusions in illusions cause no end
in all of time, where space is just time’s friend
in deed, and motion fits life’s crime, where blend
of junk in orbits fixed may help to send

us home, or foster new attachments to
God’s fools who need to roam. Confusion in
confusion makes disorder through and through,
where Babel Tower’s power makes all sin

a “Who knows who.” With all those layers trapped
in layers it’s no wonder why, we fail
to find sane answers to life’s questions wrapped
like sky, in constant motion seen through veil,

a spider web disguise, where all God’s lies
of Truth and Love make fools of those thought wise.

Down, down we fall from Heaven’s gate re-veiled
in time’s worn cave, a playground slide that’s fun
to ride as long as we behave, as jailed
and cuffed parolees under lock and gun

detail, surrounded by some friends and toys
where all life’s play will fail to free the lost,
all those stuck here through wreck and storm and noise,
where few can tell which offers smell: the cost

each fool enjoys. If you can’t think, you’re dead
to lost with all that you endure. You’d have
to keep score by yourself to know who’s fed
life’s cure, the anti-virus, shot, or salve,

that magic little key, that’s hard to see
in darkness planned that guarantees what’s free.

Reincarnation is the way that God
re-tills the Earth. It’s not the best way to
ensure that souls have destined worth. The odd
thing is we think we’re chosen, blessed with new

design, that fosters chances for lost souls,
allows us to refine our means and ways
to challenge Fate and reach for Heaven’s goals,
with all things new there’s just a chance our plays

won’t reap huge tolls. But take a second. Look
around: this world where freedom rings, where peace
and love and cherished thoughts help breed Hell’s book
on things, that may be evil or release

some ills that halt designs, where clues and signs
of righteous Truth make lies steer what confines.

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