Published: 7 May 2025

The meaning of rocks

The first dilemma the seeker of truth must face,
how will I know which rock is mine, which is best,
my spirit rock, the one meant to be my guide?

These are legitimate questions, but misleading.
One must ask what will lead me to my rock?
Am I prepared to serve one or many rocks,
how must I engage with my rock to know I am for it?

The second dilemma is most subtle and profound.
How do I worship my rock so I find worship of myself?

Think of the rock as a mirror. Now, throw the mirror in running
water. Let it be caught and carried away. The water and the mirror are one.
You cannot look for your reflection within it. That is gone forever.
So begins your spiritual evolution.

The third dilemma is so commonplace, the novice
may laugh. It is anything but common, and hence most important.

I have achieved perfect happiness with my rocks. They speak
to me with the voice of my mother, I hear my father’s song within.
I am at peace and content. What more do I require, what should I do?

More Poetry:

Paper time

Paper is a Time Machine, but it only goes backward in time.
Don’t ask where it begins, I don’t know where to begin,
but I know when you read you’re transported back in time.
I’m certain of that, but not much else. Is it part of the pencil

Radish

Santa Claus of the garden,
you bring snap of winter
to the mouth, crisp frosty heat.
Some call you icicle, watermelon,
breakfast, French, pink, orange, purple
(dirt had a real grip on that one.)

The killing and dismemberment of Osiris

Gods are murdered in ritual,
with family in attendance.
If not as executioners, then moral support.
The god must be torn apart
thrown into all that is and is not.
Sister brides always grieve
journey to join the god together,
as he has always been put back together.

Mom on deck

Call for Mom.
She’s needed on deck;
no one else will do.
Who could possibly replace her?
Santa Claus or God?

Related

Paper time

Paper time

Paper is a Time Machine, but it only goes backward in time.
Don’t ask where it begins, I don’t know where to begin,
but I know when you read you’re transported back in time.
I’m certain of that, but not much else. Is it part of the pencil

read more
Radish

Radish

Santa Claus of the garden,
you bring snap of winter
to the mouth, crisp frosty heat.
Some call you icicle, watermelon,
breakfast, French, pink, orange, purple
(dirt had a real grip on that one.)

read more

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