“The Ray Man Shabad was written by Guru Gobind Singh, the tenth Guru of the Sikhs, who was a master of yoga, a master of poetry, a master warrior, and a master of the Shabad Guru.”

Notes from this post.

Ong Kundalini Yoga Mantra

Bound Lotus Kriya

Snatam Kaur

Ray man eh bidh jog kamaa-o
Singee saach akapat kanthalaa
Dhi-aan Bibhoot charaa-o
Taatee geho aatam bas kar kee
Bhicchhaa naam adhaarang
Baajay param taar tat har ko
Upajai raag rasaarang
Ughatai taan tarang rang
Gi-aan geet bandhaanang
Chak chak rehay dayv daanav mun
Chhak chhak bayom bivaanang
Aatam upadays bhays sanjam ko
Jaap so ajapaa jaapa
Kaal na kabahoo bayaapai

Translation

Oh my mind, practice Yoga in this way: Let Truth be your horn, sincerity your necklace, and meditation the ashes you apply on your body.

Catch your burning soul (self) and stop the flames. Let the soul (self) be the alms bowl in which you collect the sweet Naam and this will be the only support you will ever need.
The Universe plays its divine music. The sound of reality is shrill, but this is where God is.

When you listen to the reality from this place of awareness the sweet essence of Raag arises. Waves of melodies, emotions, and passions arise and flow through you. Bind yourself with the song of God.

The Universe spins like a potter’s wheel and from it fly demons and angels. The sage listens to this and instead of getting caught in either one, the sage drinks the nectar of the heavens and is carried to the heavens in a divine chariot.

Instruct and clothe yourself with self control. Meditate unto infinity until you are meditating without meditating. In this way, your body shall remain forever golden, and death shall never approach you.

is like a rain of a single flavor,

but depending upon the nature of the living being,

the way in which it is received is not uniform,

just as the various plants and trees

each receive the moisture in a different manner.

The Buddha employs this parable

as an expedient means to open up and reveal the matter,

using various kinds of words and phrases

and expounding the single Law,

but in terms of the Buddha wisdom

this is no more than one drop of the ocean.

I rain down the Dharma rain,

filling the whole world,

and this single-flavored Dharma

is practiced by each according to the individual’s power.

It is like those thickets and groves,

medicinal herbs and trees

which, according to whether they are large or small,

bit by bit grow lush and beautiful.

-The Lotus Sutra

in the back up in the tree not yet identified
in the field guide
right on the property line
where the fence and bark are scabbed together into one old lady’s face
is the nest four stories up
a permanent autumn cocoon leaf hut
providing respite to the grey furry friend
rolled up yin yang style swaying in the winter
supported on spored veins sprouted from the tree not yet identified

and it’s kid book up in there

with the shake and sway of suburban winds
when I look out from the 11pm bedroom
the leaves and twigs put together
in a brown autumn vintage basketball hive
shrouded from all elements and threats

moving with the earth metronome

was is it terrified instead?
food, clothing, and shelter

on the sort-of-inside          actually on the outside open mouthed at the trough.

All on the outside.

the secret is whispered in dark

as rising as falling as air moving in sleep silence and calm
her breath a small steady wind believing me to the secret i screamed at and made known

a secret destroyed analyzed dissected becomes broken

signs previously revealed

{secret summertime window-unit air conditioners alleviating hell;
triumphant ferry rides across bodies of water;
and bringing a child into this world;}

cling as loss
as nothing
as gross
as evil perhaps
reveal that which should not be written revealed

to one who had given me life

broken trust with a traveler, a god, a lover
off-colored salt habitually filled damages and
bitter scalpel inspected the works the wounds
corpses rolled in graves
words not written

balloons deflated on all membranes

and now magnificent glory
the secret is whispered in dark as rising as falling as air moving in sleep, silence, and calm

the passiveness of nighttime pets soaking up the cicada sound
and boxer dogs chomping at mosquitoes reflexively
long after the fly by and not caring

horns and motorcycles in the blocks away, having run over roads that are now their pasts

Just a physical space of the diamond.

with saliva licked index finger to pick up broken mirror shards off a bathroom floor

and sawdust shavings from the garage out back

to strapback the senses on
to saddle em up

and trip out on sounds and the relation of distance
the tree paintings beyond the periphery out the kitchen window, simple green skeleton on blue jello
and cicada wha wha that does not stop with no sweat from a supersonic earth rotation

giving meaning to nothing and creating ones from twos and twos from ones and still feeling alone
but together like the broken mirror before the break or the oak before the processes of alchemy and saw

mechanics of speakers in the park, generators blasting the current from a cd in days of mp3
down by the river on the island
an island with an art deco fairy casino and magical abandoned aquariums
and a flourishing conservatory
that houses the science fiction of plastic pink plants and
asexual horny orchids being nothing in form fairies of perfection

overgrown at once tight green bushes against the bubbly grey sky once contenders in majesty
and now just reveling in a pseudo untamed growth refusing to be trimmed or tamed
like the music from the impressive technology of portable sound that can overtake the island
in its repetition and romper room
smelling the glazing barbecue and becoming inspired to order fast food fried chicken, wondering with wine

and waiting.

The picture is of-Working Model of Divided Oval: Butterfly, 1967; Bronze, cast 1982 (1967, marble original);by Henry Moor at the Frederick Meijer Gardens in Grand Rapids, Michigan.