Tag Archive | Challenge

Breakfast at Ethos…hold the Ethos

I got up this morning to coach an Ethos class at 7am.  It’s important to me and it’s becoming less of a fight with my laziness because I let it be important to me and I support that it’s important to me by showing up which helps make me stronger in the fight.  I imagine if I keep it up the “fight” in this area of my life may just fade into the past…no more energy spent on the suffering.  That’s a nice thought…

I had a chance to write some morning Poetry – morning I find is the best time, or one of the best times, I feel less polluted, more connected to what’s important to me.  It struck me, as I put the headphones on, that maybe I was floating away, away to the surface, away from the deeper parts of me, the deeper parts that would provide the STUFF…where the conflict, terror and love live…I put on the headphones, it felt good, but my mind brought the question up and so I followed it…what I found was I choose to make music coming through the phones a restrictive thing (which is no different from making it an expansive thing – at least in the way I was doing it).  The point is that there’s something underneath the hearing of the music and that’s where I want to go.  I ended up putting the phones on and challenging myself to exist in that moment below the beats I was hearing and then I continued and played with wondering about living underneath sight and smell and sense…

I don’t spend a lot of time questioning my senses or ever wondering what life would be like without them.  Is my life better because I see?  Hear?  And if so, why?  I could keep going but instead I’m going to post the poem I wrote…I do hope you enjoy it, I hope in some way that you find it useful, that’s the greatest I could hope for…

What’s underneath the beautiful chaos
rhythmelodic staccato drop beats pound thump
and I feel like I want to exist on the same level
as the beats
coming up, staying up – for air
playing at this level, where most play
it’s easy easy to forget the day
and why not
with a bobbing head one conquers the world.

What’s underneath the beautiful chaos
the spread of buttered beats on my brain of bread
Can I have my bread buttered
and eat it too
and then lift my head, swallowing the beats
thumping down into the belly
ingesting the horns and bleating trumpets

It’s hard.

But I’m up for it.

I think it’s going to take some time
and that’s only if I keep practicing.
Otherwise I’m going to be bobbing my head
all the way to the grave
snapping my fingers to a manufactured beat
like a drone
directed remotely
How different am I
from the drone.

What’s underneath the beautiful chaos
what’s inside the package
how important is it to vilify your senses
in order to put things in perspective
so that you can be friends again

I am like a soft and malleable sponge
who thinks he is a rock…

and as I sit, plugged in
I struggle struggle struggle
to get beneath the intent of the music
I struggle to hear only noise
and see only light and dark.

I have to do this because there is something
underneath the beautiful chaos.

This is my day.

Fathers and Sons

I – Sons

When the deepening occurs

you are seated, once again

for the first time – familiar-.

Yet no sense, no thought nor emotion

would have ever held the potency

for this.

Fears evaporated like water (and, if not mindful, others will replace them)

But for now the vapor is cause for amusement

and learning

and after oceans have dissapeared

you can walk along the sea bed

and wander – wonder

at what was always there, underneath.

Ahhh but what, what could be this heat

that makes an ocean inconsequential.

What must this scorching heat be –

oceans turned to dust.

And the shells that are left glitter



intent unchanged.

Don’t be fooled…although the sun sets

and the waves lap easily

the oceans beauty betrays the fearful,

the real beauty is the solid rock below.

Ohhh what tremendous fire ball cooks the betrayer

turning to dust all that is not rock and solid

while glittering, simple things lie

as they always have

in complete


and peace

at the bottom.

What ferocious flame.

What size of sun.

What Herculean Heat

is responsible

for bringing what has been hidden

into view.

II – Fathers

I don’t understand how one man could kill another

once he has looked into the eyes of his son,

into the eyes of the woman who is and has given him.

Perhaps if the child is taken by force,


But how.

-are these childless men that celebrate death by force-

We only live in our world

and in mine I am changed, deepened.

How does a father begin to murder.

This questions is new and the answer

doesn’t come to me

and I don’t know.

In my world there is no murder – only gifts

gifts that have struck me dumber

awakened me from my slumber,

the number of times I’ve closed my eyes

and the lies and furrowed sighs

and alibies

fall away as I rise

to meet the giant that is my son.

And as I stand and stretch and reach

to hold myself up to him

I feel my body, my foundation, my glittering

priceless things shaking with humility

at what lies directly in front of me.

My Son

-I think-

and I weep like the child I once was.

My Son

-I think-

and I put down the guns and the allow

the fortress to be vaporized with all the rest.

My Son

-I think-

I allow myself to be defeated

and I look into my smiling and bursting heart

and see My Son.

Live Like A Live Wire

Live like a live wire

Something funny while eating cereal

toasted O’s in plastic and cardboard

I realized how I allow the lies

and how I shape them into my sculpture

So I sat and wrote about it, after finishing

I wrote about my story and my dreams

At how completely I have allowed myself

the compromises that layered, like liquid amber

the stories of my life, each layer hardening

before another is laid down, lies, compromise

just a little, a little more

and the hard shell makes it hard to go back

Like a bee trying to escape through a closed window

I hit my head, I hit my head, I hit my head

but unlike the bee

I eventually give up and turn away from the light

and when that happens all that is left is the

fluorescents of my mind

and the bountiful hallways of concrete and steel

bountiful is part of the compromise, lies

Live like a live wire – and how is that

I ask – a live wire is fire and twisting energy

shooting electrics and sparks and hiss and pop

and unable to be contained and impossible to be contained

and so then I dreamt again of a part of me

that had grown tired of life, after working so hard

to not be tired and working and working

that part of me committed suicide in my dream

Live like a live wire – I now think to myself

and glance in my mind like a voracious tiger

at the paper and fabrication all around me

at my glass house in which I have been quietly

and diligently seated, it’s not about making noise

for sure, it’s about living like a live wire

there is no way the flammable walls can hold

up against the flying sparks and besides

it has nothing to do with the walls anyway.


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