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Wow, I published this without a title. If forgetfulness was the goal, I’d probably be quite successful.
As stated in a previous post, my upcoming memoir and my upcoming collection of song lyrics and poetry is now an upcoming work of the two as one.
So, in this post I’ve included both a song lyric and a poem:
The lyric is full of the gloom of winter. It has a pretty and melancholy little finger picking melody which carries it along I think. I hope readers will be able to appreciate it standing alone here.
Yet it doesn’t entirely stand alone, as the poem is a hopeful one of a spiritual Springtime.
As always, I really appreciate your coming by to read. Please leave a comment if your so inclined. Namaste, jesse
p.s. The photo is from Seattle in my street musician days, back in the 70’s.
(a song lyric)
Every day I have to come back
Every day I have to bring myself back
from this love or some other
from my cold-hearted brother
the untrue friend
We spend these years together
We search for God and then He finds us
Yet now you write and call me never
You fill the empty miles on this crowded bus
with all this nothing to discuss
fair weather, fair weather
Every day I have to wake up
Every day I have to shake myself up
from this love or the last
from all daydreams of the past
the faithless lover
With the innocence of the intimate
in the spring we planted a child
In expectation of the benefit
we believe that nature has smiled
but your heart is never reconciled
and that will mean the end of it.
Every day I have to come clean
Every day I must admit what I’ve seen
of this love and all the rest
No love can pass the test
the false God
creates the hope that lasts so long
as we dance by the midnight oil
as we sing the traveler’s song
where in the garden of love we toil
where we grow like dreams in the fertile soil
until the winter comes along
Every day I have to write a verse
Every day I have to fight the curse
of this lie and every one
for the truth that must begun
for the only one
Only the hopeless have reason to hope
Only the lost can be found
When finally we come to the end of our rope
at the end of the world there is a sound
something to stand on when feet leave the ground
some light in the darkest… where we grope.
Love Like the Spring
Maybe now Spring will come, now that news of You has preceded
Winter has been left with all the burden
he was given no choice
he could give but little comfort, yet he gave what was needed
We’ve dreamt of you in colors white and true and pure
We’ve imagined You—we didn’t know who You were
when we would go to bed crying from the cold
when we’d wake up, still dying from growing old
Are these the days of old, or is the world yet young?
For all we know, we’re in the dark
just primitives around the fire
all simulation, full of wow and flutter
ending lonely, homeless, reduced to mutter
while the world races along on fuel and spark
When my Master left, I had not yet begun
I stood alone on the hot sand beneath the burning sun
I turned stupidly, confused, and in all directions
not another living soul to understand my objections
When Winter came, it was good to be buried
under the snow so deep, under the frozen grass
until the longing could stir again
But as a seeker I have no skills
I go this way and that; so vulnerable against strong wills
But could my weakness prove to be Your strength at last?
You begged Him to accept that man on the end
who had consumed alcohol and meat, so then
Maybe, for me too, You could put such a request
that could soften His heart—since I can’t pass the test
since I’ve never become strong like the rest
since all my failures, I’ve confessed
Maybe You will appear like the Spring
bringing the sun and the rain in contrast
over the windswept hills of this time
Maybe love will have no choice
but to sing of my pain and loss with Your voice
but to answer with the future and to leave behind the past
Stepping out on a limb with this one. Hope you will appreciate it. Had to get it out; it was weighing me down. As always, I am very grateful to my readers. Please comment if you feel so inclined. I’m glad tomatoes are out of season. (:<)>
It seems like the closer we get to people on the outside
the farther away they are on the inside
I would gather my friends about me
but I can’t bear to feel that lonely
I heard my friend crying out
in the mournful way of the forlorn
and I ran to bring some comfort
but when I arrived, that voice was dying out
and I was greeted with such scorn
Spirituality is a lonesome battle
don’t kid yourself, old son
Spirituality is a bitter pill
don’t look at anyone
Spirituality is a chain gang, man
the worst is yet to come
Spirituality comes as a hypocrite, saying
This is the way it’s done
Spirituality is a blind eye turned
to the dying embers of the sun
Spirituality is an empty park
where the children used to run
Spirituality is a well of impatience
where we drink our leaders’ poison
Spirituality is a pecking order
where the strongest beast is the one enjoying
Spirituality is a parade of masks
in which, all secrets are revealed
Spirituality is a fairy tale
where the hearts of fools are sealed
Spirituality is the sport of the pompous
of the gurus and the pundits
Spirituality is for the hairy apes
My god, I’ve been there, done it
Aren’t you tired of what spirituality is?
of what it has become?
Aren’t you tired of, even religion being more pure
I thought maybe you were
Aren’t you tired of dying in false promise?
of your brother being your enemy?
I’m tired of spirituality, I tell you
I’m a spring wound tight to breaking for spirituality
I’m a lunatic with hands a’shaking
Get me out of this god dammed spirituality asylum
where no one has a clue!
Think all you have to do
is say God, God, God
Well… I’ll hide it from you
If you want them to think you’re crazy
just tell them one thing that’s true
Spirituality is a firm and stern correction
for reaching out to anyone
Spirituality is the distant echo
of a graveyard full of fun
Spirituality is the common thread
of the burned out bitter ones
Spirituality is perpetual movement
toward nothing ever getting done
Spirituality is at the gates of fear
where the pitiful wailing songs are sung
All I wanted was to love and be loved
How did I get involved with this spirituality?
I heard my friend crying out
in a voice so lost and real
and I ran to bring some comfort
but when I arrived, that voice was dying out
as if, after all, it was no big deal
Yes, I’ve been conspicuously absent. I’ve been working night and day to establish our BlueHome Artworks consignment shop within the New Vrindaban Community. I started a blog there as part of the online store/website: The BlueHome Blog, where I talk about the value of thinking small, in terms of supporting small and local businesses, artisans making hand crafted products, agriculture, etc. Village economy, really.
So you can check that sight and blog out if you’re inclined to. Here, I intend to maintain my personal stuff, including my writing, my spiritual quest and ponderings, etc. I know; it’s a summer picture I’ve posted, but the current view from our home is a little bleak right now, since we don’t have snow yet—at least not any that’s stuck. But as you can see, it is snowing on the picture anyway.
So here’s my new poem. It does, in fact, contain some of those ponderings. I hope you enjoy it. As always, I invite you to comment if you feel like it.
Setting my Sights
Jesse S. Hanson
My Father is dead but my real Father lives
My real Father is dead but my even more real Father lives
Jesse is gone but then he never was
I never could find him
Just some vague familiarity with someone who always disappointed
Where is my family, my kin?
I wait for them on the shore where the boats come and go
But not them, no
Where are my dogs and my horses?
I don’t see them run and bark and whinny
Over the hills, willy-nilly
Where are my girls, where are my boys?
My songs are dead but my real song sings
My dreams are dead but my real dream waits
For me to wake up
From dead and dying dreams
I have to set out
I have to go on a fearsome adventure
I have to set out across the wilderness with only faith
Since I lack courage
Since I lack vision
Since I lack identity
I’ve always had to cry as the years have gone by
Where are my rolling prairies?
Well, those men have plowed them
Where are my towering hills and splendid valleys?
Those men cut them down, dug them out, they were sold out for baubles
And a plastic future
Where is my beach, my little house on the ocean?
All washed up, built up, soiled, overgrown, weeds and litter
My land is dead but my real land lives
My Father is buried but my real Father lives
My real Father is cremated but my more real Father lives
Jesse is gone but then he never was
I have to go to another land
I will grow weary of this childish tantrum
These sentimental tears
I will become forgetful of all things behind me
Become tired of mourning a life that did not care for me
A home that was not there for me
I’ll set my sights on the unknown distance
Across the ocean of this lost existence
My Father is dead but he’ll be forgotten
My real Father has gone on ahead
My even more real Father is here waiting.
Here I have listed a selection of websites with Information concerning the Masters of my spiritual Path. This ancient Path has been known by various names down through the course of history, including: Sant Mat—Surat Shabd Yoga—The Path of the Masters—The Way of the Saints—Science of the Soul—Radasoami Satsang—Ruhani Satsang, and many others, depending upon the lineage and culture of the Living Master of the time.
http://www.ruhanisatsangusa.org/ruhani.htm –a USA based site in memory of Kirpal Singh of Delhi, India [1894-1974](first Sant Mat Master to visit the Western world. Master Kirpal first came to America in the 1950’s.)This is a great site for obtaining Master Kirpal’s books and other media.
http://www.santji.allegre.ca/4-index.html –USA based memorial site for Ajaib Singh [known by many of his followers as Sant Ji] of Rajasthan, India [1926-1997] (Gurumukh disciple of Kirpal Singh) (Sant Ajaib is Jesse’s Master)
http://www.santji.allegre.ca/lifesj/lifesj.html –this is a page from the previous site, but I listed it here because it contains both a beautiful brief biography of Sant Ji and a lineage of the Masters, going back to Kabir, Who was the first Sant Mat Master to appear in the age of Kali Yuga.
http://www.ajaibbani.org/ – this India based website was created and is maintained by the residents of Ajaib’s home and ashram in Rajasthan.
http://ajaib.com/ a website with a lot of information and material relating to Sants Kirpal and Ajaib as well as Sadhu Ram Ji. It is called” Sant Ajaib Singh Ji Memorial Site”. This site is created by the followers of Sadhu Ram Ji.
http://www.mediaseva.com/ –this website is a great source of the books and other media of the modern Masters. It is run by the devotees of Sadhu Ram Ji.
http://www.scribd.com/doc/53735046/Sant-Ram-Singh-Ji-A-Brief-Life-Sketch -Not to be confused with sites concerning Sadhu Ram, this is the biography of Baba Ram Singh Ji of Bangalore. Ram Singh was initiated by Baba Somanath, a contemporary of Kirpal Singh. Somanath’s mission was in South India and He had a great many disciples in that area. When Somanath left the body, Ram Singh was twenty two years old.* He then followed and remained under the guidance of Ajaib Singh until Ajaib left the body. He considers both Masters to be His Gurus.
http://www.santbani.hu/ –a website concerning Sirio Carrapa of Ribolla, Italy [1952- ](Italian disciple of Kirpal Singh and long-time representative of Ajaib Singh) This is the English version of a site that originates in Hungary. Sirio considers both Kirpal Singh and Ajaib Singh to be His Gurus.
www.santbaniashram.it –the original Italian website about Satguru Sirio Carrapa
There is a great variety of sites with information regarding Sant Mat. It’s a natural fact that when a true Man of God, or Godman, leaves the earthly plane, there are often a number of successors who carry on the work of their Master. Sometimes there are controversies among the devotees over the authenticity of these successors.
With that in mind, but having no intention of in engaging in controversy, I have noted here only a certain few websites that concern the Guru lineage, as I understand it leading to my Master Ajaib. I will state my personal opinion that I do not believe the issue of successorship can be decided on an intellectual level―”But the Master said this…” or “there is a will…” and so forth. To me, it is purely a matter of recognition. As Master Kirpal Singh used to say, “If your old Friend comes to you in a new coat, won’t you recognize Him?” I pray that with His grace, all the dear ones will find themselves at the Feet of their perfect Guru―their perfect Friend.
The authenticity of other branches: I honestly know little of them. I understand spirituality as a very personal experience, and that, in all reality, we do not choose or find our Master or Guru, but rather He finds us. He leads us to Him. He makes us come to the satsang. He makes us sit and meditate. He makes us do His seva (service). It is all in His Will and pleasure.
Most fortunate are the recipients of the Guru’s undying, unconditional, and all-encompassing Love.
*Sant Baba Ram Singh’s age:
I had previously written that Ram Singh was nineteen years told when His Master (Baba Somanath) left the body. He was actually twenty two at that time.
I came to the conclusion that certain parts of my poem, below, were too cryptic. I like cryptic, but it was not my intention here.
For one thing, the transition at the end was too abrubpt. Other things too, that I first perceived as subtleties, were making the meaning sort of ambiguous. So I made a few changes.
Should anyone be kind enough to take another look, I hope these changes facilitate understanding. jesse
It’s long been my understanding that the Kali Yuga is the most auspicious age. It is really the winding down or the growing old time of the creation, or that part of the creation that is sometimes called the material world. Russell Perkins, former editor of Sant Bani Magazine and author of Impact of a Saint, once used a beautiful analogy of a spring that is unwinding until, unchecked it simply flies apart, to explain the parodox of Kali Yuga.
The beauty of it is that the grand illusion that we’re under is becoming more obvious all the time. The impermance of things is very much in our face these days–these years–it very much has been so from the beginning of the age, I think. And with the illusion coming undone, the idea of spirituality gains popularity, and the implementation of various types of spiritual practices becomes more prevalent. Kirpal Singh, the great Mystic Saint of the Path of Surat Shabd Yoga (Sant Mat), told us that in Kali Yuga there would be more “fragrant Saints” coming into the world to show us the Way.
So, in a way, we could say the world is gone into it’s twilight years. It may still be coming to it’s very dark years; some folks certainly believe that it is, I don’t know. In any case, some of us have been practicing (or more accurately, attempting to practice in cases such as mine) spirituality for the better part of our lives and we are now entering into our own twilight years. For many of us, our Masters who have loved us and inititiated us, years ago, have now left the body. They haven’t left us in the truest sense, but physically we have had to go on without them. It is natural to seek out “our old friend in a new coat”.
With that long introduction in place, I do hope you will appreciate my little poem, the path in twilight, which I dedicate to all of my old and new brothers and sisters, who, touched by the love of the fragrant saints, is going forward in the shelter of the same.
Thanks for stopping by my blog and I invite you to comment if so inclined.
jesse s. hanson
the path in twilight
jesse s. hanson
I am your true kin
taken in by the same mysterious and otherworldly benefactor as were you
we were brought together by the wonder of, in the awe of that love
Who took us into the home
where we were fed and clothed and taught right from wrong
told stories of lovers as well as of cruel lords
and of the true gravity of our ghostly lives in this world of ghosts
of our perpetual births and deaths
told stories of lovers by our hero of love
until the time when the embodiment of that love left us
confused, disoriented, wandering, as before, over the parched wasteland
in fear and sickness and terrible dread of our future
long times go by
by remembering we live, but forgetting we near perish.
in the distance, shadows cross the path in twilight
remind us of our loved one
you turn that way and I turn this
chasing shadows in search of bliss
He asked if we would not recognize our friend, come in a new coat
but also added, “Don’t follow the false one.”
in love, I send you greetings, I write a letter
my old friend, my brother, my sister
will you, in turn, write me off at worst
or worry about or worry for me at best
saying, truth is truth, is it not?
so has the perfect love from the perfect lover become imperfect
by our imperfection
by some fatal mistake?
do our anguished cries of separation and longing that caught our beloved’s ear now fall on deaf ears?
has the heart that would melt like wax at the pain of the children, of the dear ones, now become as hard as the stone?
are we thrown back to the wolves?
what then of love
what then of perfect love
perfect love is perfect love, is it not?
so if my friend wears a coat of cotton
and yours a coat of mail
and if now you’ve found you’re not forgotten
I’ve also found that love can never fail