"Hearing the Voice in us all"
Anyone who is familiar with Toltec teachings, aka Castaneda, will recognize the philosophy of this piece. I found that path forty five years ago when I began reading his work. The juice for this poem arrived after reading Robert Bly (poet). The two variations upon the philosophical theme melded ever so nicely, begetting this piece.
"Hearing the voice in us all"
There was never really any doubt what ultimately came to pass only lessons, which I always found to be hard to explain for always I felt the presence of an inner yearning and those deeds enough to satisfy the words of reason
I came upon a jungle trail at the twilight of my days immersed in the meaning of another poet, I was pulled along in an alluring new direction so gently coaxed to feel my way with invisible hands, it seems which did all the subtle guiding
In a clearing I had reached by the formation of a granite rock in the softest of light, sat a solitary figure, then to the rock to his right with the wave of his hand inviting me to come and join him I sat with the man and heard his explication slowly learning it through a silent acquiescence
The words I heard expressed, though having known them all before, were imbued with the simpler voice of wisdom The journal of life's details, clutched as spurious accoutrements, like the inventory of our journey throughout history The veneration of this holy script, consigns our many earthly ventures to redundant folly
How simple it all sounded, as though a child had given voice, to things which most everyone had never noticed, yet the words themselves were plain, only in a scholarly convention, moving me to the deepest assess of my perception Within the realm of prescience, an inner sight contained, silenced a dialogue I held within myself
Released from captivation, an inner voice prevailed, posing questions to the life we live in dream, for mirrored in the inner eye, the dreamer's twin cast a furtive shadow along the corridors the imagined molds of our lonely island, illusions all they are his voice a subtle music, those words, the notes which played the maestro's movement
The silence of the host, left silence within the seeker, turning many thoughts in ponderous form to questions, and everywhere I turned, for solace from weary travel, the voice of doubt held captive to my reason, the sunlight having faded into twilight of my years, a seeker still on a jungle trail, transposing a tiny island Grant Handgis Copyright 1997-2011