Monday, December 22, 2014

Burrowing (for Heather) - POEM



Burrowing

A shade was drawn
And I didn’t even know it
The light from her eyes was soul-lit
Infused in my dark corners
Exhaling a sigh of home
Burrowing into my badger earth
Swallows nest
Bear hibernation winter cave
Manta ray sea sand on ocean’s briny bottom

Like gravity
She supports me
With feminine energy
Goddess synergy
Coursing through her
Twenty-seven chakras
Chanting
Ninety-three mantras
She
Somehow exhales
Into my hungry male
Into body and mind
The stillness that mines my
Divine strip mine masculine
Making me want to protect her light
So it always feels safe to shine
To explore the dark parts
Of our hearts
Neolithic hands thickly cupped around her candle light
On a whipping windy winter’s eve
She brings her healing light on angels wings
To two
Who are one
As the silent stars strobe
On the black barren canvas
Of night.


--Eric Marley, for my dear Heather
December 2014

Thursday, December 18, 2014

Other Side of the Mirror - Short Story (In progress)

Angel is a little wild. I've accepted that about her. She's the most devoted, dedicated and complete woman I know but she's lived with a little, how should I say, zest for life, until we started getting serious a couple years ago. We met in Portland and started dating when I was still in school and she was working as a secretary downtown. She had just quit dancing at a pretty upscale strip club where she made enough money to do quite a bit of traveling and buy the kinds of clothes and lingerie that men dream about. Her Puerto Rican features; her coffee flavored skin and curves that seem to have come from the Earth Mother herself accented with blue eyes any sailor would mistake for ocean water... well, let's just say she literally turns heads wherever she goes.

We all go through stages in life. I don't know if calling the first twenty seven years of someone's life a "stage" is really correct, but in her case, I mean, sexually speaking, I guess I call it that because she's made a change. When she told her friends that she had fallen for me, they were kind of surprised since she had always said she would never fall in love with a man. Women, yes, she would have said back then, but never a man. They all figured this fascination with a guy in welding school would pass and she would get back to her normal self, regaling them with stories that would make Penthouse Letters proud on Monday mornings. But it didn't pass. Something about the energy between us, maybe combined with my kind of serious nature and the fact that I have never cheated on a partner when she had never been faithful, drew her to me. Her friends, when we finally met, looked at me with suspicion and a little bit of dread because the erotic stories stopped. But they all said she's never looked happier.

I've always told her that I don't care as much about who she was as much as who she is. She always looks relieved when I say that. We've done pretty well; we live in this small town in Oregon together. Just us, two cats and a dog. I'm a welder by profession. She works at the one decent diner in town, slinging coffee and hope for regulars and wanderers. People feel welcome around Angel. Maybe that's why, even working at a small diner, she makes some pretty good tips. Helps us pay the mortgage and even a special night out once in a while.

But sometimes, after a few long days at work or after hearing some of the stories the guys at work tell, I wonder. My dad always said that our choices make us who we are. I'm 37 now, old enough to know bullshit when I hear it, but that's not bullshit.

Sunday, November 30, 2014

Perspective - Essay



Perspective
An ant walking on a smooth but house-sized boulder has no idea he is walking on a rounded surface. To him, it is flat. Neither does he have a concept of walking on more than one plane as he gains and loses altitude through his work and wandering. He would be mistaken were he to assume the surface is flat and that there was only one plane. Yet from his perspective both might appear to be the case.   
In this culture, we see time as linear and this life as largely one-dimensional in terms of the effects of our actions, beliefs and intentions. Look at our calendar. It is linear. One second follows another and another into minutes, hours, days, years and decades. These are accounted for in a “one-follows another” fashion until the end of our lives. With regards to our actions, the interrelatedness of all things has long been a subject for debate among philosophers and mystics of traditions the world over.  Yet the ideas of karma, of multiple realities and of quantum mechanic concepts such as “superposition” are generally unknown and do not interest the masses. I submit that neither the assumption of time as linear or life as one-dimensional could be seen as true except from the perspective of our mortality, from this one place and plane. Further, I submit that it makes a difference as to the way we experience the condition we call mortal life to the degree that it could be said – and often is – that we are asleep as a species until we awaken to the truth of these matters. Until, that is, we transcend false ideas about them.    
Some estimate that practices that enable us to transcend our mortal perspective in this regard have been in place for up to a hundred thousand years. Transcending the mortal perspective regarding time and the interrelatedness of all life was once the property of the shamans, mystics and spirit workers.
It is no longer.
I submit that it is time for the human race to begin to look in earnest at the wisdom of the Elders of the Earth, wherever they are found, and that it is now incumbent upon the human race to comprehend Life as one might comprehend the voice of the rain.
For instance, an individual drop of rain touches a forest, for instance; a leaf, needle, rock, furry back, upturned face. The drop makes a sound. In that instant, the raindrop has a voice.
Sitting on my deck in the pre-dawn darkness, I hear the sound of millions of raindrops touching the forest. These million voices make the sound that my mortal self has identified as that of a rainstorm.
If there were one voice less, the sound would be different. The difference would be imperceptible to me, but it would in fact be different.
The fact that I, clothed in this mortality, cannot ascertain the difference between a million drops hitting the forest floor and one less doing so is not significant. The sound would be different whether I can sense it or not. I acknowledge that there is a reality beyond my five or six senses.
We assume that Creator is not limited by mortality. We could safely assume then, I suspect, that Creator would perceive this difference. It would be sensed. One less drop would be missed.
I mentioned earlier that while I am clothed in this body, I can hear the voices of many raindrops as they touch the forest. Follow-up questions might include inquiries such as, “How is it that I can hear them? How does my ear discern the sound?” One answer might be that I hear them because there is a difference between hearing them and not hearing them. It is the difference that my ear keys to. I do not hear them before they touch and I do not hear them afterwards. There is a small instant where they sound. It is this that I comprehend as I listen.  
Listening to the rainstorm, it sounds unified, like one continuous sound. It is easy to oversimplify and miss the fact that I am hearing millions of voices. Again, Creator does not miss this fact, but senses the difference between a million and one less. Creator’s perspective is infinitely expansive.
It is Creator’s perspective to which we as a species must begin to comprehend, not with the mind, but with the traditional seat of the soul, the heart.
Just as we can see that an ant walking on a boulder is not walking a flat surface. He is not walking a single plane.
--Eric Marley
September 2014

Busy (Prose)



Busy

It’s 7am on January 1

So far:
·         I spoken only one cuss word to myself
·         I’ve spoken aloud to no one except Steve the Dog (except the cuss word)
·         I’ve planned my escape, and possibly my demise
·         I’ve said goodbye to everything, and hello to whatever lies ahead
·         I’ve had no new love interests all year (and no old ones either, except the One that won’t go away).
·         I’ve written some prose
·         I’ve put off a more peaceful route at least three times
·         I’ve felt some hope and already felt my old familiar, despair
·         I’ve planned at least four major life-direction possibilities that will manifest in the next 8 weeks.

I’m tired, and I need a nap.

--Eric Marley
January 1, 2014

Saturday, November 8, 2014

Luminous Trail (for Heather) - Poem (Final)

Luminous Trail (for Heather)

My hands know
Releasing yours
That the condition known as
"Alone"
Is only temporary

Still...

They look longingly at yours
As they fly away again
Cursing the concept of distance
But at the same time they see
Somehow
A trail
Made of
Light
Hope
Gratitude
Awareness
Joy
Presence...

Ghostly faint of
Luminous paint -
My empty hands know that the trail
Will put our hands
And hearts
And souls
Together
Again.

For a trail like this
Once set afire
Is never extinguished. 

--Eric Marley
For my sweet Heather
November 2014

Monday, September 15, 2014

Portland's Finest - Poem (Slam)



Portland’s Finest

Cuttin’ phone poles
Cuz I hate the noise they make
Environmental terrorist
Cuz I am not a fake

Cop cuffed me, cussed me, hit me and smiled,
“Lissen here, boy, you gonna be here a while
I wanna know your name,
Where you’re from
Your game
Tell me who you run with
What the fuck you are
Or its gonna be a long night
In the back of this police car.”

“I see, cop, you wanna know who I am?
I’m the impact between the four horns of two rams

I’m the dream that makes you awaken, panting
Lost in an ocean, alone and drowning

I’m the way that your wife looked with lust at that man
That could rip you in half with own bare hands

I’m the daughter you had that you couldn’t protect
From the boys with the drugs that you have to inject

I’m the gang that you fear that shot up your friend
Unlimited weapons and funds with no end
That slink around corners and fall through the cracks
That make you feel like you’re under attack

But that’s just the beginning my badgering friend
I’m the war that you started that has no end

I’m the kid that you hate just because he’s black
That might be a suspect so rat-a-tat-tat

By the fear in your eyes I know that your size
Is shrinking behind the false pride that you hide

So do what you want cuz it’s all coming back to you
The abuse that you levy, to me, is nothing new

I belong to an army of people that look like you
That mix with your crowd and drink with your crew

Make you nervous? It should, bitch, cuz we’re all around
Infiltrating your culture, waiting for the bell to sound

And when the bell sounds and it’s time to take action
I’ll be looking for you with a pissed-off faction.”

He looked around.
No one could see.
He un-cuffed me
And set me free.

--Eric Marley
September 2014