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Pneumatological Assumptions

Power to accomplish
Purpose through means;
Man's dialectical animators
Now covered by the Sacred Tree.

If the ant could want,
Could hope,
Could yearn,
Could realize,
Could envision
The point at which the circle is joined,
What would it be?

'Tis a substance simple and pure,
Having rising but no setting,
Progress without motion,
Possessing endless depots of consciousness;
Being utterly incapable of annihilation,
Manifesting eternally, Sui generis,
Through and beyond the pentacle.

O Spirit of Man!
Power of the Soul!

Pondering the grammar of the kingdom of names;
Comprehending limitation in the cosmic koan;
Imaging Truth from ocean pearls;
Recalling alternations of light and shadow.

Through the anima,
Flee the animal;

Humility is the wormhole to the dimension of sacrifice,
Where spiritual facsimile dictates choice;
Where wealth and poverty in redundancy meet;
And the power of will though free is bound.

While bigotry rallies in the "regular" guy,
Unable to cherish the mind walks of many,
The power of diversity releases the dreamer
From the prison of mediocrity.

O Spirit of Faith!
O Power of the Soul!

Magnetized by service,
Man is beckoned in love and joy;
Revealing to him his inner vision;
"Between the brows lie sight!"
(Instruct the Avatars)
Heaven's Gate a life vein away.

Crystal, thumbprint, snowflake, soul;
No two of each the same;
From matchless portions of grace to souls apiece;
Issue countless chains of linkings
To a Source unknown.

Respectfully ….

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The Rubicon (written February 5, 2017)

The heart crieth out:
O weary wayfarer!
The Rubicon hath been crossed.
Providence, the Beloved, gazeth askance on the dust.
The protection, once proffered, is removed summarily.
In the meantime, the appointed hour doth arrive.
Oddly, no one, save a scattering, even taketh notice.

The foolish souls of the Earth are many multitudes.
They anticipate, haply sketch out, political battles.
Yea! These shalt, woefully, ne’er materialize.
Verily, abandon, ye, this world’s moribund creatures …
To their own self–serving desires.
Whereupon their deaths wilt forthwith come to pass.
Lo! Those ill–fated beings scurry to bury one another.

Mourn now, thou voyager, for the imminent future.
Ere long, the comedy of errors resulteth in tragedy.
Posthaste, the Unifying Essence of Nature ariseth.
She is attired, befittingly, in all of Her righteous glory.
Her cherubic head turneth to the left then to the right.
By and by, She mightily manifesteth Her vengeance.
The wrath of the dialectic proceedeth from Her brow.

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Geopolitics (written February 25, 2015)

The enemy of my friend is my enemy
And the friend of my friend is my friend

Until my friend becomes my enemy
And my enemy becomes my friend

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Mundane demands have robbed my time
Though I would rather play

Alas this is a part of chi'am
I have my bills to pay

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From Her unto Him

May thy heart find its peace
In the Will of ha'Shem
Where hurts one and all wilt be ended

For life is a journey
From Her unto Him
In Whom all thy wounds shalt be mended

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My life is now a sandwich.
By bread my soul is squeezed.

I wake up in the morning.
By night I am consumed.

portions revealed to me in a dream, 10/3/04

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A spray of jasmine
And a ḥúríya is drawn

Scurry ye ǧinn!
’Tis the break of Dawn

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Existential Authenticity, July, 1999

When July has come and gone
Will the month of August dawn
Somehow life seems just the same
Nostradamus takes the blame

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A Meditation on Condensed Reality

A Sea of grace is all I see;
As the paradigm shifts anew.

To learn who I was meant to be;
By gazing from God's view.

A faculty shared by spirit and sense;
Which bridges space and time.

The Reality which I condense;
Appears within my mind.

My consciousness I do create;
Reflecting on God's worlds.

To this my actions I relate;
My destiny unfurls.

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The Nightingale

I've gone to prepare a nest in my heart,
A place where the Nightingale can rest.

O, to hear the sweetness of His call,
With His charms does His message enthrall.

Backward and forward
flies the heavenly Bird.

Beholding ending in beginning
Through His life-giving Word.

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The miasmas attacked me
From whence I know not

Five times in Forgotten Sea
Perchance 'tis my lot

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The Ringstone

Glory spells the ringstone
Kull-i-Shay in reframe
The legions of the Concourse
Cycle round the Greatest Name

In the graphic formed by letters
With a value each of five
Maps the structure of reality
Sources all that is alive

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The Gate (March 28, 2010)

O Celestial Wayfarer!
Enter by the gate
To the waters of allegiance.

By the stations of thy heart,
By thy will,
And by thy conscience,
Thou canst ascend,
Through ethereal scrolls,
Unto each of the chambers on high.

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The Persian Poets

Saná'í, Rúmí, and `Aṭṭár
Words weaved of silk
By a ḥúrí from afar

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Judgment Day

Although perchance American zadih
The call of the East hath beckoned

Haply in Haifa (the city by the bay)
Is where my soul will be reckoned

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The Serpentine Beast

Behold the warrior king
Andro? Gyn? EEE! Not me
Waging the inner battle
Over a forgotten wing

Learn this, O defeated soldier:

The Word is the Mother
The Beauty is the Father
The soul grew in Eden
Through the power of the other

Free thyself
From the serpentine beast

The war has been won
By armies long deceased

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The Axis (April 4, 2010)

What remaineth to be spoken
Couldst not be comprehended
Lo! And if the words were uttered
Wouldst The axis be dislodged.

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Clock of Death (written at 11 years old)

A boy of youth was white with fear.
His death he thought was growing near.
In tears he sat right by the clock.
Awaiting till it came to stop.

His mouth was dry.
His feet lie still.
He listened, numb and clawed with chill.

He slowly rose, all crushed and sad.
That all the earth stood up and stared.
The angels sobbed, the devils gay.
A big dark cloud then cov'd the day.

But then more fright came to the lad.
The clock of death was going mad.
It turned at thrice the speed of time.
Then four, then five, then eight, then nine.

It then, yes, then, came to a stop.
But then the boy just smashed the clock.
And there it ended.
With a tock.

Rabbi Horizontal Rule

Poetry copyright © 1967- Mark A. Foster