Wednesday, September 18, 2013

Big Sky

I've written a book of poetry. It's called "Big Sky," and it's 40 poems. And it's epic.

You want it? YOU GOT IT.

Here, on this blog, is the longest of them all  - a teaser, a taste of what the book is all about. If you like this post, then email me @

and I will promptly send you a link to access the full book, with 39 other heart-opening works by yours truly.

After that, after I send you the link and you have the book for your very own... then you decide what you think it's worth, and you can pay that amount to my

paypal account.

Didn't like it? Cool - $0.00. Loved it to pieces and every poem shattered your heart into a bajillion little pieces? Awesome - $100.00. Suggested donation is $20, which is $0.50 per poem. But truly, you pay what you want to - please give whatever amount feels fair to you.

As for me, I'm happy to have finished this project - to have actually compiled 40 pieces of art that I feel are worth sharing.

And without further ado, here's the teaser - a taste of "Big Sky."


How do I become fully present,
become real?

Through the creative force of Love.
I am made real only in the action/activity of loving.

Without that I’m a shadow.
I’m just an illusion,
an impotent ghost,
floating along imaginary lines
of identity-construction.

I spin these words
and if anyone else gets excited
it’s only ghosts,
and my voice is just the breeze
blowing through some dead thing.

I cannot will my Self alive -
and yet what passes through my hands
in the action of surrender
is creative energy incomprehensible.

As Love exists in my mind
She’s just a whore,
just a thing:
an idea,
a concept to be penetrated.

But when I’m empty of ideas
and She is truly resurrected -
when She’s brought to life
and my words
and my hands
are guided by a wisdom
far beyond what’s possible
for anyone to acquire...
in those moments,
She’s no whore.

In those moments
She’s all there is,
and there is no one else left
to call Her anything.

In those moments
my oscillations
of seeking and finding
fuse and merge
and obliterate
all traces
of this poet
and there is just
radiant -
suffusing all of life
within feeling-distance
with meaning.

It’s why some choose to sit in stillness
their whole lives,
seeking the ocean inside
and hoping the tide will catch them
and drag them Lovewards.

It’s why some do nothing but write,
and write,
and write,
like this poet’s doing now -
wordsmiths painting pictures
that will never do justice to the real thing.

For I cannot will my Self
into existence, after all...
all I can do is cultivate preparedness
until I’m obliterated,
and so made real,
before being left
to my own devices
once again.

And that leaving,
Her ceaseless coming and going,
makes me think She must trust me.

Because while She comes and goes
here I remain,
irrefutable -
so whenever She leaves me to my own devices
I assume there must be a wisdom at work.

There’s always some vague clue lingering within,
when She’s gone...
some scent,
some dimly-sensed tickle
in the back left corner of my skull,
something thin between the earth
and the soles of my feet
pressing me upwards,
not quite allowing me to forget.

It’s whatever She leaves me with
so that I don’t confuse myself too much -
a recollection,
so I remember that
whenever I resume thinking about Her
as an abstraction,
as an object,
I don’t go too far in that direction.
It’s Her gift of remembrance,
a trace of Her presence
intended to let me know
that no matter how many poems I write,
this poem-writing will not be ‘it.’

And so the question,
dear poet,
the question:

“How do I become fully present,
become real?”

has just one ache of an answer,

“You cannot.”

You cannot will yourself alive.

There’s nothing you can do,
it’s not within your power,
even with pen and paper.

Real is something you become,
like being born.

To be born embodied is one thing,
but to be brought to life,
in Love,
is something quite different.

No parents,
and no fornication
preface this much greater miracle -
just our choice to surrender
and the unknown capacities
of our divinely human heart.

YES I am impotent
and YES there is wisdom in that,
so cry I’ll it out in prayer.

I’ll weep with impotence
and rejoice in the possibility
of Her coming,
and I will not for one second
presume to have plotted the course
of Her movements.
Love is not navigable,
not in any linear fashion.

I try to follow forms, and shapes -
things I hope
will lead me to Her...
but instead She sneaks up on me,
and I am always surprised.

Not to say not to follow the forms!
I will keep to my practices,
and whatever else it is
that helps me remember
that She is always there,
looking out at me
through the eyes
of everyone I meet.

I believe our own
small kindnesses
to each other
may save us,
in the end...

for that may be
what wins Her heart
and moves Love to come,
to come and to stay with us,

once and for all.


... ... ...want the other 39 poems for your very own? Please email me at, have a read, and then pay what you feel.




  1. Loving your Love and focus, Ryan! May i share this poem on the program tomorrow evening ... on: And, would love to have you join us if you would like to.
    Just connect with me, if so- my data is on the page below.

    Namaste' ! Carmelle

    1. Hi Carmelle,

      thank you! your welcome to share this poem if you are able to somehow share a link to this blog as well.

      i'd be delighted to join you! in australia right now it's almost midnight and i'm going to bed... what time zome afre you in?