The Oneness Program

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written February 26th, 2008

The birds get very excited about this weather,
Infusive splendors of sunlight pricking
The intelligence of the water spirits, which
Dominate this planet as oceans and rivers
And streams and sap and blood. The way
The leaves crowd harmoniously from the
Mind as well as from the shrubbery, the squabble
Of avian exuberance in the first flush
Of spring, voices of the biomass coursing
Through our being, making motions
Familiar and unfamiliar, the mesmerous
Mellifluence of metaphorical bee swarms,
Alerting us to the presence of the electric forest,
Right here in the skin creases and nerve dendrites
On and in our hands. For a moment, the vital beauty’s
Busy-ness awakens us, and we perceive that the floes
Of water are also the floes of light, and that this physical
Sun, however achingly bright, is but a dimmer
Outward manifestation of something inside us
That sets the heart on fire.

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 2/22/08

Love — a word which prompts scarlet and vermillion
And certain intensities of orange to swim out
Of the darkness at the strange edge of sleep,
And brings with it the remembrance of a moment
When even a cloudy sky is impregnated
By the rich pallor of a hidden moon, silk vapors
Swirling with alphabets for the blind,
Whose letters are feelings and colors, the comfort
Of another’s skin when we are helpless without
That touch, the sudden gust of an animal presence,
Eyes in the woods from some creature
Whose authenticity will never flinch from birth
To death, but is always the embodiment
Of the instant and of the giant birthing movements
Of the weather, frost and heat, sunbursts
And gloom, and wind potent with the breath
Of forests and oceans. We rise in that word,
And sit on the edge of the bed, our hearts full
Of that one sound and of all of its fecundity
Of calm. Some of us, drowned in the drenching
Lightness of that syllable, will even feel in its
Embrace the intimacy of an untamed Deity,
The God or Goddess whose faithfulness
Has never wavered nor ever been belittled
By doubt. Why should we question it, him, her,
Now? This fullness is irresistible. Although, sitting here,
On the edge of the bed, we are tremulously aware
Of our vulnerability. No matter, the scarlet and the black
Will have their way, and this word that is too much used,
Will take us home.

Poems:
Reading in the Dark
Matin Water Flames

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 2/19/08

An abrupt series of inaudible percussions
Impregnated the air with an awakening presence,
Like a giant with muffled hands clapping
In the confines of an airtight room.
The atmosphere was heavy with expectation,
Not the expectation of dawn at the end of night,
Although that’s where we found ourselves,
In the squeezed corridors of the wee hours,
But the expectation of a storm. Our first thought,
As we sat upright in bed, still drugged
By the flowery opiates of dream:
“This is the energy of all our annulled resentments.”
The house was filled with spirits, and the body,
Emptied of its relentless machinery of hurt and hurting,
Was charged with amazement. The wonder surrounding us,
Filling us, was drenchingly palpable. Now, we knew
We were going to have to write something,
We were going to have to enrich the silence
With words.

Poem: Prelude

Oneness University : Video

Poem: Counting Two as One

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 2/11/08

She has come. He has not come. But surely we saw the signs.
How the sky changed imperceptibly from blue lapis
To blue pearl, and how the heavens seemed so lusciously
Splashed with salacious pinks as the green lake
Enriched her trembling surfaces with windgusts
Of blue-silver. And weren’t the waterfowl, two by two,
Paired as dark fire is paired with smoldering fuel?
Surely, he, too, has come. Then why do the indigos
Congeal around each star, without engendering
Masculine adoration? Why does the moon cast
His shadow to the ground? Why does he brood
Behind that immobile mask? He has not come.
But the way the water has hollowed out the hill,
Clothing herself with gold, the way the voices
Of the immortals keep croaking from the crowded
Rushes, the way the crooning caresses after
Decades of weeping silence, surely, surely, these
Are the signs foretold. Surely the green moss
That has furred the root ball of the fallen oak
Is speaking to us through the tangles. And surely
The cavern exposed on the steep is the portal
To some deep center. She touches him, and his heart
Grows full and calm, beating its pulse in time
With muted trumpets. Surely the center is open.
Surely this rustling as light as an infant’s breathing
Is stirring him from slumber, as if newborn.
Perhaps it is true. Perhaps the blessing is finally now, and here.
Perhaps the lovers, embracing, have come together.

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 2/6/08

How strangely the night infects us. The precise
Way that the thin layerings of cloud insinuate
Themselves into everything, the mountain, the trees,
Our houses, our very skin becoming veil
On veil of shimmering mistiness, so that we do not even
Recognize the distinction between the human
And non-human, between waking and sleeping,
Between ourselves and the massive, murderous Other.
We have been thrust into this impossible possible liminal
State where the initiation is already underway
Before we realize that it is our own flesh
That is being scarified, our own life
That is being wrenched from its societal
Socket and sprung violently into a world
Of impersonation and freedom and pain.
Even alone, in our houses, we experience
Going beyond. The familiar edges have all disappeared,
And the God being born in our own lank belly
Is garlanded again for the vates’ blade.
How many times have we fallen? How many times
Must we fall, before we realize that these
Tribal entities defending themselves against bliss,
Have chosen us to bare their sins for them,
Have chosen to elude their violent sorrow
By casting us into ecstatic fire?

Poems:
First Notes
The Scapegoat