I've updated my website for studying Reiki in Bangkok, Thailand. It has a lot of new information and photos from our recent courses. Hope to see you there soon.

http://reikithailand.googlepages.com/home

The Rainbow Cocoon

Life is blossoming in a variety of ways. My direction is more clear now, and I am focusing my time and energy in spiritual healings and spiritual growth with Reiki. My Reiki Thailand website has a lot of information for those interested. The site is: http://ReikiThailand.googlepages.com/

Tom

Yours,

Tom

Dear Friends,

Sorry I haven't maintained the blog in the last six months or so. I have jumped continents, cultures and languages twice each, and somehow have now bounced to Malaysia trying to get my visa back into Thailand.

Hope you can still enjoy the poetry I've put here so far. I've pretty much stopped writing, in order to concentrate my efforts in other areas.

When the pen arises again, the blog will be revived.

Tom

Fire Burns, not Knowing


Fire burns not knowing the destiny of its flames, knowing only the hot apparitions of arboreal souls being whisked from the trunks of history. Fire dreams of Jazz, Ellington and Davis, Coltrane and Fitzgerald, each on the frontiers of ethereal genius, bowing only to the sun in the magnitude of their fire, dreaming they are fire, burning without hearing the destiny of their songs, only the presence of a cryptic melody, embroidered into the lace of their souls, suavely selected from among the urban noise, allowed to evolve,

Exhaled through the brass and the strings, the woods and the winds of a present moment, never knowing whose ears will tune in, whose go deaf, who be indifferent to the inner fire, the vital force of the forest, of the mine, of the universal mind, just out of reach of the saxophone’s highest pitch, into vast channels yet unplucked, untuned by delicate fingers, dreaming of the sun, the original fire, the song, the fire, the sun, the poem that transforms back into itself.

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Copyright 2007, Tom Radzienda
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Song of Green


The song of green and a bamboo flute, an ancient twist whose limbs embrace itself, in time, whose children are birds whose children are songs whose tunes are the colors of the rainbow mountains, all in accord with the Argentine sun waning into winter whose colors are dreamt by ice creams while parakeets and arrow birds interweave their melodies, seashell chimes percuss in the Pumamarca breeze waiting, within Om.

With the coming breath, approaching colors, omniscience of the green, the yogi in the sun, the flight of dreams, a yellow balloon bouncing and bubbling its brief existence down the chalky cobblestone corridor, wiry poplars shade the voices of vendors whose shawls dance ever color of the rainbow, cousins to the parakeets,

While a poet-mechanic repairs the language of the soul, the tapestry where every sound is a blessing, upon which every step is grace.

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Copyright 2007, Tom Radzienda
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Listening to the River


Listening to the river and reading between the splashes and the stream just what the paternal hand has offered us, in flowing disguise, the secret of existence.

Reading the sun’s final request upon nearing the horizon, exhausted it would seem to these chilly stones, outstretched shadows, these fallen leaves, but the glitter on the river is ever as golden as the locks of the angel whose fire assures our existence.

Is this some secret esoteric language that so few understand the sanctity of water, unable to appreciate a sacred space wide enough to spread our souls upon the lawn, without being trampled by the industry of distraction?

A yellow-breasted native takes flight, before being branded with a collar and a name.

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Copyright 2007, Tom Radzienda.
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Runaway Train


Thoughts stampede along abandoned rails, penetrating, nowhere, forever, into the endless abyss of the present, rhythmically flowing, without motion, ever deeper into the here, the empty everywhere, the mind a runaway train, connecting towns of ghosts and fields of grass, one blade upon the other, a smile and a wink, a whiskeyed frown, the trains that come from history are invisible in the now, and the here is ever still, be so these thoughts that consume the vital breath of life.

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Copyright 2007,Tom Radzienda.
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When to the River
Cerro Uritorco, Argentina


Can I walk unfettered through the autumn leaves, breathing the chilly mountain breeze and be, just – simply walking being – not on a path, nor a crusade, not coveting higher consciousness nor greater subtlety –

Just, walkbe,

Unattached to the illusion of my own grandeur, confidently unsure of the boundaries and depths of my being, never sure if I am on the path, off the path, or the incarnate path – being peace, as silently as silence does, with neither reasons nor goals, just

Smilebe,

Not striving towards the mystical realm in material terms, just, accepting, being, here, neither scientific nor spiritual, proving nor denying, never decreeing nor decrying, ascending nor descending, neither active nor apathetic, neither above nor below, just

Gentlebe,

In silence- knowing by not; teaching by not; learning by not; equilibrium without measure, every sense firmly contoured within and around me in the presence of absence of a self in a world not bent on defining differences.

Silentbe,

The autumn breeze whispers the secrets of death to the morning flowers still poising on the drooping stems, to the golden leaves still on the branch, to the thinning hairs still on my head, to the birds too feeble to seek a warmer sun,

Nowbe,

Eternally in the now of life and here of death, where nary a compass could point to the truth; where only rivers know the secrets of the mountains, the secrets of the rose,

When to the river, autumn leaves its place of perch and every lane regales, a walk-in Renoir, the season's final warbles before seeking another sun, blossom the joys of simply being,

As a solitary leaf waits for its colours to fade and its name be called,

A feather is lost, yet flight.

A dog is heard, yet silence.


!
Copyright 2007, Tom Radzienda.
!

What are these Luxuries of Grace?


What are these luxuries? Are they superfluous, unnecessary, bourgeois deceits, or are they great gifts beyond deservance, beyond measure; extravagantly simple blessings upon life?

What is this grace? Is it the elegant hand of love that transcends reason and measure, bringing the whole of the universe to the very edge where now we sit, presenting the world in all its glory through every grasp of life, the trembling leaves of a whisper tree, the enigmatic shadows that fall upon the dale beneath the bridge, the invisible songs of autumn that sing from upper limbs, cold rippling waters drumming the stones that carve the river bed,

This warmth where the sun falls, this breath of crystal air, humongous untouched trees looming over their shadows, minuscule hummingbirds on the cusp of nectar's tongue, dogs at play with the shadows of creation, berries along the path of friendship, a kite's own wind and the very sound of your name – all – magic – all – luxuries – all blessed.

Grace.

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Copyright 2007, Tom Radzienda
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Morning Epiphany
Capilla del Monte, Argentina


To be this sacred day, nurture the silence,

Within; savour the simplicity of a banana ripe from the jungles of Ecuador, slice with surgical precision, divine attention, release the primal energy, within, from the eternal spring of the Argentine sierras, tap the water to brew the tea of the morning epiphany, within, invite the universe to your soundless altar, serve forth the virgin meal; share the inner light.

Come to witness that every word, every sip and every taste, is the essence of our universal selves.

The dandelion stares up at the sun and perceives its own inner mind, reflecting upon

Its eternal presence.


!
Copyright 2007, Tom Radzienda.
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Tears of the Sun
Capilla del Monte, Argentina


This is the Stream, where sunlight engages a million bubbles and calls each one home, for a moment, until each bubble sings its infinitesimally brief elegy before bursting into a tear, returning, its sequence complete, to flow further into the southern arms of Autumn in the sierras, of consciousness.

This is the Stream, of stones bathing naked at the afternoon's foreclosure, rinsing free from a day of colours ever on the wing, beneath three bridges that pursue the mountain chapel, where grace is evidence of a fallen tree, bursting with the green of life, despite its roots upended by the wear and tear of seasons upon the soil, upon the shores, of consciousness,

Where golden leaves express their final opinions of the grazing sun.

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Copyright 2007, Tom Radzienda.
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The Measure of a Song
Capilla del Monte, Argentina


In the garden come forth flowers; reach forth visions.

Upon the autumnal rise of an increasingly reluctant sun, pour the poignant rays of life to which every creature on this land wills its dance; its first and last; and every step in between.

Which song is this?

This long breath of a season's magical touch, composing infinite colours from the chatter of parakeets, proposing grace for the feet and wings of all who accept the dance. Even for the stones which lie dormant and inert, these songs are duly remembered and treasured all the same, even without a smile or a step, basking in the measure of the sun.

Where falls the sun, there sits the man beside the river, himself a shadow of a greater wisdom, knowing that nothing can be truly measured; only experienced.

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Copyright 2007, Tom Radzienda.
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The Harp of Autumn
Capilla del Monte, Argentina



When autumn opens its heart to reveal
The bounty of colour held within its awe
We are lured into the silence of crystal blue skies
Whose breast embraces the depth of our souls

Water of the sacred mountain trickles divine
Tickling forth sounds incumbent in every stone
Music streams through the fingers of the fall
Its rocky rhythm beats to the accord of our hearts

What hand have I in this glory? In this luxury of creation?
What mind have I in this music? In this festive Grace?
What song sing I in natural magic? In humble silence?
My final words strung upon the gently falling leaves

Of the autumnal harp

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Copyright 2007, Tom Radzienda.
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Into the Absence of Time
Capilla del Monte, Argentina


This mild river was then just a dream of the rain, fallen to its wrinkled knees, petitioning the mountain for a chance to flow forth into the absence of time with the simplest directions by which to base every decision –

Always and unfailingly towards the sea.

!
Copyright 2007, Tom Radzienda.
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Gliding through Silence
La Cumbre, Argentina


Silence. The chill of a late autumn morning, beneath grey cloudy blankets; a hot green tea bubbles, waiting for grace to be shared amongst the spirits of dawn, before the sun can gather its rays to pierce the heavy mist, before the city begins its chaotic roar.

Wild green parakeets alone are intimate to the wisdom of sounds, and sing each their inherent delight; friends to silence, for they respect it most profoundly,

Gliding precisely through silence

On delicate wings, thus preserving its sanctity, while accenting it with the colours of evolution, lifting the smiles and souls of those of us still.

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Copyright 2007, Tom Radzienda.
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