Raising the Dead

The sun sets the sky on fire as it bids us goodnight, and we float into the star-kissed,

beckoning darkness... drums, sitar, flute, waves and engine rising into the sea above...

a sweet smell.

Looking out...reaching out into the depth of the sky, into a sea of beauty without end...

and all of this is within me. I am drunk on the joy of life, and I realize again that this

is the heaven that I've woken to find myself in. I've died and gone to heaven...

and died and gone to heaven...and died and gone to heaven...and died and gone to heaven...

We run aground on an isolated beach...a place full of life, of celebration. We wander over

the dunes, among the small trees that anchor the sand, that stretch out to entwine themselves

with the earth.

We find ourselves deep in conversation, and together we realize that to be "spiritual" is to

be a poet, to see, live and express life as poetry, as song...

My friend and I begin to build what will be a fire, and we need sticks and leaves for tinder.

As I wander through the trees, looking in vain for dead sticks, I begin to sing to the trees...

I sing of bringing life to the dead...I will gather their dead, and I will bring them life. They

will become part of our song, of our passion...they will become light, rising into the sky,

never to fall again...immortal. As I sing this song of resurrection, they lead me to a place where

the dead are gathered, a pile of sticks and dry leaves, and I joyfully gather what will become

warmth and light and community. They lead me here again and again that their dead may live.

Around the fire, time is illusion. As I drum along to the guitar, I learn once more to strum,

to sing, to dance with my fingers...sound is music is praise is joy is life, is power.