I am sitting here in Jaipur,India, and just heard word that Windsor Riley unexpectedly passed away in his sleep.  As Bhagavan Adi Da said, “Death is a Perfect Insult” and I am saddened by this untimely transition. I will miss Windsor. Our community is full of “jewels”, all attracted by Bhagavan Adi Da into His Company, His sangha. To His Eye we were/are very humble. That is certainly true. With such great Gifts and such Revelation, and we all balking and dragging our heals? But on the other hand, we did recognize Adi Da’s Greatness, and came together to help create the Sanctuaries, to Celebrate Him,, to publish His books, to acculturate in our humble ways, new devotees. He was always the Inspiration and the Guidance, and the Heart of it all.    The ragtag group that we were/are gave our lives and our energy to the creation of Shree Hridayam Satsang, The Dawn Horse Communion, The Free Primitive Church of Divine Communion, the Advaitayana Buddhist Fellowship, the Crazy Wisdom Fellowship, The Laughing Man Institute, Adidam. Windsor always epitomized for me something about all of us. He was rough around the edges–but he showed up. He recognized Adi Da and he participated even in the midst of whatever human life problems he might have been dealing with.  Sometimes I wouldn’t see him for a while and then he would be back and around again. There to celebrate our Guru, the Great One that we have stumbled  upon in this wilderness of the world.

 

 

Windsor had just come to one of the book club meetings on Ramana Maharshi earlier this month. And he and I had talked about putting some of his poems on the website. He had just sent me eight poems for me to consider . And so, now posthumously, I will post them here.

First is the introductory note Winsdor had written:

Hi James. I’ve got about 150 poems written between ’95 and 2003. The most productive period was in the 90s.

Most are less than a page.  The major inspiration and instruction was Adi Da reading His and Dylan Thomas’ [poems].

Small pieces of the Teaching spontaneously appear here and there.

A few go on for several pages. One a Mummery book inspired metaphysical odyssey called “Avocado Pearls”.

Here are a few. One called Nothing Less won a spot in some poetry publication.

 

So here are the poems. I will begin with “Milestones”, which in some interesting way can now serve as Windsor’s own milestone. In some ways, all  the poems serve that function. There are eight poems in all.

 

Milestones

From here it looks totally open.

 

Big feet in the furnace

Taking in the scenery.

Earth shifted awake,

Kinda mad with people.

 

Everyone on the only thing they are.

A piece of clever flesh

Dictates the choice.

 

Aimless adherence to a reckless life.

Toiling on blind.

Nearly dead with pleasure

Sunk in the pull of mortality

And making the best of it.

 

Temporary plans at best.

Can’t get a lot out of it.

Clock ticking.

 

Déjà vu!

 

Gonna really get it on!

Make a funhouse out of this

Mad contraction!

 

Live it up!

Take it to the nines!

Go out in a bang!

 

Big print:

“Ego goes POW!”

 

Small time citizen loses it.

“He was a loving father.

A real boon to the community.

A credit to his race.”

 

 

Nothing Less

 

If you search for God you will be disappointed.

But if you gaze real deep into the holy heart

you will be blessed with nothing less

than the wound of the ages welling up

sweetly in your arms.

 

It is said that those who look for delight

find only friends and their story ends

in the arms of everyone.

 

Song of the Crazy Wiseman

 

My hair is full of dynamite.

Stand back!

People want me out of town by sunset!

This town is crazy!

Haunted!

Written in stone like a grave

many years gone!

If  I leave, who will ever come

up to the mark!

My power is blinding and tall

lightning is my trademark!

Truth is, I’ve hardly begun!

 

When darkness is deepest,

a mean place to be,

and days go by golden

and bright with life,

the hells will shower you with roses

and your chakras will drink the red

petals lit with love.

 

If I leave this town

no one will ever come back,

and the red petals of the earth

will never sing from the heart

as they are destined to do.

 

                                        Broken By Love

 

When the pure light is free to roam your soul,

then we will see.

Then the soldiers will live

again countries will rise

and stakes will fall.

The bounty of the bread and wine.

The ticket that gives the hungry

devil of attention his due.

 

A Mad Sacrifice laid to rest

before creation is calling you

to slay this demon

in the even prayers of the day.

His hollow hell is broken

by the love in your chest,

and God does the rest.

 

Stand tall

 

Ain’t no Jesus here for me.

When the saints get pissed,

and rock the ocean from the black

house of Calcutta,

come to my party and yell in my face!

Build the world with babies,

and if your lucky strike it rich!

Turn a trick with the devil.

Numero Uno,

Slakin’ your lust on a long oceanic solo

slow and crazy behind the senses.

Romance your rejection and play your hard

Run around game in the passage of time.

It’s so outrageous to stand tall

when no one cares.

                                  No doubt

 

If doubt ever had a purpose

you can rest assured

it has no purpose here.

When a face can shine with such incredible radiance

that the world grows green at the sight of such grace,

then doubt is a metaphor,

a simple spin on the absolute.

And if you want the absolute

you best hold no doubt.

 

The Wild  World

 

When the perfect  heart emerged

It  was already sacred,

Still,

Pristine.

 

Before  there was time,

The perfect love sped

From the coil of the heart

With young tears,

And the wild world emerged 

In the loud crack of Sundays

Like a molecule dusted with charms.

 

The bare earth throws it’s pulse

Through the whispers

Of  the love slayers.

 

A ribbon of birds

Tip  the bowl of honey

Into the red river

Of deep echoes.

 

The swift electric fence

Snaps and  throws

A long striking  Eden rose

Into the nuclear revelation,

Where love does the dance

In the quick  of the earth.

 

Laced with grace

A severed head rides

The waves of   holy heat

In a chainless  mass of ecstasies.

 

The  head  goes off,

The hands  break from matter

And the room begins to shine

From the  endless beach..

 

No one is home.

The sun is a coin,

A gravitational grave,

A hole in time,

A silver chord,

A negative cutter,

The best life can give,

A slow train to God.

 

As the maid lies in the shade

Of the heavenly glade,

A sultry muscle stalks the night.

Long in the tooth for sexual delight.

Hissing with hells

The naked taste of  sin

Sizzles on the tongue

Like a viper  licking

The eyes of  the stars.

 

As the sun sets toward the heart

The threads of the church

Spread across the sea,

And fingers lit with firelight

Crash like glass

On the mirror  of shouts.

 

Green rivers of unseen grace

Cascade between the clocks.

Men in holy streams move

Towards the mother river.

 

Smoldering beneath the rhythms

Of the planet she cries

For the people  who know her not.

 

Blue rods shoot the  love

From her neck into the lighting

That rolls from her shoulders.

 

Decked in boney blades

The gorilla jewel races

Unchecked from her heart.

 

When the bold bucks walk upright

Into the slaughterhouse

Of infinite tomorrows,

My  pearly benediction

Takes the wheel of evolution,

Thousands of feet in the air,

On marvelous currents

Over the snows,

Deep above the clouds,

Wrecked with light

And so crazy with sweet love.

 

Put me to the task

And I’ll walk out

Kicking sunsets from my shoes

With beautiful women

Weeping by my side.

 

Into the avenue of nerves,

With the ache of a golden nectar

Welling up in the spine of a race.

 

Born to the wind,

Leaving this place

Behind the stars

To rest on beams of light

And rails of bliss.

 

Peels of fiery laughter

Sewn to an omen

Dressed in silk.

 

The shifting muscles of peace

Engraved in the heart.

The spit  from the grave

Left to die

In the opera house.

 

The carnal teaser

wears the  weave of years

And drowns in the heavens

Of moksha glory.

 

This two-bit Armageddon menu

In the end-time matrix

Of open hearted sluggers,

Where the snicker-snack devil

Does his deeds

And the world overflows

With endless needs…

 

Bounce my Columbus

From the forest of greed.

What angry god made

The earth crawl

For billions of years?

 

Until human tears

Danced through gravity

On a wheel of hatchets.

 

‘Til the guts of Rome

Boiled in the walls

And the mock shout

Of the Druid ring

Punished piecemeal punks

By the truckload

 

Kick my parka Chip!

It’s all Hindu rhythms to me!

 

The jewel in the mirror,

The dice in the church,

And those bad electric sumo devils

From the horrible blood place

That rocks the moon.

 

 

The people whispered

Like a sea of doves.

Rough in the yard of infinite light.

 

And I bled my love

into the church of granite,

In it’s sweet wordless day.

 

 

Sat Guru

 

Convicted as seekers

In the light of Great Wisdom

We have recourse to True Grace.

 

Who could reveal such a universal plight

Had they not transcended it?

 

Such Gurus are rare,

Not to be trifled with.

Fiery by their very nature.

Not bound to any form.

 

When they walk the earth

Karmas of great magnitude

Are made docile.

 

When a person can walk into a room

And transform the emotional consciousness

Of everyone in that room

Into Unspeakable Happiness

By their Mere Presence,

That One is a True Realizer.