Thursday, July 30, 2015
Liberating the Wanders (Prismacolor on Watercolor paper)
by Wes Hansen Copyright all rights reserved
"Kyema! Out of unconscious karmic instinct I now wander in samsara. May the radiance of the primordial innate free me from all fear. O peaceful and wrathful deities, lead the way. O supreme consorts and great dakinis, hold me from behind. Show me how to cross the terrible path of the bardo. Point the way to the state of buddhahood itself.
When countless empty images appear as peaceful and wrathful forms, may the buddhas hold me with the hooks of their compassion. When the five great radiances arise, may I recognize them as my own mental projections. When the peaceful and wrathful deities appear, may I remain strong and without fear.
When the force of my own negative karma brings pain, may my mandala practice hold me free. When great thunderous sounds arise in the bardo, may I hear only om mani padme hum, the mantra of compassion.
May I rely upon Avalokiteshvara, Buddha of Compassion. May I rely upon samadhi, the meditation on inseparable bliss and void. May I see the five elements as friends, and not as enemies. May I see right now the realms of the five buddhas."
- from the Bardo Todol
The Blessed Mother or Where the Honey Is (Prismacolor on Watercolor Paper)
by Wes Hansen Full Copyrights Reserved
"This Day-maker of the oral tradition, which dispels the darkness of the three worlds, rising out of the god's path, our investigations, is what makes the lotus of the correct view blossom. Hence, it is a treasure banquet for the hordes of bees, the great meditators."
- Khonton Rinpoche, “The Wish-fulfilling Jewel of the Oral Tradition,” as translated by Jose Ignacio Cabezon, the Chair of the Religious Studies Department at UC Santa Barbara, in the book, “Meditation on the Nature of Mind” (http://www.wisdompubs.org/
I walk in the Shadow of Ancestors
thinking back on Misspent Youth,
Crystalized thought stabbing Life,
Killing the Psyche.
Deserted stillness comes like Death
While trying to find the last Kernel;
Happiness, Slippery as the worm
Avoiding the Hook
Evades the search, killing memories
Whose only purpose tricking one more Day,
Like a Whore to some unseen Pimp.
Monumental Madness disguised in
The Full, Blood-red Moon rocks the Tide
In a violent Trance; a beaten Roar.
Woman, Dance on my Corpse,
Help me ride the Threshold of
Time in need of a Partner.
Lapsed moments condensed into
Future Promises, maintaining the Shadow;
The Sickness cured by Dreams of
Self-mutilation. I hang from Two Hooks,
Pierced flesh a prelude to my Own
Private Peace; an Offering
To the Woman, Dancing on My Corpse.
I walk in the Shadow of Ancestors,
An outlaw aberration dedicated to
A Creative Mythology; My own Jihad.
A restless Native looking for Art in the
Land of Change. A neophyte tamed by
the course of War. Contempt for Life,
Cradled in Reverence for Death, redemption
Refused and Discarded, a spoiled, petulant
Philosophy rendered mute by carved Flesh
Hanging. Living sculpture in the form of Man
Suspended, Blood red dripping into the Mouth
Of the Woman riding the Moon.
I Love the Woman as She dances,
A celebration in honor of a Warrior’s
Death, and still I walk,
A meandering Journey in the timeless Shadow.
I escape the Tempest, turning Within,
Sitting in Silence, Doing nothing,
Seasons pass anew. The Shadow?
The Shadow takes care of Itself.
It’s something to ponder.
I set my own hooks and I enjoy it immensely . . .
An Ode to the Keeper of the White Lotus
by Wes Hansen Copyright all rights reserved
“I wish I could describe the feeling of being at sea; the anguish, frustration, and fear, the beauty that accompanies threatening spectacles, the spiritual communion with creatures in whose domain I sail. There is a magnificent intensity in life that comes when we are not in control but are only reacting, living, surviving. I am not a religious man per se. My own cosmology is convoluted and not in line with any particular church or philosophy. But for me, to go to sea is to glimpse the face of God. At sea I am reminded of my insignificance – of all men's insignificance. It is a wonderful feeling to be so humbled.”
We were separated at birth,
the torrent, Alluvion, came
sudden like and the
massacred ego, awash
in the tempest hue,
had no harbor against
The images after, constructed
from Native spirits
untethered in the cold
inferno of an endless winter,
emerged from the
Wheel of Medicine.
Spiritual, ephemeral, requisite . . .
I had . . .
I had so much to say,
but the separation was overwhelming;
I could only scream and yelp in
Beard pulling gibberish born
of the anguish . . .
the anguish of separation prior to
“Come back to me . . .
come back to me,” I cried,
“and I will beat music
inspired by the love and
the Fury into your wintery
And we will make the love sounds,
forlorn but elemental.
And we will cherish the blue depth
and ride the current together
And we will persevere into the
But the torrential wind
beat down and caste
my plea into the
deafening abyss of
and I was
alone . . .
Love was ripped from me
and I died an infinite
Death, transpired in bleak
ugliness, arisen in
the youth sacrificed
to scarred flesh
Warriors . . .
And I became a man accustomed,
the ten-thousand horrors, the ten-thousand ecstasies,
the ten-thousand, ten-thousand,
meaningless fodder but for
the ancient hymns,
Dauphin elegies. 
And the truth became realized,
A mantra of praise, beseeching:
“Have mercy on me,
a castaway drifting;
have mercy on me,
an initiate to the Wandering;
have mercy on me,
an intrepid traveler;
have mercy on me . . . “
And mercy was granted
in a blissful suffering
of color, sound, and fury;
a suffering reminiscent of
life before but fully engaged;
rapture without capture, free, but
suffering still . . .
And the cold Destroyer
beat down upon me,
fleeting moments substantial
in sheer volume.
I laughed, I cried, and
I screamed, “Come on . . .
come on with your furious
display.” The violent lust
of rapture flowed in
rivers of blood,
full . . .
But for a moment suspended,
my flesh torn and bleeding,
did I remember the riot of
And the Passion was Love . . .
1. Pelt, Dauphin Elegies, music for the Journey . . .
This little poem and the accompanying oil painting were both inspired by the excellent books of Dynamical Chaos theorist and computer scientist, Ben Goertzel: The Structure of Intelligence; The Evolving Mind; Chaotic Logic; From Complexity to Creativity; The Hidden Pattern. I highly recommend all of them!
by Wes Hansen Copyright full rights reserved
Ponder this …
Life is just a Stream,
Thought, in Mind Divine,
It moves beyond Perception
Where time, collapsed, remains unknown.
Newly born Stars, Planets spinning,
Naught but New Ideas unfolding;
Plants and Animals, All of human consciousness,
Just a thread within the stream.
Inspiration comes, a Shock stirring the Nebulae,
Awakening potential, the birth of emergent form.
Cause becoming Effect, Effect becoming Cause,
a convoluted return to what has always been –
Infinity, boundless and eternal.
Scientific or Mystic, the approach matters not,
the conclusion, Universal, transcends Duality,
a Singularity giving birth to Thought Divine.
Relative stillness, demarcation unknown,
the result an Experience where
Time, collapsed, becomes Time Present.
Death and Re-birth, the slightest shift,
Awakens a New Paradigm. And yet,
Ancient and Perennial, It’s spoken of
often and Available to All.
Pure Heart, Pure Love …