The Religion of Love In The New Century: By Ken Knight

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God is Love; Love is God.

This is a simple statement which most of us choose to ignore. Yet prema, the unconditioned love that is Brahman is at the core of our being. There are many who would argue that such statements are nonsense in the face of the daily reports of wars, disasters, corruption and greed that fill the media. Theologians come up with theories of ‘original sin’ and ‘samsara’ and ‘the problem of evil’, among many others, to explain the apparent lack of love in the world. Will the new decade produce the seeds of a brighter scene in the emerging century? Will this in turn awaken us to a century in which a spiritual Reality is the common vision?

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Satsang with Robert Adams: By Kheyala

One of the first stops after leaving Colorado that my best friend and I took in our new home-on-wheels (“Lakshmi”) was in Sedona, AZ to go to satsang with Robert Adams. Many of you may know that Robert Adams (whose body died a couple of years ago) sat before Ramana for years in Tiruvannamalai. Anyway, we knew that he was aging and that a special opportunity awaited us. Now, keep in mind that my consciously spiritual journey was rather new and I had previously immersed myself in the Satsang Mecca called Boulder. I had really gotten a feeling for what satsang was “supposed to” look like and went to Robert Adams’ place fully armed with my finest “spiritual” clothing, “spiritual” face, “spiritual” voice, and “spiritual” sitting posture.

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Stones and Keys: By Alan Larus

Yesterday,

deep inside the forest.

I heard these words.

Whispering between the trees.

‘For each and every stone and key

you turn along this path,

still the quest keeps going on.’

‘The soft edges of each stone,

the worn out handles of the keys

is not made by someone else,

but you.’

‘To tell you it’s already done.

Not once or twice,

but countless times throughout the centuries.’

‘Now turn yourself,

by going home

breaking this spell.

Saying: Never again! ‘

Steve Toth’s Poetry

Natural Poet

Mayflies don’t even
have a mouth
They have to write their poems
in the air
until their wings wear out
& they die exhausted
Rocks speak very slowly
Their poems are hard
to read in one lifetime

Every creation gives
creation another chance
to work
Let’s meet where the seeds
go to die
& the sprouts come
to be born
Let’s read the poems
the Earth writes
to the Sun

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In the Place of the Quiet Heart: By Ken Knight

Leave it. Let them go;
The bruising car horns,
The tearing blare of amplified film music,
The town with its currency of coins and noise
Has no hold.
Come away,
Leave it.
Let them go,
Come to where the currency is stillness.

How is it that one’s purse can be filled?
Beneath the benign gaze of Arunachala
Whose peak draws up the heart’s delight
And whose slopes soon veil the town,
Take the winding path to a quieter realm.
See the greens and yellows and reds of trees, bushes and earth.
Catch the perfume of soft flowers on the gentle breeze,
Hear the sound of your tread on the sandy earth.
Be patient.
Listen.
Listen to the sounds of many birds singing.
Listen.
Listen to the sound of one bird singing…
Soon you will come to the place of the quiet heart
Where all may take their rest by the silent water,
For here is the currency of stillness.

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