Selected Poems

by John Diamond, M.D.

 

To die
never having released
the music inside you,
is indeed a tragedy.

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What makes a house
a home
is its music.
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A concert hall
should be
as a Temple
where you Know
the Belovedness.

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Don’t salute
the sun,
but every
sunlit dewdrop.

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My mother
is every goddess
that ever was,
that ever will be.

So sings the saint.

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First
to see the Love
under the vicissitudes.
And then
to see them, too,
as the Love. For Love,
True Love,
is Ever-Constant.

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The basic purpose
motivating
all spiritual endeavors
is the overcoming
of misprocessing
so as to, at last,
Know the Love.

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A book should get
smaller and smaller
as it’s absorbed into me.

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A color is not just the color.
It is the Spirit as that color.

Green is the Spirit as green,
blue is the Spirit as blue.

Every color an epiphany!

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A male
can never have
a uterus,
but he can become
a womb.

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A raindrop jiggling a leaf:
all of Knowledge in that—
but I’ll never know it.

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I am a healer
who writes
to heal.

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What is there to forgive
when her deepest Intention
is only to always love me?

_________________

All healing comes down to
finding the sufferer’s soul
and thus helping him to.

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All spiritual endeavors,
all meditation,
all healing,
is to reduce Misprocessing.

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All the problems of our lives
are merely stories
—already written.

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Anguish is a gift
which the Giver
unwraps—slowly.

_________________

As she lay dying,
the nurse kissed my mother:
“She was a lovely lady.”

Lovely, yes,
because she was loving.

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At her end,
I came to Know my mother
as she had always been.

_________________

At seventy,
I look at my photo
sixty years ago.
“That’s the boy
who’s going to be
exactly me.”

_________________

Bach was created
to teach
discipline and control
to Protestants
—lest they be free.

Had there been no Luther,
there’d have been no Bach.

_________________

Be altruistic
to the spirit within you:
do what you believe
will help it to evolve
through your actions.

_________________

Beauty,
Blessedness,
Belovedness.

_________________

Cases are treated,
sufferers are healed.

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Every event a gift
for the spirit within
to grow.

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The ferry boat
to the land of love
runs on music.

Hear the singing over the waters.

The sound of the Infinite.

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Every one,
knowingly or not,
devotes his life
to the Spirit.

With some
—not many—
it is obvious.

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He exercises:
low cholesterol,
but low aspiration.

And he meditates:
high aspiration
but high cholesterol.

Both need
both.

_________________

Healing is kissing
the sufferer.

_________________

There is a double transformation:
each becoming
the other’s mother.
sung with love.

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I am a sacred person,
because so is my mother.

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I am All,
and All
is One.

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I hear your Music
crying for release,
and I help you
to Sing.

That’s all I do,
because that’s all
that’s needed.

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I know
who I am.
I am
who I
should be.

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I know I’m getting better
because the trees
are alive again.

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I love
your love
for me.

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I love the singing
of my neurons, and even more
the feeling
when I’m hearing them.

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I smile
to the Great Mother
ever smiling.

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I start by Knowing
your Perfection,
and I finish
when you do.

_________________

You treat
through the physical body,
but you heal
through the etheric.

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Your hand
as soft
as your heart.

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Your very belief
in self-power
is merely another instance
of Other-power
acting through you.

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I’m dancing
with my mother
as Love.

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I surrender my self
to the spirit within.

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Imagine
the music is coming
from your mother’s soul.

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Writer’s block?
Easy:
I found his Muse
so then he could too.

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With a treater, it’s what he does.
With a healer, it’s who he is.
A healer’s healing is himself.

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We all are God—
because our mothers are.

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We are doomed
to misprocess
because our mothers
do.

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We are the Womb,
we are the Mother of Love.

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When a psychiatrist,
I used to look inside
to see their psychopathology.

Now—their souls.

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Who am I?
I am the beloved of Music.
Why am I?
To give Her love to the world.

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To play on the Pulse
—don’t play.
Allow yourself
to be played
by the Pulse.

It wants to play you
—just surrender.

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Walkers-by
greet Hello,
but runners
too self-absorbed.

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To dance
like the leaves
lifted by the wind
of the music.

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The Tao, the Way:
Ever As-Is.

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Sick—seek.
If sick—seek Belovedness.

_________________

Randomness
is Determined.

_________________

Not the mountain,
but the spirit
in the mountain:
the Spirit
as the mountain.

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My Muse
is always singing.
Usually I’m deaf,
or mishear.
But She’s always singing
—Perfectly.

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Music is speech
lifted in love.

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Music is not the sound
but the spirit
dancing before me,
within me.
As is color,
and shape and form.
All is God as the spirit dancing.

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That particular raindrop
was to jiggle that leaf,
just then, just so,
as destined, Determined.

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Sing to remind yourself
of your mother’s love.

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Singing
“My Heart Stood Still,”
ascending a long, steep hill
—aerobically.

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If it is still,
I take pictures of flowers,
or throw the boomerang.

If breezy,
photos of running water,
or else I fly a kite.

My outdoor life
all depends on the wind.

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Planes keep flying over my kite.
We must be sharing the same flight path.

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The playing of music
without love for The Mother
is the greatest paradox ever uttered.

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Hey, little bugs!
I’m trying to take a picture.
I’m just doing my job –
and you’re just doing yours.