Featured Poems

They call it the nectar of the gods


"The substance secreted from the pineal gland during profoundly deep meditative states is known under various names in different traditions. Ambrosia, Nectar of the Gods, White Drop or Amrita—as ‘elixir of immortality’. This nectar, produced by the reactivation of the gland (through initiation, inner awakening or shaktipat), drips  down the throat and into the heart center." —Igor Kufayev



Nestled in on the Neskowin coast, 
I’ve been here for eighteen hours
staying at Jesus’s cousin’s friend’s family’s
vacation cottage. 

There’s an old swing outback
made from a car bench seat. 
I curl up on it and watch the grasses sway
until he comes to sit next to me. 

His eyes I’m looking at are new
from three weeks ago, but I’m sure
I know Jesus since some other life. 

Here in this one we walk down the  
beach to Proposal Rock sharing irises of saphire    
sky and hints of wave water sparkle. 

When we leave it’s nearly sun down. 
I smoke a bowl sticky with resin. 

He drives an Alero, white and long. 
We crawl through sleepy streets, 
maybe in circles.

In a yard babies shout
while a sprinkler glints in the golden sun
soup—we all simmer. 

Water drops fall on our
windshield and time swells
for just that block. 

From the front seat of his Olds I watch
the place behind my eyes get juicy
and a gush of ecstasy trickles
down my throat. 

They call it the nectar of the gods 
he says, his lightning bolts
brushing my thigh. 

I’m quiet with Jesus
(and these babies I never know). 
Enshrined in millenia-long sun-showers, 
I open my eye. 

Ash Good