Poetry Corner

Paradise awaits you, it's already Here~
Patiently waiting for you to come near~

Nothing to seek, to know or to find~
Love is Now, not ahead or behind~

Don't sit and wonder at why your are here~
When what we should BE is ever so clear~

You will receive it by giving it away~
The secret's a circle, made whole today~

Perhaps the answers to all of our deep, profound and seemingly Very important questions elude us because we are asking the wrong questions or even that we are asking, at all.

Perhaps the *secret* to our leading happy and purposeful lives is not in Doing or Becoming but in just Being, Trusting and Allowing.

Perhaps all of the seeking and wanting, looking and striving is Itself, the source of our discontentment.

Perhaps Just This, as it IS, in This Moment, however it manifests in this world of appearance is Exactly as it should be.

Perhaps the *child* in you remembers this, remembers that moment of wonderment when a feather floated softly down before your *open* eyes, when you beheld a miracle and didn't even ask why.

Perhaps This Moment contains the very same miracles, the same *open* eyes, the same wonderment, without asking or having to know why.....Just perhaps~<3

The continuity of a powerless play,
A subtle frequency which holds fear at bay.
A dazzling dance of moments begs me to stay.
A fire eternal illuminates the way.

Many dances through a myriad of moons,
A deathless season, vibrational monsoons.
A journey backward yet forward to the womb,
A silent calling to unearth a mental tomb.

Silence rises to consume a fortress strong,
falling forward into realms of endless song.
A hopeful heaven right here before the throng,
elusive moments to rest where we belong.

Nothing to conquer, no endless search in vain.
A seed of beauty born of bitter pain.
The death of reason, eternal life anew,
all of life mirrors heaven's home in you.

A taste of nothing fills the empty muse.
A mute perception unlocks uncharted hues.
A perfect footstep leads forward onto death.
A faltering fumble awakens your next breath.

Cast all illusions of who you are into the eternal flames of who you Are~

Make no movement, neither forward or back to correct that which is whole~

Change Nothing and sit in the fire of your own perfection~

Can you burn here with me~

Stir the fire, my lover~

Become the blaze~

In These Words~~~

I am absolutely emptied and tossed into a delicious void, spilling over with wordless love and filling this space entirely~

In this song~~~

I am absolutely created and thrown like clay into love's consuming fire, burned so thoroughly, so exquisitely into nothing~

In this truth~~~

All seeming truths become lies unspoken and the simple drum beat of my heart becomes itself, a grand concerto~

We are all One Body moving, always moving,
as if we were movement itself~

We are all One Spirit dancing, always dancing,
as if to the same exact music~

We are all One Life living, ever living,
as if we breathed the same deep breath~

We are all One Moment, this moment,
as if the end were the beginning again~

This mysterious, magical manifestation
with its constantly changing, evolving creation,
rests not for one moment in its fluid vibration
and all answers are found in the question's negation~

With no effort or movement, no searching or goal,
when we see beyond form with the eyes of the soul,
the facade falls away and with it, control
and the you that seemed separate, at once is made whole~

With no reason for joy, one is still overjoyed,
when the "natural state" in seen and employed.
Whilst seeking your purpose the "you" is destroyed,
as the seeker and sought collide in the void~

When all that seems real dissolves into place
and the formless abyss steals your name and your face,
your inner eye opens to the *One* seamless grace
and you rest in the clearing beyond time and space~

There IS no journey to "This Right Here",
though movement and time seem to appear~

We cannot arrive if we've never departed
and all of our journeys just end where they started~

No seeking required in this simple solution,
as the search itself creates the confusion~

The "me" yearns intently for THIS holy reunion,
while already immersed in its sacred communion~

The mind cannot grasp nor survive in this *s p a c e*,
cannot comprehend the depth of THIS grace~

There is nothing at all, apart from the whole,
and in *seeing* this truth, we rest AS the goal~

Pascal’s Paradox

It is not certain that everything is uncertain.
Blaise Pascal

Out of the pearl grey sky
A few snowflakes spin
Through black branches
Clawing at the memories of crows
Unfolding curved wings.

The long headland
Buries itself into a heavy fog
Always beyond reach,
Limp sails forming out of the mist
Culling bells and horns.

Appaloosa horses
Turn into the surf and whinny
Rumbling towards salted grass,
The spartina still green
In tufts of snow-drift.

In the geometry of oceans,
And Lovecraft’s prehistoric cities
The angles seem closer now
When the offshore November storms
Wield serrated edges.

Never divide by zero
An absent teacher once warned
Or you’ll lose your mind,
The first step of a beginner
Rediscovering infinity.

...................................　
Published in
LYNX XXVI:3,October, 2011

Behold in a window a lover's vision,
a tryst of amethyst and blue sapphire.
What within such beauty does inspire? —
as if spellbound in time's oubliette
some metaphorical muse might abet
an escape from my existential angst.
A moth, tapping its wings against
the windowpane, flounders in a web
of shadow, struggling to resist the ebb
of life, perhaps rapt by some fond
hint of summer in the glow beyond
the glass, not content to go to rest
where, unmoved and silent, the forest
in its sepulchral pose has fallen victim.
Then, like some serpentine totem,
this faintly foreboding presentiment
settles in, as I halfheartedly attempt
to chase its chill from my mind—
but it only moves downward to wind
its way around my spine, snake-wise.
And so, as the sun's final flare belies
the cold, I rise to close the shutters,
pausing as a frail winged form flutters
to the ground. Thus this passion play
attains, in the dying light of day,
an end where death becomes sublime.

Such is the peril of the poet's pastime
that the sanctuary behind one's doors
becomes a stage of cryptic endeavors,
wherein the mind, in blind devotion,
working the mine of buried emotion,
succumbs to rhythm's relentless drum.
And so I retreat into my last modicum
of comfort, reticently replaying my part,
following day after day as they depart
into their mercifully muted demise.

Surely it comes as no great surprise,
that signs of change loom close to home,
like a troubled sleeper's mournful moan
in the night. Around me, once familiar
things are beginning to appear peculiar: