Trees know both ways. Roots down in the bowels of the earth - hell's fiery energies which feed the soil - rhizomatic connections in the underworld AND branches reaching out into the sky's open blue - feeding on sunlight and waiting for the cloud's pregnancy to yield nourishing tears.
Trees know both ways. Stillness and movement. Stability and flexibility. Wholeness and multiplicity.
Trees know both ways. Older, much older than us - as inhabitants of the earth and in their life-spans.
Trees know both ways. Know all ways. A spherical planet with trees as spikes protruding from all angles of the lattice of nature. Each tree pointing out to a different stellar system, extending infinitely.
Trees see nothing. Say nothing. Hear nothing. Taste nothing. Smell nothing. Yet they are in constant communication with all other nodes in the network of life.
Tell me you haven't wondered and I'll speak of mysteries - similitudes between humanity and trees. Our relations stand in silent witness - their swaying making the wind blow. Our breath. Their life. Bound. Together.
Shining threads
Friday 20 May 2011
Wednesday 18 May 2011
Many ways to say no
There is the slammed door.
The lowering of eyes.
The cruel laugh.
The sideways glance.
The silent treatment.
The disapproving look.
The raised hand.
The shaking head.
The snatch back.
The desperate scream.
The angry chant.
The roadblock.
The suicide note.
The gentle refusal.
The lack of interest.
The day in bed.
The hunger strike.
The sign of prohibition.
The blank shrug.
The refused gift.
The frigid crossing of arms.
The empty apology.
The absence.
The lack of reply.
The empty seat.
The discarded ring.
The ripping up of the contract.
The deserted house.
The life unlived.
NO ricochets through the universe - passed on through a million actions and non-actions.
A team of negative spirits play psychological tennis with a team of positive spirits.
Everyman's soul lies in the balance.
No is part of Heaven.
The cards of YES and NO are held close to our chest and the destiny of our heart depends on how we play them.
The lowering of eyes.
The cruel laugh.
The sideways glance.
The silent treatment.
The disapproving look.
The raised hand.
The shaking head.
The snatch back.
The desperate scream.
The angry chant.
The roadblock.
The suicide note.
The gentle refusal.
The lack of interest.
The day in bed.
The hunger strike.
The sign of prohibition.
The blank shrug.
The refused gift.
The frigid crossing of arms.
The empty apology.
The absence.
The lack of reply.
The empty seat.
The discarded ring.
The ripping up of the contract.
The deserted house.
The life unlived.
NO ricochets through the universe - passed on through a million actions and non-actions.
A team of negative spirits play psychological tennis with a team of positive spirits.
Everyman's soul lies in the balance.
No is part of Heaven.
The cards of YES and NO are held close to our chest and the destiny of our heart depends on how we play them.
Fractions of faith
Faith is a cake, served in small slices, sometimes just crumbs, that give a sense of a meal to come, a future fulfillment.
Lovers walk through the apocalypse, eyes awakened to trees ablaze and visions flashing from utopia to dystopia, holding their sanity through fractions of faith.
Lovers walk through the apocalypse, eyes awakened to trees ablaze and visions flashing from utopia to dystopia, holding their sanity through fractions of faith.
Monday 16 May 2011
Rainbow down my throat
I've got a rainbow stuck down my throat.
If I swallow it will dissolve into the cells of my body and I'll become luminous/numinous - rainbow alive forever.
If I cough it up, the rainbow will retreat to the parallel dimension from which I drew it.
I can hardly speak and everyone knows.
No matter what I think, all the colours come as one piece, and there is only the blend - only the sequence without any possibility of severence. I must take it as whole.
If I swallow it will dissolve into the cells of my body and I'll become luminous/numinous - rainbow alive forever.
If I cough it up, the rainbow will retreat to the parallel dimension from which I drew it.
I can hardly speak and everyone knows.
No matter what I think, all the colours come as one piece, and there is only the blend - only the sequence without any possibility of severence. I must take it as whole.
How to steal the world
Become a stalker of beauty. Tread stealthily amidst the flowers and drink from the well of the senses. Nothing is lost.
Be aware of security cameras. They're watching your every move - from the walls and from on high - but treat life as a movie set and play your part well. Lift the shop to a new level of perception.
There are guards everywhere but just act natural and imagine they do not exist.
Seize every opportunity that crosses your path. Never ask 'is this for me?' or 'is it too good to be true?'. There is no answer save the one you create for yourself.
Take small slivers so you can digest over time rather than massive chunks. The world is not going to go away. Enjoy each fleeting moment and draw the ephemeral beauty in impossible ways in your mind.
We have had the cloak of Maya thrown over us - so whilst we travel in illusion, it seems reasonable to help ourselves to a few bonuses on the way.
Magpies search for gleaming shards of experience to fly back to their nests.
What you take defines you so choose carefully - nothing is fixed but there is no return policy on stolen goods!
You will never steal the world but in trying you can have fun.
Ultimately you will have to surrender but in the meantime, become a shoplifter and make your fingers light.
Be aware of security cameras. They're watching your every move - from the walls and from on high - but treat life as a movie set and play your part well. Lift the shop to a new level of perception.
There are guards everywhere but just act natural and imagine they do not exist.
Seize every opportunity that crosses your path. Never ask 'is this for me?' or 'is it too good to be true?'. There is no answer save the one you create for yourself.
Take small slivers so you can digest over time rather than massive chunks. The world is not going to go away. Enjoy each fleeting moment and draw the ephemeral beauty in impossible ways in your mind.
We have had the cloak of Maya thrown over us - so whilst we travel in illusion, it seems reasonable to help ourselves to a few bonuses on the way.
Magpies search for gleaming shards of experience to fly back to their nests.
What you take defines you so choose carefully - nothing is fixed but there is no return policy on stolen goods!
You will never steal the world but in trying you can have fun.
Ultimately you will have to surrender but in the meantime, become a shoplifter and make your fingers light.
Wednesday 11 May 2011
Time
Time whispers 'not yet, not yet'.
And then 'too late, too late'.
Many of the voices are those of Time who knows only sequence and manipulates our emotions through concepts of before and after.
Travellers exchange stories of times past and futures dreamt of.
All to some degree tales of the imagination, for who can be sure, apart from where we are now, and even that is a mystery. Our coordinates add up to only so much. These familiars, if I am really honest, are really strangers, as I am myself. That is the quality of the mysterious - that it is forever unknown. Forever elusive from grasp, yet we can dwell in its sometimes pleasing contours with some ease if we relax.
Time rotates, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, but always at the same rate.
Time listens to our ruminations on the eternal and chides us. 'There is only a limited time in this mortal frame. Act now, otherwise your frame will never transcend to the hopes of your theories but dissipate back into the soup of oblivion.'
Time is an innocent child and a grim reaper. A journeyman and a watch-maker. The author of surprise in the familiar turn of the seasons. Time cuts both ways. Majestic, aspirational, regretful, cheating. She builds up and strips. All ephemeral but what beauty in transience.
Time is perceived as a series of moments - some held to have more poignancy, relevance, meaning, opportunity, clarity, beauty and pregnancy than others. Bardos are gateways in time to greater consciousness - doors to new experience - openings to liberation.
Time can be conceived as an arrow flying forward (or so it seems) yet who can say what really is forward and what is back? Time is also a circle - the ring of eternity in which all happens.
The substance of Time is a cloth whose fabric wants to be desired - wants to be possessed. Yet really, it is only our attitude that counts.
The pieces of Time play on the board of matter - and beyond - beyond the movement of the game there is only that which exceeds words - so a poem like this must learn to be silent on such matters.
And then 'too late, too late'.
Many of the voices are those of Time who knows only sequence and manipulates our emotions through concepts of before and after.
Travellers exchange stories of times past and futures dreamt of.
All to some degree tales of the imagination, for who can be sure, apart from where we are now, and even that is a mystery. Our coordinates add up to only so much. These familiars, if I am really honest, are really strangers, as I am myself. That is the quality of the mysterious - that it is forever unknown. Forever elusive from grasp, yet we can dwell in its sometimes pleasing contours with some ease if we relax.
Time rotates, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, but always at the same rate.
Time listens to our ruminations on the eternal and chides us. 'There is only a limited time in this mortal frame. Act now, otherwise your frame will never transcend to the hopes of your theories but dissipate back into the soup of oblivion.'
Time is an innocent child and a grim reaper. A journeyman and a watch-maker. The author of surprise in the familiar turn of the seasons. Time cuts both ways. Majestic, aspirational, regretful, cheating. She builds up and strips. All ephemeral but what beauty in transience.
Time is perceived as a series of moments - some held to have more poignancy, relevance, meaning, opportunity, clarity, beauty and pregnancy than others. Bardos are gateways in time to greater consciousness - doors to new experience - openings to liberation.
Time can be conceived as an arrow flying forward (or so it seems) yet who can say what really is forward and what is back? Time is also a circle - the ring of eternity in which all happens.
The substance of Time is a cloth whose fabric wants to be desired - wants to be possessed. Yet really, it is only our attitude that counts.
The pieces of Time play on the board of matter - and beyond - beyond the movement of the game there is only that which exceeds words - so a poem like this must learn to be silent on such matters.
Tuesday 3 May 2011
Oversoul of music
Immense hovering vibrating oversoul holds its own and yet divides into an infinity of vibrational souls which make their imprints on the wax of matter. Music to play - music to dance. Every sound is informed by the One, yet holds its own particularity, distinct from the source, allowing a plurality of styles to strut their stuff in the world.
Matter rotates, planets spinning on the turntable of the cosmos - the needle of our attention focuses on the grooves of life and music plays. Every person who comes into my life is a different record. Every pattern I play out is a song I have chosen to sing. The song can change. The record is not stuck. I have a record box of possibilities and a world full of record stores.
Matter rotates, planets spinning on the turntable of the cosmos - the needle of our attention focuses on the grooves of life and music plays. Every person who comes into my life is a different record. Every pattern I play out is a song I have chosen to sing. The song can change. The record is not stuck. I have a record box of possibilities and a world full of record stores.
Eachness
Each to his eachness - existence multiplied to distinct particularity - drawn apart as much as together.
Such a suchness exhibited - a record to be played, a card to be held, a flower of be smelt, a book to be read.
Each in eachness - their combination combined. From the harvest of experience we arrange the threads of the lines we want to pursue in a mix of eachs. Each eachness contrasts the others to form a plurality.
My plate of life is filled with an ever-changing combination of fruit - sometimes blended, sometimes sitting distinct.
Every meeting a unique experience - touching me differently and drawing forth new resources from my soul's soulness.
Such a suchness exhibited - a record to be played, a card to be held, a flower of be smelt, a book to be read.
Each in eachness - their combination combined. From the harvest of experience we arrange the threads of the lines we want to pursue in a mix of eachs. Each eachness contrasts the others to form a plurality.
My plate of life is filled with an ever-changing combination of fruit - sometimes blended, sometimes sitting distinct.
Every meeting a unique experience - touching me differently and drawing forth new resources from my soul's soulness.
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