CHAOS ARRIVES TO BREAK UP THE BURIAL GROUND
FORMER WAYS & MEANS…
...TURNING THEM INTO FERTILE COMPOST
CORE TRUTH OF BEING EMERGENCE
BE VIGILANT TO HONOUR CHAOS
RATHER THAN LINGERING
BURIED ALIVE IN/OF/AS IT
intoning impossible-to-mimic vocalizations of purpose.
They are not interested in what might or could be.
They are in the midst of what is.
They, we, are like an exhaled breath--
consumed yet unburdened.
every thought wanders back to the first moment.
We should be so happy to be dying.
and I'm alive again.
Like coming to the surface
and finding yourself completely dry.
many more poems also here:
All Photos for today's OceanSpeak from: June 24, 2018
ORIGINAL CORE OF GRACEOPATHY "...the one true practice." "..still and wide." "...patience is everything!" June 24, 2018
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So saying, the Zen master rises from his seat--
Swats a mosquito on his forehead.
Face of God
Nothingness looks out
And Nothingness looks in.
My eyes are hollow;
Space pervades all.
A wind blows quietly through empty halls.
How can I say it?
In me, in you—This.
I paint perfect colors
Which magically move with each mind,
Whose viewing brings forth
New colors to view.
Painters paint and buyers buy
Because everyone else is buying.
No point in berating the master of colors,
Only leave the shopping to others.
It is a rock surrounded by mist.
And we are creatures of the mist,
Whose memory is all that gives them form.
By a candle which never grows cold,
These words spun from our Soul.
Carried by candlelight,
Faint, yet always there, like stars.
To read, I borrow your voice--
Your voice, your soul, your words.
Seems that you never left home
And I never existed.
This call to remember I am
of this make-believe place.
I drift like a newborn's eyes
beholding majestic stillness,
upon which inconsequential bubblings appear
like voices in the drumbeat of rain.
but that causes no confusion.
Instead, I am free
to roam possibilities--
care-less moments of Love.
the voice of life and of death.
Once, life was my whole
and its sound, my joy and sorrow.
Now, all my action is balanced with no action--
the board is continually erased.
Such a relief to be unconcerned with chalk dust.
I am written and erased--
the holy sound and silence.
I became honest, tired, and determined
in order to hear.
What would you see if you could remember?
There are those who dream while awake,
but all they do is watch make-believe.
What is within the pool of dreamless sleep?
What is it to become this forgetting,
to become this secret?
The price of admission is an admission
of the endless sleep within our hearts.
I am half-buried in night;
for some reason still speaking.
becomes your heart.
Differences in words
melt to feelings
that melt to knowing.
I am ever pushing aside noise
allowing you to rise.
and echoes off the unknown.
I'll have to finish this poem
without my self
because it gets in the way--
opposing every sound with listening.
only lonely sound.
grants a moment to think.
What was that smell?
longing for the answer from you.
Your every motion is mine.
Don't try to walk away.
We are vast, empty, and complete.