feeling is an imaginary thing painted by thought
are there different emotions without the story,
the thought dream that you are?
is there emotion without the name?
what is going on is unknowable without thought
without these shared learned words that paint light
and dark
and colors...
without thought there is no thing called thought
...the dream paints itself
after this profound shift in perspective called enlightenment
there is no feeling that there is a someone or thing having emotion or thought, and there is no trying to pinpoint what feeling seems to occur... joy and sorrow and love and awe merge into a deep current of un-named un-owned emotion,
it is like an all encompassing love has subsumed the dream of separation
and is unlike any ideas of love
there is no trying to change thought or feeling
no feeling that there is a someone or thing doing life
or that there is a someone to whom life is happening
it feels like a seamless flow
that is neither moving nor non moving
as there are no reference points
no sides
no center
in the dream of awakening
that is inseparable from the dream of separation
what is the sound of colors blooming
as morning slides across the horizon
where is the breath of night
as it hides underneath the tangling roses
deep in the garden
waiting to sing
what are the colors of wind
as it pours down the canyon
dancing in the treetops
waltzing with the shadows
twirling into this song
these very words
that paint all thingness and the spaces in between
that paints this thing called the thought stream
and a seeming someone or thing that thinks
thought paints color and time and dimension and movement
it dances itself into this dream
this worded world
this conceptual dream of imaginary separation
that we are
this symphony of perception is utterly obvious
it has no edges
no outside
no inside
it is not a thing
yet the naming of it seems to create it
the inseparable recognition of this sensorial display
is not a thing until named
this very description seems to create
a thing called perception
and a thing called awareness
thought even seems to create a thing called thought
the dream of separation paints itself
just like this
love
there it is!
a thing called love
the recognition that there are no things or non things
nor moments nor events
is the dream of not believing in the dream
there is no outside to the dream
as outside and inside
like all this and that
is mentally fabricated
believing in the dream
....not believing in the dream
is the dream
anything said about the dream
paints the dream
including this
words twist and twine around themselves
vines of thought grow into flowers
blooming
roses red and pink and drifting trails of yellow
golden finches flitting through the tangles
thousand petaled wonderment dancing
wind soaring
all is drenched in morning
all is words
dancing
where is the line between you and morning
where is the space between you and sky?
between you and love?
it is only thought that seems to create these lines
songs written with wind
in wind
how thick how deep is thought
how near or far away is thought
how close is infinity?
closer than the tongue in your mouth
closer than this song
more intimate than your heart song
swooning in love with love
this love in your heart
written with moonlight
shimmering on an empty sea
filling you
emptying you
of all ideas of emptiness
of all notion that there is an ocean
or waves
or water
or love
knowing there are no others
nor you
to fall in love
is the greatest love
Wind dances through me
I am wind
dancing
only through each other’s eyes can we see our own beauty
We are these beautiful shimmering reflections dancing... a ricochet of love falling in love with itself
no one walks this lonely road
waltzing with the echo of her footfalls
no one wanders
in love with the love of it all
there is no beginning
nor end
to this dream scape of infinite reflections
wind blows through wind
leaving no trace
nor shadow
memory is echoes blooming
and wilting
leaving no trail
nor path
to a yesteryear that never happened
there is no road
to a non existent future
this is the autumn of memory
the winter of tears
it is the spring of joy
the summer of sorrows...
there is no tomorrow
when
we
will
dance...
this turning world of unutterable beauty
spins into itself
galaxies of wonder explode
and implode
there is no center
nor edge
nor hands nor heart
nor words
to grasp
this love
I am a story of a girl a woman
a poet a wife
a dancer of wind
and the wind
dancing
I am the sweep of love
of this sublime unknowing
and the sweep of love
erasing
and writing
my lines
I am a dream
a poem
a song
a tale of enchantment
and I seem to arise in the longing
to sing of this
knowing I never can
to share this love
knowing it cannot be shared
to touch you
knowing we can never
touch
how beautifully the trees dance in the summer winds
I am a pirouette of light and shadow
I am this wind ballet
of love falling in love
with love
I am an imaginary persona in love with the love of it all
it feels like light flowing into light
without light
space flowing into space
without space
love flowing into love
without any ideas of love
love flows into itself
edgeless seamless unfathomable beauty....
I am an echo land ballet
a flowing gown of reflections
a spinning thought dream without a center
or edge...
I am the song of wind flowing through wind
of sky falling through sky
of emptiness falling through itself
erasing all knowing
erasing all falling
erasing all words that have ever been written
all songs that have ever been sung
erasing all ideas of a world
or a someone to have one
after the rains the evening birds begin to settle down
sparrows gather in the plum tree
infinite spaciousness has filled my heart
and emptied it
all that is left is this love
that has no words
yet is every word
and we dance and we dance
and dance
and in the dancing we seem to appear
it is in the loving of each other
that we find our imaginary lines
and an imaginary space between us
that can never be crossed
we are
written
and erased
by love
are there different emotions without the story,
the thought dream that you are?
is there emotion without the name?
what is going on is unknowable without thought
without these shared learned words that paint light
and dark
and colors...
without thought there is no thing called thought
...the dream paints itself
after this profound shift in perspective called enlightenment
there is no feeling that there is a someone or thing having emotion or thought, and there is no trying to pinpoint what feeling seems to occur... joy and sorrow and love and awe merge into a deep current of un-named un-owned emotion,
it is like an all encompassing love has subsumed the dream of separation
and is unlike any ideas of love
there is no trying to change thought or feeling
no feeling that there is a someone or thing doing life
or that there is a someone to whom life is happening
it feels like a seamless flow
that is neither moving nor non moving
as there are no reference points
no sides
no center
in the dream of awakening
that is inseparable from the dream of separation
what is the sound of colors blooming
as morning slides across the horizon
where is the breath of night
as it hides underneath the tangling roses
deep in the garden
waiting to sing
what are the colors of wind
as it pours down the canyon
dancing in the treetops
waltzing with the shadows
twirling into this song
these very words
that paint all thingness and the spaces in between
that paints this thing called the thought stream
and a seeming someone or thing that thinks
thought paints color and time and dimension and movement
it dances itself into this dream
this worded world
this conceptual dream of imaginary separation
that we are
this symphony of perception is utterly obvious
it has no edges
no outside
no inside
it is not a thing
yet the naming of it seems to create it
the inseparable recognition of this sensorial display
is not a thing until named
this very description seems to create
a thing called perception
and a thing called awareness
thought even seems to create a thing called thought
the dream of separation paints itself
just like this
love
there it is!
a thing called love
the recognition that there are no things or non things
nor moments nor events
is the dream of not believing in the dream
there is no outside to the dream
as outside and inside
like all this and that
is mentally fabricated
believing in the dream
....not believing in the dream
is the dream
anything said about the dream
paints the dream
including this
words twist and twine around themselves
vines of thought grow into flowers
blooming
roses red and pink and drifting trails of yellow
golden finches flitting through the tangles
thousand petaled wonderment dancing
wind soaring
all is drenched in morning
all is words
dancing
where is the line between you and morning
where is the space between you and sky?
between you and love?
it is only thought that seems to create these lines
songs written with wind
in wind
how thick how deep is thought
how near or far away is thought
how close is infinity?
closer than the tongue in your mouth
closer than this song
more intimate than your heart song
swooning in love with love
this love in your heart
written with moonlight
shimmering on an empty sea
filling you
emptying you
of all ideas of emptiness
of all notion that there is an ocean
or waves
or water
or love
knowing there are no others
nor you
to fall in love
is the greatest love
Wind dances through me
I am wind
dancing
only through each other’s eyes can we see our own beauty
We are these beautiful shimmering reflections dancing... a ricochet of love falling in love with itself
no one walks this lonely road
waltzing with the echo of her footfalls
no one wanders
in love with the love of it all
there is no beginning
nor end
to this dream scape of infinite reflections
wind blows through wind
leaving no trace
nor shadow
memory is echoes blooming
and wilting
leaving no trail
nor path
to a yesteryear that never happened
there is no road
to a non existent future
this is the autumn of memory
the winter of tears
it is the spring of joy
the summer of sorrows...
there is no tomorrow
when
we
will
dance...
this turning world of unutterable beauty
spins into itself
galaxies of wonder explode
and implode
there is no center
nor edge
nor hands nor heart
nor words
to grasp
this love
I am a story of a girl a woman
a poet a wife
a dancer of wind
and the wind
dancing
I am the sweep of love
of this sublime unknowing
and the sweep of love
erasing
and writing
my lines
I am a dream
a poem
a song
a tale of enchantment
and I seem to arise in the longing
to sing of this
knowing I never can
to share this love
knowing it cannot be shared
to touch you
knowing we can never
touch
how beautifully the trees dance in the summer winds
I am a pirouette of light and shadow
I am this wind ballet
of love falling in love
with love
I am an imaginary persona in love with the love of it all
it feels like light flowing into light
without light
space flowing into space
without space
love flowing into love
without any ideas of love
love flows into itself
edgeless seamless unfathomable beauty....
I am an echo land ballet
a flowing gown of reflections
a spinning thought dream without a center
or edge...
I am the song of wind flowing through wind
of sky falling through sky
of emptiness falling through itself
erasing all knowing
erasing all falling
erasing all words that have ever been written
all songs that have ever been sung
erasing all ideas of a world
or a someone to have one
after the rains the evening birds begin to settle down
sparrows gather in the plum tree
infinite spaciousness has filled my heart
and emptied it
all that is left is this love
that has no words
yet is every word
and we dance and we dance
and dance
and in the dancing we seem to appear
it is in the loving of each other
that we find our imaginary lines
and an imaginary space between us
that can never be crossed
we are
written
and erased
by love
The realization of no separation does not apply to the imaginary character... there is no self no things no separation
there is an imaginary persona in the shared dream of separation
Utterly alone
But there is love
moonlight hovers in this vast stillness
the hush before dawn
cannot be lost
or remembered
yet I am the remembering of it
drifting clouds
bathed in shimmering
soar through moon
a flowing sensuous ballet
of liquid light and shadow
where love cannot hide
I am a gown of reflections
echoes of moon song
streaming through the garden
painting fallen petals
with seamless beauty
words weave love’s enchantment
tenderly holding all and everything in her seamless embrace
erasing all lines
kissing you
kissing me
we are love falling in love with itself
clear moon
exposing and dissolving infinite photographs
rippling through our fingers
extending outward
and inward
time and the hands...
love and the hearts
that would hold it
dissolve into ocean song
poems are snapshots of an imaginary line
between you and me
light and shadow stream through the garden
where love and love lost sleep
last years flowers are buried deep within us
painting the colors of today
we are forgotten dreams
watercolor memories
surfacing in the dark
exploding rainbows
shimmering in each other's love light
what beautiful stories we are
spinning galaxies of wonderment...
arms reaching out to touch
caught in each other’s whirlpools for just a brief moment we become each other’s beauty as we disappear and slip through each other
no longer separate
nor one
nor not even nothing....
yet it feels like love
falling in love
with itself
we are this dance of you and me and we....
I appear to emerge as the longing to touch... knowing we never can...
and that is the sublime longing that seems to define me.... but imaginary lines are no longer believed or felt...
I love you...
I am you...
and it feels like love.... falling in love with love.... through our eyes our lips our hearts... that were never ours....
solitude dives deep
and cannot see itself
submerged within its own beauty
ocean of love cannot see itself
wind cannot feel its own touch
sky cannot marvel at its own blueness
this deep deep current of undertones and overtones
cannot hear its own water music
or feel the warmth
of its own love
ocean of love pours through itself
wind dances with wind
sky soars through its own blue
this song sings itself
less substantial than wind
without anything to flow through
or any skin to touch
our eyes meet
we are a river of stars
streaming through each others love light
we emerge only in the touching
here
in the singing
a singer emerges
only when her song is heard
voices from no where
voices from everywhere
there is no light or shadow in this placeless-ness
lit from within
lit from without
where is the space between echoes?
where is the dance when the floor has dropped away?
what is left when the ground of being has slipped away?
what remains when even love has burnt her shadow?
we are galaxies of swirling reflections
pouring constellations of starlight
into each others eyes
swooning through all ideas of love
and anyone to have them
it is here where lovers meet
in this very song where we seem to appear
magically
dancing
in love as love through love
there is no magic key to unlock the door to love
love sings in every key
love will not walk through the door someday
she has been dancing in your shoes
ever since you learned to walk
There is no self to be perfect
There is no perfection nor imperfection
Enlightenment is not about becoming a better or more perfect self
morning sleeps under a blanket of dreams
river of bird song slides through the darkness
breath of night in my chest
softly
softly
wind
swirls down the canyon
dancing in the tree tops
sweeping through the fallen leaves
caressing the promise of dawn
thought paints the day dream
and a someone to awaken into the day
light begins to caress this wind ballet
night pours itself into shadows
cool and deep beneath the cottonwoods
the night time dream sleeps
waiting to sing again
light and dark weave themselves into a song of infinite echoes
light into light
dark into dark
emptiness into emptiness
nothing into nothing at all
just a flowing web of description
a transparent flowing lace of voices
painting the dream of you and me
and we
we are a ballet of reflections
a sea of light and shadow
rising
and falling
a song of tides
and vast vast oceans
with no shore
nor bottom
nor surface
love soars through love
and leaves the taste of taste on your lips
in your heart
lost and found in the imaginary space in between us
what is this you long for
a whisper of a love song you might have heard
before the world wore her gown of time
and place
before your lines were spoken
before there was anyone to listen
or long
before is a beautiful dream
like you
poems never begin or end
they have no middle
no place to rest
or hide
nothing is hidden
nothing is revealed
you are a love song
singing itself
your mouth your tongue your heart knows these words
you are them
A sage shares what it’s like
Knowing this can never be kissed with words
Knowing this can never be shared...
Yet singing seems to happen
And we meet in the sharing
Spinning galaxies....
Stories of light
and shadow
Seem to merge and dance together as they fall into each other’s reflections....
but it is the very words that define us
These very lines
That keep us apart
And seekers will try to gather every song as it seems to pull them...
The songs merely reflect the seekers love and beauty and
Emptiness
But the seeker sees them as prescriptions
Not descriptions
As a knowing...
and that there is a someone who knows...
and it’s all beautiful description
With not even nothing underneath....
These love songs sing themselves
I seem to emerge in the loving of you
And love...
Love is enough
this is the rain in the rocky peaks
and cold fresh waters rushing from the springs
trickling streams meandering through high meadows
soft breezes dancing through tender grasses
delicate mountain flowers
petals suspended on impossibly long stalks
rivers of memory
flowing
over remote cliffs
only birds and sweeping winds know
cascading through waterfalls of rainbows
rushing down deep deep canyons
joyfully greeting side streams
and soft eddies under the bushes
pools of echoes call each other in the canyon
songs are sung of the high places
and the sky and earth and the lightening
late last night
spider webs suspended between the banks
heavy with the kiss of your songs
where all songs lead
it is the ocean
that knows your name
you are the longing
the movement of life
to drown in your own wetness
your own love
this love is the end of all concepts of love
all you have learned of love
what it should or could be like...
what you or me or the world should or could be like...
it is the end of the feeling that there is a someone who could gather or hold love
or that love has conditions
or edges
or a center
it is not necessary to be open to life or love
love is always open
there is no one to receive it
it is not a goal or gift
there is no one separate from life
no one separate from love
all of life sings it
and you are love's song
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