Shape Of Wind

snow flowers linger
heavy in the morning sun
nothing in my pockets
nothing in my shoes
footsteps melt
winter melts
I melted into this love dream
...memory paints the day
when time died
but the hush was never entered
or left

first dove at the feeder
brushes away the snow
the ground is covered
with night time footprints
there is a small grey cat
who wanders in the garden
we watch him climb the old wooden ladder
and marvel at his trembling tenderness
and the soft warm feathers
he longs for

piercing cry
of the first crow
song of your aloneness
echoes in the canyon



what is the shape of wind
as it dries your tears
what is the shape of water
when the banks collapse
and your heart bleeds
echoes of love
into the ocean
of memory
where
time
stops
and
love
is the essence
of life drinking itself
through your lips



Water cannot understand water
Love is most beautiful as it requires no understanding



infinitely petaled softness
blooming
wilting
brushing light
and color
and sound
into this flowing dream scape
thought spins a lullaby
a web of words
a bower of clouds
where you sleep
and death lies
like a coiled snake
waiting...

time is made of letters
consonants and vowels
there seems to be a past...
but it is memory
is there any future
outside of thought?

you are a beautiful thought dream
spinning twirling dancing
in the heart of the dream
clutching your umbrella
when you are already underwater
tight rope walking along a timeline
the ends are blurry
there is a fear of the unknown
and excitement
for a tomorrow
that will never come

where is the heart of longing
where is the hush of summer
when the trees are naked?
what is in your pocket
when you die?



It is the seeking that defines you
What happens when the seeking stops
What would you be without the longing for other better more or next
What would you be without the belief in something more? What if this is indeed it
Life happening all by itself
No thinker no feel-er no actor no conductor no source or god making it happen...
it may be terrifying to consider that life as you have known it may come to an end... what would you be without hope and fear?

All separation is made up 

As well as the ‘whole’

Bits and pieces 

Flotsam and jetsam

Waves

Oceans

Water 

Tears 

death opens

a hole in your heart 

lined with soft mirrors

never filled

or emptied

the tears never really stop

they are the underground river

that never leaves the surface

haven't you noticed

that your beautiful delicate eyes

are always anointed

with love's wetness

gently gently 

rain

slowly slowly 

rain

softly softly

rain

single leaf held in the river's current

swirling cup of gold

hearts aching

colors bleeding

wetness

flows into wetness

love

into

love

Wet in wet in wet in wet 

Life is unknowable 

There is no man or god behind the curtain 

No one utters these words 

We exist as imaginary characters in a 3-D magic light show

Suns and moons soar across the heavens

Tears fall into the river 

Of love 

Pouring into love 

suspended in blue

December trees display

their long wild dance into sky

snapshot of wind

rips into infinite pieces

trying to hold life

fills your heart with concrete

with an imprint of wind

the sun cannot find its shadows

love looks for love

and weeps

life pours into itself

unceasingly

without stillness

or movement

is it the wind

or me

who dances down the leaf strewn street

bathed in golden shadows

You know I wonder about this stillness that everyone keeps talking about. It seems that people are looking for a special state or a special place where thought is slowed or becomes nonexistent.  

Some people talk about there being a still place in the middle of the conceptual storm or the dream, but of course that would be a dream center as well.  But the question arises, is there someone separate from thought who would be disturbed by it, or who could accept it? 

All thought simply happens by itself, there is no really true thought or untrue thought because true and false are thought created.  All imaginary separation is created by the thought stream made of learned shared words.  

You could say that it is a flowing thought stream, but actually the ideas of movement and non-movement are also made up.  So if and when thought ceases there really are no things... there is no imaginary thinker as well, it is only when thought returns that the first thought often is, “oh I wasn’t thinking”, and right away an imaginary thinker is created. This entire story of thought ceasing then is a thought created story!

I would say that the stillness that seekers long for is the end of belief in the dream. Yet this is also feared, because when the dream of this and that is seen to be made up, then it means also that they are made up! It would mean that everyone they have ever loved or known in their entire lives are also made up! 

It would mean that there has never been a past and there will never be a future.  A future where somehow stillness could be attained or lost.  

It would mean the end of all seeking, as the seeker has disappeared.  The end of all ideas of other better more or next.  It’s like the Zen guy sitting there in the cartoon and one guy says to another so this is it huh? And the other guy says Yep.

For this is indeed it isn’t it? 

It always is! 

It is unnameable and it’s not really an it or an non it ...no one can capture it or understand it as there’s no one separate to do so.  

So all trying to attain stillness or something other than this seems to push it away, like trying to capture a ripple in a bowl of water. 

Your hand just makes more ripples!

Yet it is a good cat and mouse game that keeps people going and keeps the seeker safe. The dream of hope and fear continues, as that is what they are 

...the seeking...

What would they be without it?

Thought has seemingly created a world and simultaneously broken this world into bits...

It tries to fit what was never apart into another imaginary bit called wholeness 

It creates an imaginary center to the swirling with an imaginary hand that tries to grasp what has no substance... 

the flowing dream scape that has no movement or non movement tries to catch the flowing... 

Love pours into love through our eyes... 

we recognize our shimmering beauty in everyone we meet 

We are ultimately Alone 

Together 

A marvelous ballet of shine and shadow falls through its reflection into whirlpools of echoes streaming through this river of words 

Love requires imaginary banks to flow 

We need our imaginary lines to touch...

And cannot escape them...

We are them...

morning flows through the sound of rain

thought paints the window

where color blooms

into reflections of a face

hovering among the doves

and golden finches

eternity is a moment

that passes through itself

and dies on the wet pavement

a trail of soft white dove feathers

and blobs of hawk shits

this life of love

and love lost

spirals into itself

we are

love letters

written on the window

rain

pouring

down

Slowly 

Slowly 

Slowly 

Without moving

Or standing still

Love opens its wings

And swallows you 

She is rough and tender

Her teeth are beautiful slender knives

Eviscerating all ideas of life 

Of love...

She sings 

Without words 

Or melody 

Or silence...

When you look in the mirror

You can see her empty eyes

When I look at you 

I recognize her beauty

Our eyes are filled with each other’s tears 

And we waltz her shinning shadow

Light into light 

Dark into dark

Moon

Is the ache of sound 

Cradled

In winter skies 

Songs 

Are the ache of moon

Blossoming 

In our hearts

Sliding 

Through wind swept branches

Shadows

Reach for light

River

Is the song of moon

Echoing

In the canyon

Of love’s great divide

Tall cold walls

Of rock and sound

Cannot

Split the sky 

Hands

Need a space to touch 

Lips need a space to kiss

Songs

Need canyons 

To echo

This

Naked

Intimacy

Requires

A me

And a you

To dance

And fall through the moon 

Bathing 

The silent garden

Love

Collapses

Time

Bits of tinsel soar in sky 

reflecting memories of night time dreams 

sailing through the day time dream... 

never caught...

Or reflecting anything clearly....

I am a Möbius strip of wind in wind

Self 

An imaginary lens 

Between the imagined past 

And an imaginary future

A twirling hologram 

Between the imaginary known world 

And the limitless timeless unknowable unknown

A lens that paints color

And light

And love...

It is not an enemy

I do not exist without you 

We are reflections in each other’s eyes

You are beautiful beyond measure 

I love you