the end of extraordinay and ordinary feels....
extraordinary
the end of heaven and hell feels...... like heaven
the end of mundane and sublime feels.... sublime....
the end of this and that and love.... feels like love
these words that write me pour through this prism that I am
I am this ego this persona this imaginary dancer of wind
sliding through the long low morning...
down the canyon
across the desert
pooling in the chorus of my heart
gently combing the garden
where prayer beads fell off their strings long ago
and scattered in the dirt...
finding the low muddy places where tears still fall
golden leaves on the terrace
sometimes I sweep them off
sometimes not
feathers of sunrise
gently paint the garden with winged shadows
and light
colors bloom softly slowly as you bleed into the day time dream
when does the day begin
where does the day reside
in the garden
in the canyon
in your mind
in your chest
where you feel the dove's softness
she balances on the feeder
she does not look at you
the window is a reflection
where your face dissappeared as light tip toed into the other side
sliding into rainbow tears
a day unlike any other begins
colored with the memories
of all the days that never were
words and the imaginary spaces in between fall through the emptiness of my heart and pour through the roundness of my mouth... they spill onto this screen, the sole light in this dark room until I untie the curtains and my reflection is born... dark glass holds the night and my floating reflection basks in the pause before morning....
scraps of memory tie the wind to the rushing sound of trees..... I can feel them, outside, dancing in the garden.... I can feel the birds, sleeping in the plums and tangled roses where they are safe in their bird land dreams....
the tips of my fingers tingle as they slide across the warmth of the keyboard on this chilly morning while my husband sleeps.... his steady breath perfumes the night and reminds me of the warm blankets.... still waiting....
through the darkening I can hear the trash truck coming... up and down the neighboring streets... the rumble grows the storm waits patiently on the other side of the mountain and my tea grows cold as I read and respond to the messages of lovers....
suspended as emptiness in emptiness
as love in love
your heart slides into mine... we disappear in boundless love
these words paint me
paint you
paint this dream of love and love lost
thought paints me
cries me
spins me into this web of echoes
where light seems to be caught...
but it is only reflections
filaments of joy and sorrow
heart strings softly in the wind
bend and stretch and sometimes break
overtones reverberate into a hymn of utter silence
prayer beads unfold into rose petals
blossom into liquid light
we know this song by heart
it sings me
sings you
sings us into a chorus of lovers
a sea of dreams
dissolving into its own wetness
love
drowning
in love
web of thought
caught in its own enchantment
I may wash the windows
and dust today
ideas of words slide through words
reverberate between the sides of a mirror
melting the glass and all reflections
the ember of unknowing burns through its own light
sky dissolves in infinite reflections of sky
some leaves fall when they are green
some are golden
hovering between the words and silence
suspended as a liquid kiss
between the known
and unknown
this obvious aliveness
not in anything
nor outside of nothing
no words can capture it
as it is a word
words are pieces of sky
sky is a word
this alivness seems to look and feel like anything at all
the hush that never leaves
is the disbelief in thingness
and yet when sung of seems like an thing inseparable from all other imaginary things
like the blue in a sapphire
or the heat in fire
it is the blue and the stone and the person enchanted with the star floating in her ring
it is the fire and the heat and the light and the lovers warming themselves
and loving the warmth and the love
it is the love and the lover and the beloved...
and there are no three nor two nor one nor none...
it is all illusion
even love
but
this feels like love suspended in emptiness
the hush super saturates the dream
and is the dream
all is illusion
illusion is illusion
and you thought I was going to tell you what is going on
I seem to arise in the loving of you
but there is no here nor there
the loving of you is the falling into you
and we dissapear
into the hush
we never left
it is amazing how much hate mail I get when I post an opinion! people assume I don't have opinions and judgements, when, well, I am opinions and beliefs and preferences just like them. judging is natural as it is quite necessary for survival. is the orange fruit harmful or helpful? how about consuming animal foods? will wearing a face mask help or harm me? how about crossing that busy street from corner to corner, or should I use the cross walks?
...then I post what I consider to be a beautiful poem and get a handful of likes... lol! where were all those people before and why were they my 'friend' anyway? lol!
it is sad that many people assume that I am or should be special, more special than them.... when we are all beautiful liquid stories written with the same words... there are only twelve notes but look at the amazing music that pours from musicians...
some assume that there should be no talk about 'other teachers', yet I find that people ask questions and I am honest about what I feel... that there are no teachers as this cannot be taught. and certainly there is no one under belief and preference or thought or feeling or... simply no one choosing to speak or not... to listen or not... to sit here on the computer enchanted with these words sliding out from underneath my fingertips...
here the hush before dawn never leaves... it feels wondrous beyond measure to fall in love with everyone I meet... to feel so deeply the amazement of love unlike what I thought love was before this strange un caused shift in perspective... to be suspended as timeless spaciousness.... a waterfall of colors sliding through rainbows ....dissolving into seamless sky....
I am not everything nor am I nothing.... there is no one to be everything or nothing, and no things to be or not...
very few are interested in what I say, but there are some listeners.... and that is wondrous as without someone reading these songs there is no singer...
I am the singing of this as these songs sing me... knowing that all these words are simply lines and squiggles sliding across a background of time and space.... and can never touch what I would like to say, which is said most simply in these three most beautiful words, 'I love you'.
and I do
I am the loving of you
without you I am not.
slowly slowly grey cat yawns
golden finches in the roses and doves on the telephone lines
peer into the garden
softly softly day unfolds
paper bird stretches her wings
words slide off the paper sky
sky is a word
love is a word...
memory paints the garden
adorns these words with overtones
vibrating into this dream of aliveness
thought sings a ricochet love song
the knowing of knowing...
within this imaginary gap we seem to appear
we are liquid prisms
water colors sliding into a song that listens to her own echo
and is enchanted with with the spell
of her enchantment
we are liquid reflections falling though mirrors
steam rising from my coffee
passing cars in the dark
words form my lips
all and everything meet and disappear into this kiss
where time eclipsed itself
moon sails through the morning
and our echo-less tears sail through the transparency of love
no I can be found, nor someone looking for a self, no things can be found, no this nor that nor both nor neither... this does not mean that there is an "I" that is beyond description. the feeeling that there is a me or separate things has gone.
this is not a belief, more like a disbelief, a delcious unknowing,,,, yet obvious always..... it is clear that all imaginary separation, all distinction, all measurement, all qualties and characteristics arise in the thought stream, no thought no things, not even a thing called thought.
sunset
blooms and falls
all distincion fades in night's embrace
this deafening hush
never leaves
roar of the ocean in my chest
rivers of song pour through this edgeless heart
coming from everywhere and no where
these words that caress the dream into light and sound
and color...
sunrise blossoms
petals of moon
eclipse
golden leaves falling
and the purple sound of wind
words slide through an envelope of space
rose petals pressed between the pages of our lives
there is no hand to turn them
no eyes to read them
no one who writes them...
morning dove left her imprint on the window
her flight interrupted
feathers
falling
she cannot be found
moon falls into the river
echoes of laughter slip into
deep
cricket
night
cottonwood leaves and wind
sweep through my heart
no one waits on the other side of time
light and dark
sound and silence...
there is and is not an in between an in between of this and that, and no this and that...
beyond place and placeless-ness
beyond time and timelessness...
we cannot go there
we do not exist beyond here and there....
there is no here and there nor the absence of a here or a there
there is no beyond....
and perhaps you have been looking to escape this illusion that you are... and all the while you are the illusion of trying to escape or improve this magicians tale, to grab the pen writing the story of your life where these words are written with water, and the pages are
water
and the story goes that some brains seem to believe in the story they tell
and others seem to believe the dream but not that there is a person inside the dream
and others seem to disbelieve the entire shaboogie... that realizing that all and everything is the dream including the realization of that....
that there is no other better more or next... and even the words
'this is it'
slide through their own echo leaving not even a silence that cannot be captured with or without words....
and the fairy tale girl peered into the mirror trying to see beyond her reflection and the mirror dissolved.... as well as the girl and the room and time and space...
they never returned, they never existed....
there was never a never
and I am that fairy tale girl and I seem to appear in this dance suspended between never and forever...
a pirouette of echoes
that no one sings or listens to
and my husband makes coffee and brings it to me
and the overwhelming beauty of the cup and the coffee and the steam
and him....
and the room and the mirrors and the memories sliding through each other coloring these very words that write themselves
this dream that dreams itself
just like this
the end of heaven and hell feels...... like heaven
the end of mundane and sublime feels.... sublime....
the end of this and that and love.... feels like love
these words that write me pour through this prism that I am
I am this ego this persona this imaginary dancer of wind
sliding through the long low morning...
down the canyon
across the desert
pooling in the chorus of my heart
gently combing the garden
where prayer beads fell off their strings long ago
and scattered in the dirt...
finding the low muddy places where tears still fall
golden leaves on the terrace
sometimes I sweep them off
sometimes not
feathers of sunrise
gently paint the garden with winged shadows
and light
colors bloom softly slowly as you bleed into the day time dream
when does the day begin
where does the day reside
in the garden
in the canyon
in your mind
in your chest
where you feel the dove's softness
she balances on the feeder
she does not look at you
the window is a reflection
where your face dissappeared as light tip toed into the other side
sliding into rainbow tears
a day unlike any other begins
colored with the memories
of all the days that never were
words and the imaginary spaces in between fall through the emptiness of my heart and pour through the roundness of my mouth... they spill onto this screen, the sole light in this dark room until I untie the curtains and my reflection is born... dark glass holds the night and my floating reflection basks in the pause before morning....
scraps of memory tie the wind to the rushing sound of trees..... I can feel them, outside, dancing in the garden.... I can feel the birds, sleeping in the plums and tangled roses where they are safe in their bird land dreams....
the tips of my fingers tingle as they slide across the warmth of the keyboard on this chilly morning while my husband sleeps.... his steady breath perfumes the night and reminds me of the warm blankets.... still waiting....
through the darkening I can hear the trash truck coming... up and down the neighboring streets... the rumble grows the storm waits patiently on the other side of the mountain and my tea grows cold as I read and respond to the messages of lovers....
suspended as emptiness in emptiness
as love in love
your heart slides into mine... we disappear in boundless love
these words paint me
paint you
paint this dream of love and love lost
thought paints me
cries me
spins me into this web of echoes
where light seems to be caught...
but it is only reflections
filaments of joy and sorrow
heart strings softly in the wind
bend and stretch and sometimes break
overtones reverberate into a hymn of utter silence
prayer beads unfold into rose petals
blossom into liquid light
we know this song by heart
it sings me
sings you
sings us into a chorus of lovers
a sea of dreams
dissolving into its own wetness
love
drowning
in love
web of thought
caught in its own enchantment
I may wash the windows
and dust today
ideas of words slide through words
reverberate between the sides of a mirror
melting the glass and all reflections
the ember of unknowing burns through its own light
sky dissolves in infinite reflections of sky
some leaves fall when they are green
some are golden
hovering between the words and silence
suspended as a liquid kiss
between the known
and unknown
this obvious aliveness
not in anything
nor outside of nothing
no words can capture it
as it is a word
words are pieces of sky
sky is a word
this alivness seems to look and feel like anything at all
the hush that never leaves
is the disbelief in thingness
and yet when sung of seems like an thing inseparable from all other imaginary things
like the blue in a sapphire
or the heat in fire
it is the blue and the stone and the person enchanted with the star floating in her ring
it is the fire and the heat and the light and the lovers warming themselves
and loving the warmth and the love
it is the love and the lover and the beloved...
and there are no three nor two nor one nor none...
it is all illusion
even love
but
this feels like love suspended in emptiness
the hush super saturates the dream
and is the dream
all is illusion
illusion is illusion
and you thought I was going to tell you what is going on
I seem to arise in the loving of you
but there is no here nor there
the loving of you is the falling into you
and we dissapear
into the hush
we never left
it is amazing how much hate mail I get when I post an opinion! people assume I don't have opinions and judgements, when, well, I am opinions and beliefs and preferences just like them. judging is natural as it is quite necessary for survival. is the orange fruit harmful or helpful? how about consuming animal foods? will wearing a face mask help or harm me? how about crossing that busy street from corner to corner, or should I use the cross walks?
...then I post what I consider to be a beautiful poem and get a handful of likes... lol! where were all those people before and why were they my 'friend' anyway? lol!
it is sad that many people assume that I am or should be special, more special than them.... when we are all beautiful liquid stories written with the same words... there are only twelve notes but look at the amazing music that pours from musicians...
some assume that there should be no talk about 'other teachers', yet I find that people ask questions and I am honest about what I feel... that there are no teachers as this cannot be taught. and certainly there is no one under belief and preference or thought or feeling or... simply no one choosing to speak or not... to listen or not... to sit here on the computer enchanted with these words sliding out from underneath my fingertips...
here the hush before dawn never leaves... it feels wondrous beyond measure to fall in love with everyone I meet... to feel so deeply the amazement of love unlike what I thought love was before this strange un caused shift in perspective... to be suspended as timeless spaciousness.... a waterfall of colors sliding through rainbows ....dissolving into seamless sky....
I am not everything nor am I nothing.... there is no one to be everything or nothing, and no things to be or not...
very few are interested in what I say, but there are some listeners.... and that is wondrous as without someone reading these songs there is no singer...
I am the singing of this as these songs sing me... knowing that all these words are simply lines and squiggles sliding across a background of time and space.... and can never touch what I would like to say, which is said most simply in these three most beautiful words, 'I love you'.
and I do
I am the loving of you
without you I am not.
slowly slowly grey cat yawns
golden finches in the roses and doves on the telephone lines
peer into the garden
softly softly day unfolds
paper bird stretches her wings
words slide off the paper sky
sky is a word
love is a word...
memory paints the garden
adorns these words with overtones
vibrating into this dream of aliveness
thought sings a ricochet love song
the knowing of knowing...
within this imaginary gap we seem to appear
we are liquid prisms
water colors sliding into a song that listens to her own echo
and is enchanted with with the spell
of her enchantment
we are liquid reflections falling though mirrors
steam rising from my coffee
passing cars in the dark
words form my lips
all and everything meet and disappear into this kiss
where time eclipsed itself
moon sails through the morning
and our echo-less tears sail through the transparency of love
no I can be found, nor someone looking for a self, no things can be found, no this nor that nor both nor neither... this does not mean that there is an "I" that is beyond description. the feeeling that there is a me or separate things has gone.
this is not a belief, more like a disbelief, a delcious unknowing,,,, yet obvious always..... it is clear that all imaginary separation, all distinction, all measurement, all qualties and characteristics arise in the thought stream, no thought no things, not even a thing called thought.
sunset
blooms and falls
all distincion fades in night's embrace
this deafening hush
never leaves
roar of the ocean in my chest
rivers of song pour through this edgeless heart
coming from everywhere and no where
these words that caress the dream into light and sound
and color...
sunrise blossoms
petals of moon
eclipse
golden leaves falling
and the purple sound of wind
words slide through an envelope of space
rose petals pressed between the pages of our lives
there is no hand to turn them
no eyes to read them
no one who writes them...
morning dove left her imprint on the window
her flight interrupted
feathers
falling
she cannot be found
moon falls into the river
echoes of laughter slip into
deep
cricket
night
cottonwood leaves and wind
sweep through my heart
no one waits on the other side of time
light and dark
sound and silence...
there is and is not an in between an in between of this and that, and no this and that...
beyond place and placeless-ness
beyond time and timelessness...
we cannot go there
we do not exist beyond here and there....
there is no here and there nor the absence of a here or a there
there is no beyond....
and perhaps you have been looking to escape this illusion that you are... and all the while you are the illusion of trying to escape or improve this magicians tale, to grab the pen writing the story of your life where these words are written with water, and the pages are
water
and the story goes that some brains seem to believe in the story they tell
and others seem to believe the dream but not that there is a person inside the dream
and others seem to disbelieve the entire shaboogie... that realizing that all and everything is the dream including the realization of that....
that there is no other better more or next... and even the words
'this is it'
slide through their own echo leaving not even a silence that cannot be captured with or without words....
and the fairy tale girl peered into the mirror trying to see beyond her reflection and the mirror dissolved.... as well as the girl and the room and time and space...
they never returned, they never existed....
there was never a never
and I am that fairy tale girl and I seem to appear in this dance suspended between never and forever...
a pirouette of echoes
that no one sings or listens to
and my husband makes coffee and brings it to me
and the overwhelming beauty of the cup and the coffee and the steam
and him....
and the room and the mirrors and the memories sliding through each other coloring these very words that write themselves
this dream that dreams itself
just like this
in this present that no one recieves
the ribbon that that tied real and unreal into a pretty bow may untie itself
and unwrap all stories of truth and fiction
all promises of another day slip into the mirage of never and forever
here is the pearl of your own undoing
layers and layers of luminescence unravel
revealing a measureless emptiness
where a naked heart blooms
into the beauty of longing
there is no meaning to this story
but you know it well
you are this paperless rainbow
strewn across the sky
stars
falling
into their own light
there is no release from the enchantment that you are
your heart may soar
in innocent wonder
or it may plummet into the depths of despair
the heart of the story is that you are this gift to yourself
life unfolds into itself
endlessly
without time or its absence
all your wandering this endless desert left you nowhere
and no where is where you began
every sign led to another sign
all the words that seemed like love letters
slid into sand
all the books you gathered together for a raft
never kept you afloat
all that you learned
gave you no release from this desire to end desire
to end your search for wholeness
but your desire for wholeness is already whole
how could you be separate from desire?
when the present dissolves
so do you
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