Whirlpools of love

  in this tale a story teller may seem to emerge but no writer can be found there is nothing inside or outside of these words that seem to paint this liquid dream of wonderment that flows in and through wonderment where beauty seems to bloom everywhere I look

river of unspeakable awe leaves no questions in its wake

only subtle whirlpools of love that dissolve again into the slip stream of life

no hands are required to open this spontaneous unfolding

all and everything blooms without effort

or non effort

not knowing what beauty is

leaves a feeling of indescribable awe...

this magical symphony of life plays itself with no location or time notes slip and slide and skip merrily down the river of sound tripling through you as you are this song singing itself

no singer can be found outside of the music

its all music

there is no music

simply a surround sound of aliveness dancing in its own wild un-tethered symphony

there is no knowing where the notes will go

there is no sense from whence they have come

nor logic about a course they will take

there is no next

no curtain to part

no key no door no barrier between you and the magic that you seek what is magic but an unknowing of what magic is?

what is love but an unknowing of what love is?

this delicious taste of unknowing leaves its feral and undefined scent saturating the dream of things

softly

softly

the grey cat flows through the grasses

all is fluid

she leaves no prints

but soars through your mind stream

blending beautifully into this un-chained melody

there is infinite wonder that nothing can be known

what is wonder... what is love?

what is knowing but a feeling of solidity, of certitude, of a gathering of things into a bouquet of understanding so that you may look upon its completeness and feel you are whole

1

 yet

flowers wilt

even plastic flowers fade

who or what imagines you and your world no source can be found

none is looked for

nothing can be known

there are no things

nor lack of things

there is no fullness nor emptiness

nor both

nor neither

...and the tightrope dancer paused in mid air and twirled into the heavens

or was it the sky that swallowed you and left a kiss of nothing

on your lips

do I remember belief in the dream? a belief in solidity, in certitude, the belief that I was a 'real' persona, that there was someone behind the mask, that there were actual things under the names? surely I remember the feeling of desperation, of clinging to hope and trying to deny fear, to be brave against all odds, of wanting to live.... of wanting to die....

I am the loving of life the loving of love... and yes, this delicious longing which seems to be the movement of life...

without longing I am not... it is in the dream of separation where love seems to appear and I am not a dream denier, nor an emptiness dream denier, neither is real or unreal, they are not separate, there is no separation....

this, whatever it looks and feels, like is as real as it gets, this is as real as it has ever been...

this caress this feeling of fingertips sliding across the keyboard, the steam rising from my oatmeal and the colorful berries, the spit gathering in my mouth as I purse my lips to drink my tea....

2

 piercing brilliance burns away the clouds of knowing

that were never there

or here

and this love seems to cut right through your skin your bones your very heart slices through all ideas of love

light burns light

love burns love fullness burns fullness emptiness burns emptiness

wind blown filagree of transparent shadows flows under the shallowing moon

where you once walked

a dream girl lost in a daydream of endless tomorrows

a breath of yesteryear echoes

reverberates in between the words that wrote themselves

and lost themselves

mourning doves and the hollowing wind

3

 no one walks along this deserted road

feet and the fallen leaves

pieces of a scrapbook that escaped their frame long ago

time has erased itself

there is no context

no one owns these photos, these news clipping

tattered and burnt from a conflagration that consumed its own flame

stories of emptiness stories of fullness

juicy and ripe and

stories

seem to coalesce into this flowing momentary

unutterably wondrous

simultaneously falling apart without ever actually condensing into tears

river of thought

has no banks

wind ploughs through the empty fields barren trees

and the fallen leaves skimming down the streets scattering golden

4

 all we can seem to know is there is an undeniable aliveness that seems to have no edges, or outside to it, so it is not an it, as it cannot be grasped.

this aliveness is undeniable just like you drink water and know it is wet.

it is obvious that there is awareness of this aliveness, and an awareness of awareness, but these are not separate nor joined, it is the same

life appears to spontaneously arise all by itself and simultaneously self erase. no pusher puller or mover or eraser can be found, as it is not an isolated thing with edges.

no other better more or next can be found.

ungraspable, without time or non time, or actual substance

we could say life is flowing, but without a before, or after, or anything we could call now, life neither flows nor stands still.

somehow we feel deep inside that this is magical, and have since we were very small...

...."now you see it now you don't ...watch me pull a rabbit from my hat”....

and as we see people die, we feel that life is fleeting and we don't want to lose this magic!

this undeniable magic of life simply appearing all by itself...

trying to grasp and hold the magic becomes our goal

this seeking becomes who we are...

trying to grasp an idea seems to solidify the painful belief and feeling that there is an actual something to grasp and a someone separate from it who can hold it or become it.

trying to reach a something which is undeniable, but cannot be articulated turns into reading, for many, religion and philosophy and spirituality... looking for that magic key to the magic....

but there is no key nor door to this magic, as it is already always on. the magic is in the reaching, the magic is the disappointment at not finding an idea of magic, the magic is the wonder of knowing it is all magic and it never had to be found, it was never lost it was never an it separate from you.

5

 I am a self

there are no selves

there is no me here

there is no you there

there is no here or there or both, ...or neither

I am as real as you

as real as tomorrow and love and enlightenment there is no reality nor non reality

life seems as real as it seems

this is not it as there is no this, nor it

no everything no nothing

everything and nothing

there are no things, yet everything is included

all is love there is no love

6

 she trudged endless paths searching for endless spaciousness when no outside to her world could be found

she followed her homesickness searching for some unspeakable beauty just missed

a rainbow inside her heart

that seemed to appear and vanish

ancient songs

beckoned

the words and melodies were unclear

yet she knew all of them by heart spinning around trying to find them to gather them dizzy

breathless

tears

chasing her tale

never noticing there was no singer and she was the song

what pushed and pulled the tides of your heart

when you believed there were edges to this endless ocean of love?

what is the color of this poem? where is its silent sound?

7

 what soars on the wingtip of sound?

what leaves whirlpools of emptiness...

pools of echoes bleeding into sky

who hears this music, or is this symphony its own resonance swirling into a wind ballet of timeless wonder

merging again into endless sky

without separate notes there is no music without a listener there is no singer without lovers there is no love

where is this love when all is love

a brush of madness paints me into this dream that has no actual substance or place or time

I do not exist nor do I not

I am as real and as unreal as you, as tomorrow

as love

wild and wonderful this aliveness that has no other ungraspable untethered

wings dissolve into sky

sky dissolves into its own reflection

and your eyes are miraculous mirrors delicate wetness

you are an imaginary prism between life and life this obvious pulsating trembling aliveness seeing itself

touching itself

through you life seems to explode

into silence

into sound

singing its own ineffable majesty

8

 no one wears the wings of sound they beat with the rhythm of existence...

tides

wind in the tree tops your aching heart...

are there separate tears in this river of silence where is sound

where is silence

where is the rainbow you saw last summer? where is the rain in last night's dream? what is rain?

whose tears are these?

songs spin the dream with heart strings loosed by the wind

love breaks free

sails into sky

it was never tethered

never held

life falls through itself breathless

wind

without end or beginning time swallows itself leaves not a hint of its own non existence

it is obvious that life cannot be held whisper your name and taste your own emptiness run to the mirror and see if you are there under the eyes

beneath the skin

just flesh and blood

flowing

current of aliveness

river of song

has no singer

no one pushes or pulls the tides not even the moon

they flow in your mind stream just like this song

9

 your longing to get what is already the case will seem to push it away, as it is not an it, neither are you

longing for life to look and feel differently hurts

as it is impossible

how can the ocean taste its own wetness?

there is nothing to be remembered and no one to remember....

this obvious aliveness

this brilliant immediacy is undeniable, isn't it?

there appears to be awareness of this aliveness and an awareness of this awareness...

and there is no separation between these...

it is the apparent imaginary 'division' created by the objectifying brain that seems to create a thing called awareness and a thing called aliveness...

but can you isolate one?

is there ever awareness without perception

or perception without awareness?

this aliveness cannot be caught

of held

it is a treasure that seems to self arise

and simultaneously self erase

no past nor future nor 'now' can be found,

nor can a looker be isolated from this streaming perceptual sensorial display....

you know this magic, and the magic of it is that it is

indeed

un-graspable

unknowable

and there is no separate thing

no hand

no heart

no mind

that can hold it or know it in the conventional sense

yet it is always sensed

somehow

and there is no path or method to discover that which already is

as the path, the method, the looking, is already this magic of aliveness self arising and self erasing....

10

 and you feel your hand your heart reaching out

trying to catch the rippling

but all you can see is rainbows flowing through your fingers

you are the walls you seek to escape or break down...

they seem to be solid and keep out the light...

but it is belief in the dream which creates this illusion of separation, of an inside and an outside, here and there

imprisonment and freedom...

and someone to be free or bound

some how this belief which is the cornerstone of who you are melts away, the wall of belief is punctured, all encompassing brilliance dissolves all and everything, yet all and everything and you remain.... all is transparent wonder

you are dissolved yet dancing...

there are no things nor non things nor both

nor neither

no mind, no non mind

no one to have a mind

or not

11

 weightless sky endless blue endless grey clouds

hover

rain

falls

rainbows appear and dissolve colors spill into your mind stream ...they never left

river of thought has no beginning nor end no banks of time

nor background of space

daffodils swoon under the weight of moonlight stars seem fixed until they make you dizzy the world spins

or is it you

swirling into starlight?

a life time of chasing your tale

no beginning or end can be found to this seamless aliveness spinning may reveal an empty center to the jewel that you are infinite facets blend into a surround sound of echoes reverberating ancient songs

that were never sung

yet the words and melodies are felt deeply as they line your edgeless heart where clouds and starlight and endless skies bloom

and wilt

looking for a lasting presence

a fixed point on the horizon that will pin you to the story is like a pin in your heart

a bitter death to flight

morning dove floats to the frozen ground

I heard her singing as dawn streamed into the garden grey cat sleuths across the frost

flying up

magnificent feathered display

and you long to drown in this beauty and dissolve into light

but you were never separate from love you cannot find it or lose it

there is no you who is love

nor love to merge with

it is all love

12

 there is no love

river of love needs its banks to flow

we stand on opposite sides

and dance in the current as we dissolve into each other never separate

never joined

we need this river of reflections

to glimpse our own beauty

and drown in our own love

13

 you are a persona

an imaginary persona

like me, the character that you are seems to arise in the company of apparent others.

we are the shared dream of separation, and as we do not exist alone, other personas are like our mirrors...

as we do not exist, we cannot find anything when we look inside. in a way we are each others reflections.

when a loved one dies, we will never see ourselves through their eyes again. that mirror has broken, and the shards rip through our hearts as we have lost a part of ourselves. gone forever.

enlightenment is not an escape from the dream.

knowing you and I and love are imaginary is not the end of love, it is the beginning of an all encompassing love, of realizing that all of us know somewhere down deep that we are utterly empty and exist only as each other's echoes, and that we do not exist alone,

that we all long to touch, knowing that we can never know what life looks or feels like for another.

we are all utterly alone. yet everyone shares this broken hearted beauty, everyone is utterly innocent, simply isolated swirling galaxies of thought, of liquid memory....insubstantial, ephemeral, beautiful dreamt personas....

love is the part of the dream that makes up for the total aloneness we all share. we are alone, together.

thought weaves a web that has no solidity nor liquidity... it is composed of not even nothing... less substantial than cloud castles dissolving.... nothing can be caught with thought, thought is more like a razor slicing up the perceptual symphony into things and an observer.... but there is no thing called perception or awareness without thought... no thing called thought...

without thought...

you are flowing fleeting description... memory, a story without a source or story teller....

you are an echo of your own aloneness....

14

 I have people plead with me to give them one crumb of advice that will let them reach this promised land... but it is only empty promises that they have heard, there is no promised land of enlightenment and no one to reach it..... no one has this sublime emptiness and no one can give it away...

utter emptiness is already the case.... it is the looking for it which seems to deny it.... looking for enlightenment.... looking for any idea requires a belief in it... and enlightenment is a belief, like emptiness, like other better more and next....

so how can you find that which is already on?

wouldn't looking for it be it

or running away?

how could it be confirmed or denied, accepted or rejected...

the confirmation or rejection or acceptance... all what seems to appear... there is no getting out of this streaming dream of separation...

there is certainly no outside or edge to what seems to appear... and isn't the recognition of this seamless symphony of sensorial display inseparable from it? never one without an other...

wouldn't you say that life seems to appear all by itself without effort or non effort?

the feelings of effort and ease both arise effortlessly...

all arises and self erases evenly and equally and there are no separate actual things in this stream of perceptual input....

it is thought which seems to divide the unknowable ungraspable no thingness into separate things and events....

and this is something you can never see, as you are one of these imaginary separate things, like enlightenment...

15

 I am a dream spell of liquid memory

slipping sliding falling through itself

endless stories spiraling....

no end or beginning in sight

a fluid portrait of all the stories, all the images all whom I have met there are no separate stories...

that I am a fairytale dream girl is a story

as are these very lines trippling through your mind stream which really isn't yours, as you exist only in the thought

you think of as yours

all thought is learned shared words

stories...

weaving and unravelling without any actual substance sky soars through sky

light pours through light...

life swoons into itself

through your arms your eyes your lips this very kiss this obvious aliveness

immediate and clear

without other

without before or after ungraspable....

wondrous beyond measure

not even a this

as there is no that...

16

 what is darkness?

what is light?

what is this warmth inside my chest?

stars

bursting

rivers of songs

pour onto this screen

fingertips flow softly over this keyboard painting light and dark and colors streaming through this thought dream

wings of memory

tides of images

feathers drift softly

settling into this book of poems that writes me

as I continually slide off the pages

that were never bound

or held

or separate

from the story they tell

there is no heart nor hand nor mind that can contain this love this unbearably wondrous symphony that seems to play itself and hear itself

and leaves not a drop of sound

not even silence

in its wake

no one paints these infinite watercolor skies or this moon that seems to hover suspended

falling through its own embrace

the horizon never reached

unties itself

and the present is revealed

to be nothing other than what it always was a dream of infinite wonder dreaming itself

17

As real as love

 you are as real as your lover

and as real as love
what more could you ask for?

hands appear to touch
hearts appear to open
love appears to sing...
like this like this like this
just this just this just this...
take my hand and it is yours
take my heart and it is yours...
take this love as it is yours

here is the love you longed for
she has been with you all along
she is you
there is no other
it is all love
nor you
nor love


it's really hard looking for this when there is no this
nor that
nor anyone to look


everyone knows life is magic, and they see people around them die, and assume they will die also. 
this makes life seem even more precious! ....so they spend their lives trying to gather and hold onto life... the magic... but the magic is life and cannot be grasped by itself

life's impossible beauty is that it seems to be aware of itself
through the imaginary separation of this and that, perception and awareness. 



as you reach for the magic...
colors slide off the rainbow and bleed into sky
sky falls through sky
light slides through light
all is transparent
and utterly unknowable
ungraspable..

this brilliant immediacy has no edges
nor center
this un-owned life
neither real
nor unreal
contains no things to be known
or unknown
it cannot even contain itself

life paints itself and self erases
there is no page nor canvas nor backdrop of space or time
there is no center looking out
nor edge looking in
no one reads the poem
or sings it

there are no pieces to put together nor wholeness to take apart
there is no understanding or grasping of this aliveness
as it is not an it
yet
this obvious aliveness seems to arise utterly spontaneously
magically
all by itself
there is no thought or thinker
no feelings nor one who feels
there is no experience nor experiencer
and there is no love nor lover nor beloved

yet love seems to be all there is
and is not...

the beauty the beauty the beauty...
wondrous beyond measure...
magical magnificent...
all pervasive all encompassing love


so many ask me who are the enlightened ones
and I always say there are no one who are enlightened.

this is an empty prize for no one

there is no test for enlightenment, and it seems there is no doubt and no place for it to arise.... no correct words will prove it, but after the shift there is no desire to prove. 
what is love? list those who love the most.


what is this urge to sing?
or does this longing sing me?

what is this dream of flying
this dream of sleeping
this dream of dreaming...


it seems you bend down to smell a flower, yet there is no you and there is no rose, it seems there is a liquid water color dreamscape and the inseparable recognition of it...
you and the rose arise in the thought stream
and your rose is your rose, not mine. 
what does red look like to you? you cannot explain this, can you?
what exactly is a rose?

you could tell me about its color and scent and how soft the petals, how sharp the thorns, how butterflies and bees hover....
you can describe the air and the soil and the nutrients.... you can describe the seasons and the long low winter sun....
you can sing of the high summer heat and the petals drying.... and falling... and gathering under the bushes waiting for the autumn winds....
you can sing of how the hauntingly beautiful moon sings of October skies....

and all this flowing description seems to paint a dream scape with roses and sun and and a you in the middle, painting it....
but it paints itself
self arising and self erasing....
no things can be caught
your hand is as real as the rose
neither real nor unreal

life seems to flowing
but you cannot go back and find before
and there is no where to which life flows
there is no solidity, is there?

you recognize that life is magical
and it appears to be rushing
pouring into its own demise
and you long to capture the magic,
hold it, merge with the magic, become it..
and you are this longing
and you are beautiful

you will hear me say over and over again that there is no you separate from life
it only seems that way because of the illusion of solidity...
and how can you escape that illusion, you may ask?
there is no escape
as you are the illusion

you say you want what I have
but I do not have this sublime emptiness
no one does
all I can do is sing of what it is like for me
we can never know what it is like for another as our world is our thought stream unique and wonderful... we and our universe are made of shared learned words.... all and everything arises in the languaging
look at how many symphonies can be created with only twelve notes.... 

go ahead, tell me, without words, what you truly are....



no one knows diddlysquat.
there is no one separate from what is going on to know or not know anything or nothing
however in the dream of things there is apparent knowing of them and how they work. can you see that all of this is description? 

no one knows what a flower truly is as there are no actual flowers, and no actual knowers.
so there is description of the biology and chemistry of the plant and soil and nutrients and sun etc. but all the words and apparent understanding are just a web of words where all words are defined by other words. 
note even meaning is a word, as well as enlightenment. you are this flowing thought stream as you and all apparent things arise in it including the idea that there is a thing called thought.

apparently for some the dream of things becomes less solid and utterly transparent, and there is the loss of the feeling of 'real' including thing like 'real' and 'unreal', truth and fiction, here and there, meaning and non meaning. but it is obvious that this recognition does not happen to the person as the person has also lost her imaginary solidity. 

no one seems to know how this happens but it apparently does, as enlightenment is also the dream of things, a magical story of light and dark and yellow daffodils blooming. 

the neighbor's cat broke a stem of an unopened flower yesterday but I cut it and put it in a glass of water. 

now as I make my morning tea, it blooms in the kitchen.

people will say that nothing is happening, or everything is happening, and what is the difference? that is like saying that everything is up, everything is real, everything is imaginary. everything is (fill in the blanks).... 

it is apparent always that there are no things, does that make a difference in this imaginary dancer's life? well, yes, indeed as the thought stream changes considerably when there is no belief in other better more or next. there is simply no hope or fear or need of that imaginary next. 

the thought stream does not go away but it does seem to change. 
along with the palpable physical and psychological relaxation, there is the absence of the constant self judgement and self correction thoughts, the constant shoulda woulda coulda.  

and it feels like all encompassing love, living beautifully between love and nothing at al, between the fullness and emptiness. somehow I seem to fall in love with everyone I see. I weep a lot at the utter beauty of all and everything. 

this is always obvious, the beauty
the beauty
the beauty


shooting arrows at the sun 
you are burned as they return your desire
asking why the universe
why me
why love
all answers are your own echo
there is no outside or inside to the storm expanding and contracting from no where
from everywhere

to no where
to everywhere
infinitly intimately immeasurable
ungraspable
your hands
your questions
dissolve

your universe collapses
not a single point remains
there never was a singularity
to burst into bloom

this is a collision between the known
and the unknown
and neither win

ebb and drift of thought
moonlight hovers in-between the words
soft hush of distant voices reverberate in your heart
the words cannot be heard, and the melody.... almost
glimpsed
and lost again

as a child you slept
and dreamed of fireflies
memory lights the darkness
spills light into the garden
painting all and everything
there are the daffodiles I planted long long ago
tender delicate yellows pouring into gold
and the doves cry
and this wetness
sliding down my cheeks



no one can know what is going on, no one can step outside of life and grasp it or manipulate it... can you find an edge to all this? there is no sense nor non sense to this all, it is all what ever it seems to be...

if it seems to make sense then it seems to make sense, if it feels confusing then it feels confusing, if it feels right,,, or wrong... then it feels right or wrong.... we can never know what life or love or the color red feels like for another.... and therein lies our great aloneness that can never be crossed....
it is only with these shared learned words that we seem to communicate, but my trees and apples are different from yours as all things are colored in by this liquid memory, including us....

what is red?
what is enlightenment
what is beauty
what is love?
these questions may plague us or not....
perhaps there may be a taste of a delicious unknowing....
or a race to find an answer

or maybe you will wander into the kitchen for a cup of tea

light is streaming in the garden through the cloudy sky and the finches and sparrows are gathering at the feeders...
I can hear the growling of the garbage truck as it approaches
it must be Thursday

thought paints this universe of things
it weaves a web of seeming solidity
but how weighty is thought?
thought echo locates a you somewhere in the middle of this flowing liquid web
and it may feel like there is a you who needs to figure out what this web is
or escape it
or not


this cannot be known intellectually
the razor of thought cannot grasp this, as there is not even nothing to grasp


you have heard that there is no self and that sounds good....
so you are seeking that recgonition
but how would you recognize your own non existence
you are imaginary but you cannot know it


do I miss our cat? hmmmm.... yes I am the missing of him.... but actually I am the missing of you and well, everyone.... including myself.... 

this is a haunting beauty.... a song that resonates everywhere and no where... the words are unintelligible but wondrous for that.... no separate notes can be found nor rhythm can be held, yet the reverberations are my heart song, everyone's heart song, a chorus of love that lights the universe and showers gently through its own shimmering....

it is felt, deeply, and yet there are no depths nor heights to be found, no inside nor outside where feeling is not... is it hurting? is it sadness? is it joy? I know not, but it is wondrous to feel so deeply and no longer care or know what feeling it is, and no longer wonder what feeling is....
no longer wonder what love is

all I have loved are love songs that seemed to dance into this swirling wind ballet, they are as real as I am, a soundless ocean current leaving whirlpools in its wake, merging again into stillness, there is an ununtterable beauty of beauty missed... like the first car on the early morning road with its windows open, and the radio blaring.... tail lights trailing rivers of red in the darkness....


I am an imaginary ego. I never was I cannot disappear, in this shift what dissolves is the belief and feeling of solidity of selves and others and all things, and ideas like truth and love.... there is no belief in other, better, more or next. there is no more searching for ideas like perfection or certain feelings. gone is all hope and fear and need of a never arising next, yet this is the dream, still. it feels like love has super saturated the dream, feels like floating... in love as love.

spinning with the galaxy 
afraid to fly off your world 
you can feel the curve of the universe pushing you down
and other stars
beckoning

out there
is a beyond
beyond beyond
you wish to reach
but you are thrown off course every time you think you have seen the goal
and you begin to wonder if there is an endpoint to all this longing
other than death

you have heard all the teachers and sages say there is no self
but the words are meaningless
it sounds good... maybe you are not this puny little self
with all these messy thoughts and feelings
maybe you are a true self...
but they knock that idea down too....

you say, 'enough!',  I will no longer seek this elusive thing
but you are the seeking
you cannot stop

you are inseparabe from thought and emotion
you could never really have the thoughts and feelings you wanted
could you
or chosen to have wanted other ones
the river flows
life seems to be pouring
into itself
through your delicate eyes it sees itself
through your tongue it tastes itself
through your reaching fingertips
it feels its own aliveness
you are this longing, as am I
and it is beautiful

I am the longing to share this wonder
knowing I never can

knowing and feeling that there are no things
no selves
no others
no love
there is an inescapable wonderment that this watercolor dream show seems to appear

desire the movement of life
and you are desire
longing to touch
knowing you never really can
as there is no you
nor anything to grasp

liquidity of life pours through itself
...and we walk along the beaches of a shoreless ocean
and marvel at the sunset
alone
together


I am an imaginary ego. I never was I cannot disappear, in this shift what dissolves is the belief and feeling of solidity of selves and others and all things, and ideas like truth and love.... there is no belief in other, better, more or next. there is no more searching for ideas like perfection or certain feelings. gone is all hope and fear and need of a never arising next, yet this is the dream, still. it feels like love has super saturated the dream, feels like floating... in love as love.

you and all things are ideas inside yer head
including the idea of heads
and inside


echoes
surfing
infinite echoes
singing through rainbow tongues
colors flow through sound
there is no finding the beginning of waves
no end to this song

flowers bloom in these words
that peel apart into letters 
and lines and sqiggles dancing across the page
images form and dissolve
a lullaby of madness lures you into this dance
whirling tossing turning wildly
a ship without a rudder
and sails
and wind
and sky...
and there is no other
nor center to this wind ballet
no time in which to rest
or be active
no place where you can breathe
as breathing happens
or not
this precious dance
dances you
swirls you through space and time and in between the madness
a light appears
and grows
and consumes the dance
burns itself

ashes of wonderment fall into long lacy patterns on the beach
and you lean to read them
it is your love letter to you...

welcome home
I've missed you
I love you



you are all these learned ideas about enlightenment and you seek more to fill the feeling off incompleteness.
what would you be without all these ideas?

you are the seeking, I am sure you have heard that one...
there is nothing to get, you've heard that one again and again!
but, surely, these ones who claim enlightenment seem to have something you do not.... they have flowery words or stark ones and somehow you believe them, that they have achieved a state that you once tasted...
maybe they have
maybe not...

for you can never know what life feels like to another...
you can never know what the color red looks like to another
you can never know what love feels like to another
you are utterly alone
you can never actually touch another

you can hear people say there is no self, there is no you
there are no separate things nor oneness
over and over again
why do you listen?
maybe it resonates... hauntingly
what does that mean?
that you are imaginary
and all you have loved
are mental fabrications
what would that recogntion change?
what do you want it to change?
do you want to be free from those pesky thoughts and feelings you don't like?

if there were no you there would be no one to be free of them!
what about all the 'good' feelings like joy and happiness and bliss
and love...

what would it mean to not be here?
certainly this is unimaginable...
what if there was no here?
where would you be
where would you go
what would you do
if you were not

what if you already are not
how in the hell are you going to get this?
how are you going to reach the other side
when there are no sides

memory opens the tight green bud
the red of velvet petals
and a hand reaching out
bleed into the dream

space has no dimension without you
time has no substance other than thought
red is a color floating in time
falling through space
from this page
to your mind stream

roses no one can see
but you
they are uniquely yours
as you are ultimately alone
walking this dusty road
searching for footprints
that blew away
long long ago

you might find you have been following yourself
chasing your own tale
a story of roses and blood
and rainbows dissolving
and love twirling her gypsy skirts of mirrors
exploding all ideas of here and there
and some one to find
that pot of gold

that magic
you long for
is the longing

gone are the rainbows of yesteryear
did they ever slide through your mindstream
are they pouring color into this flowing movie where we seem to meet....
what knows the colors of love
or does love recognize herself
whose eyes
whose tears
whose love


no one is lost or found in garden glow
spiderwebs shimmering
watching my hands pick up the yarn
and the crochet begins again
hard steel hook
starkly bright against the lush soft colors
and my fingers
delicate and strong
and a sweater for my husband appears

it may feel that you are suspended as nothingness
neither bad nor good
but the fullness also seems to appear
in spirts or all at once
so that there is both
simultaneously
inseparably
living and loving between this rich and lush and utterly wondrous worded world
and not even nothing at all




bathing in and as an infinite ocean of description
your heart is written with love letters 
your skin your eyes your lips are kissed with words
flowers and stars and these very songs bloom in this universe of echoes
that seem to float within echoes
of echoes
super saturated with a sourceless light
that has no darkness
or light
and is both full
and empty
and yet neither full
nor empty

currents of words slide through other words
whirlpools seem to hover
and merge back into the flowing
stories of light separate from light
are told
but no stories are outside of the story
as outside is a most marvelous story
that there are stories
is a story

there appears to be a dance of words and ideas
twirling in this word ballet
but there is no dancer
no one spins the dream
there is no water or wetness separate from ocean
there is no water
nor wetness
nor ocean

there is nothing that can be said about the dream
that is not the dream
as there is no dream
nor teller of this tale

yet I am here, as real as you
as real as tomorrow
and love
real, another idea that seems to provide an illusion of solidity
when there is no solidity
nor liquidity

we are this watercolor dream land ballet
shimmering in the mind stream
which cannot be grasped or understood
as no things can be found outside of these words

I know how frustrating it can be to try to find out what this is
when there is no this to find