poetry seems to escape its own words

 words pour out of my fingertips painting morning into the garden, doves floating, their warm feathered grace filling the cups of my eyes, overflowing, colors spill through the windows melting my reflection, the grey cat dreams, I can feel his heart beat… a mirage of empty fades into bottomless echoes, oscillating into reflections of moon floating on endless oceans…

my heart was sucked out by the tides, I was drowned, …dissolved in waves of moon songs, not even my nakedness was left… and I find my self spilling into these songs that dance me on to empty beaches as I wait for your heartbeat to find mine, so we can float, together, in this sensuous ballet of lost and found moon

~~~~~

is the poem in the flower or is the flower in the poem?

petaled softness unfurls your heart into a song of elegant tendrils stretching into sky, …hidden thorns pierce and rip your skin into prayers echoing in dusty temples crumbling under the weight of sky, falling, …the heaviness and lightness of joy and sorrow, and love, a deep underlying roar that consumed you long ago when you were waiting to hear the next song…

~~~~~

hanging on the edge of words, …doves hover, …morning calls…

you back to the liquid dreamscape of scintillating…

the heartbeat of existence lies in in the oscillations of this and that, yet there is no this or that, or both or neither, as there is no unchanging thing, or things to change, …so do you exist without an imaginary back drop of time and space, and can you find time, or space, or their absence? who would find or lose your place in the passion play? what would be a book mark, a kiss, …love, love lost?

what falls out of the book when your tears saturate the cover, as the title  slides into infinite wetness, and the pages dissolve into words into sounds into this very poem your eyes seem to scan and hungrily or lazily drink the words that pour through these fingers this heart that is looking to taste your heartbeat, this perfect sound this resonance this love… is it your heart beat or mine? who would recognize the flavor of love but love itself?

~~~~~

without two or one or none, where is the moon? where are these eyes that seem to drink the moonlight and where is this if there is no there?

we exist only in the dream of separation, of separate things and separate events, of time and space, this is the only world we can 'know'... there is no escape as wanting to escape this is this, is this real or unreal or surreal? it is as real as it feels…

we are not, nor is love, yet here we are and I love you

the feeling that this should look or feel a certain way can dissolve, as well as the belief in other better more and next.. and this causes the feeling of separation to leave, …there is a most wonderful feeling of ok-ness, of supersaturated wonder, of love... yet that is the dream as well….

life looks and feels like anything at all, for me for you for anyone, and we can never know what it feels like for another, …we are utterly alone…

to say that you have figured it out, the path to bliss or happiness is pure delusion, there is no path to nowhere, and who would arrive at this imaginary next?

you are not yet you will die... we are not, yet we love...

life is like a fairy tale that I heard long long ago, when I didn’t even know what words were, like being dropped into a foreign film, and it is unspeakably rich and beautiful and sublimely empty and it doesn’t matter that I don’t know the language and that there are no actors and no directors and no script

roses in my mouth

tears shared are the ocean of love, bathing us drowning us in unspeakable wonder, words color in the rainbows they paint,

we fall through the cascading

~~~~~

love has no name

love has no words

it is not contained

in shadow and light

it slides through our fingers

pours through our hearts

kisses us deeply

into this day dream of love

a dream of infinite heartbreak

love cannot be found

or lost

we are this ballet of tears

where joy and sorrow merge

there are no words for this love

this love not sung

sings itself

~~~~~

inside the sky

under the spinning stars

deep sea anemones breathe

in your chest

all of life is singing

galaxies are forming and dissolving into colors

you can never catch

your breath

it is not yours

nor is this heart

beating

wildly

no poems can be found inside these words

no love rests inside your heart

~~~~~

heart beat of life

rhythm of this and that

tympani of thunder

rolls through you

you are sky bursting

and the shelter of ancient love songs

scattered under the trees

poems strewn across the sky

above the clouds

there are stars

spinning

they can only be seen at night

but day cannot hide from its own light

nothing can hide

or reveal

love

~~~~~

words are but an empty net of jewels

reflections dissolving into their own light… 

she poured herself into a book of poems so everyone could drink…

~~~~~

~~~~~

all words lost their meaning, their weight, all at once...  there were not two sides to the coin, nor a middle, …the coin dissolved in this magic of no things…

however, love stayed for awhile, …she darned my shadow and danced my light, slowly eviscerating the last threads of belief that seemed to hold her…

now there is just a forest flower poem of starlight drifting through the trees …a ballet of light and shadow that seem to form shapes and colors, rainbows hovering on the tip of my tongue, exploding and melting words that plunge through the dream of space and time they paint, melting into this undeniable taste that flavors my world, perfumes the dream of light and dark with an obvious aliveness that cannot be lost or found…

no effort or non effort is required to be the dance you are, as you cannot step outside of the dance, …there is no outside, there is no inside, there are no sides to the mirror you peer into every day looking for an answer to this song of why or when or how… you are the song of questions, of thought, that will keep on spinning the dream of this and that until the body dies…

~~~~~

and so what is left, knowing that there is no true or false, real or un real, (or surreal), without a solid reference point, when I am an imaginary referential point of view?

I could say everything is much the same, but... it is not at all, the story begins a new era, I have changed considerably, the thought stream is quite different without that constant self judgement and self correction, that feeling of lack is gone, that shoulda woulda coulda is gone... whoosh! 

the constant longing for a never arising other better more or next is gone... there is a feeling of completeness, what ever seems to appear, even war or hunger or love

…and does it all seem like love? yes, an unspeakable love a love that has no boundaries or qualifications, …the goal was never reached, there was never anywhere to be, no perfection to attain, no love to grasp, as the grasping the seeking for love was also love…

and it all feels beautiful, even the things I would have considered bad or ugly before, and yes, there is no before or after, there is no one to feel complete or empty, and this all feels complete and empty and this feels like love…

the lack of perfection and imperfection feeeeeeeels perfect, the lack of freedom and bondage, feeeeeeeeeels utterly free, the knowing that there is no love or lack of love feels like love….

whether this is real or unreal loses its significance, as everything that seems to appear is as real as the imaginary perceiver, which is me! 

and to call this oneness or wholeness or emptiness or fullness, or unicity or the big wow, or to say it is all love is utterly meaningless, to say it is all 'fill in the blank', to the listener gives them a goal to reach...

to say it is edgeless... what does that mean?

I constantly point out that no one can find an edge or outside to what is going on, and therefor there is no inside, no other, better, more or next, and listeners agree, yet the belief continues…

so what rips apart the wall of belief that they are, that seems to confine them, as well as their longing to escape, when there is no escape, the walls are imaginary… the looking, the reaching for that imaginary other is what forms your imaginary walls, it is what you are 

where is light, where is dark, where is the in between?

is it out there, or in your eyes, or in your head? without imaginary lines between you and the world how could anything be known or unknown? as we are defined by this knowing and unknowing, and the longing to know, the certitude that there is a world separate from us to know or understand,

what happens when all division all edges all lines are felt to be imaginary? do we disappear if we never were? how could we become 'one with everything', if there is no one to merge…

do we exist, do we not, what is this thing we call life? what is the difference between being everything and nothing? utterly none... there are no differences, only labels that seem to create lines, lassoing a bit of thought into a 'thing'... yet you may cry, 'of course there is light and dark! just look!' but without you, is there day and night? without you, are there forests and trees and falling in a forest? you may look at a fallen tree and thought creates a tree that has fallen and a story about it falling... 

and reading this where does it lead you? absolutely no where, there is no meaning nor non meaning to any of these words, they are just words, like meaning and non meaning... like emptiness like fullness, like love...

~~~~~

when the möbius strip you have been dancing along rips and the words slide off…

elaborate and subtle, thought mushrooms into swirling shapes and colors, and no edges can be found or lost among the damp heavy fragrant shadows lying in the grasses, prowling through shades of forgotten summers, …this crisp dawn floods the backwaters of memory, where I swim, and float, …and drown in stereophonic ripples soaring at the speed of dreams… 

this apocalypse of sound and light is heaven and hell and the marvel of the in between, exploding and fading into the gaps that never were…

slowly, gently, your fragile dreams of one more day dissolve into the poetry of midnight waves softly brushing watercolors on to the sea… 

your tongue begins to sing …is it your heart that is bursting out of your chest or the universe piercing all ideas of inner and outer space?

there is no place to land is there? you are the same monologue as your world… there are no two nor one, nor none…

there is no goal to reach, no end point nor beginning, no path to where you are not… no distance separating you from what is going on...

this singing seems to form these fingers gliding along the keys of life... to form this tongue, these eyes, these ears that taste the flavors, drink deeply this beauty, this love, drenching me, drowning me in this exquisite fire, this astounding shimmering ungraspable life…

~~~~~

the symphony blooms and recedes, the tapestry unravels, there were no separate instruments or voices or notes, 

…the roses could never be plucked

we are the intoxication of the scent and the softness, as well as the thorns, …petals falling, embroidered with frost, fading into the bloom and wilt, waves of sunset reflection in our eyes… long languorous loops and swirls, dragon clouds form and dissolve, cascading through reds and oranges and golden, …where they begin and end is memory, where you begin and end is memory sliding through ancient seas like every sunset that bled into your heart, or was it your heart bleeding into sky? drenched in nostalgia for what ever seems to appear, love evaporates before it is formed, as does all and everything, …simply a dream within a dream, without outside or inside or even a middle…

the guard dog to the gates of heaven was the belief that there was a heaven, …your wings were never inside or out, feathers are your heart beating, sky sliding into sky, and the love and the rain… and the inevitable darkness, stars tripling lightly through the heart beat of night, and the moon on the other side of the horizon, where day light holds her opalescent glow, …all is burned, ashes of love cannot be held in the palm of your heart, this exquisite heat that sears a surround sound of love into this rich and lush fabric, the threads of your life weaving and unravelling…

~~~~~

clothes slip off the line into the hollow voice of wind, your silhouette is pulled into the murmuration of love, and there is nothing inside, nothing left to dance in the wind, to request this tempest or push it away…

you are swallowed by your heart beat, your breath, this ultimate intimacy, closer than close, infinite beyond measure, …songs of golden sorrow and rainbow light float through your exquisite tears as you fall through the looking glass, no sides can be found, nor middle…

your face, your empty eyes, simply beautiful sourceless reflections soaring through the rippling…

you are the breath of midnight moon and endless sky, never separate from you, surely you are sky diamonds, spinning, a center less jewel…

the earth holds her breath to taste your tenderness and waits to drink your tears, …the sea returns to itself, it has never left, …you have never left and cannot go back, there is no back…

you cannot hold or know this love you long for as it is unreachable, ungraspable, and utterly obvious, it is everything that seems to appear, and nothing at all…

~~~~~

flavor of sky is buried in its own innocence, hidden in the depths of earthen hues lies the scent of rain …long …gone

hearts wander, weaving cloud shadows into a song of leaves, falling, colors pouring through petals of moon and memory, floating… a fantail of butterflies explodes out of a mail box, hugs hover in the wind… empty arms waiting… tides embrace and release the sand, empty hearts with edges melting, love flows in between the pages, ignites itself, burning, smoldering, ashes of memory wafting, waning…

 rain, again…

~~~~~

the scent of forgotten hues hovers on the edge of sky

so gentle, the waves, breathing in my open hands…

my heart, a secret labyrinth beneath the sea, twists and turns words into poems that bask and dissolve in the sensual delicacy of morning…

suspended between light and dark, words fall apart and toss themselves into love letters, strewn haphazardly into the night

a chorus of waves rushes across the flowered carpet, fingers soft with roses, cat on the window ledge, balanced in sky, falling

halo of evening strolls through homebound traffic, perfumes the windows with sky reflection

~~~~~

wind is a poem singing me dissolving me into her winged beauty

strong and delicate, vowels and consents held and released, breathe love songs that stream through these fingers, caress my lips with stories of fairies and moon songs that dance across the pages of ancient books, magic drifts and plunges into this tale that has no beginning or end or flowers you can pluck or press into the pages of your life, yet this undeniable flavor lingers on the tip of your tongue

and it tastes like love without words… 

foreign and familiar, the scent of lightening paints a storm in the canyon of empty shadows dancing through the dawn, rain melts in windblown patterns through my hands, through my fingers, through the wetness, fills and empties your eyes your beautiful ears pressed against a nautilus blooming and unwinding, revealing its secret chambers, your heart blooms and unwinds, walls dissolving, petals falling, drifting songs seem to hover and pour through your blood, rhythms of ancient tides push and pull you through bottomless seas of wonderment, poems are oceans painting every sunrise and sunset with the wetness of your eyes, mirrored reflections strewn across this galaxy of dreams, this symphony of sensuousness, this life unparalleled, unreachable, ungraspable…

there is no other life, no other magic, no other love…

~~~~~

fingerprint of love is unique, undeniable, familiar and new, a dream of a lullaby that dreams you, dreams me into this elusive sensual ballet, twirling around and through itself without separate dancers, nor one, nor none, no dance floor,  there is no canvas or background of space and time in which love appears to paint itself, …love cannot deny or accept anything as love has no other, better, more or next…

love may seem to hide in your heart, or dance across your face, forming your lips into a kiss of flowers blooming and collapsing… no root you can pull no petals to pluck, all seems to swirl, whirl and pour into itself,  fading simultaneously, without ever becoming a ‘thing’

…marigolds weeping

forever beckons and slams you into the dance of no tomorrow which your feet have always known, your heart has always sung this song, yet you could never decipher the words… there is no need to translate the morning chorus, the first robin, the frozen ground, …doves …floating…

yet without words we are not, we cannot share and dissolve into each other’s stories… I am your lullaby and you are mine…

 

love sings itself, can’t you feel your heart beating, your breath, these words sliding along the meandering they paint?

there is no need to capture and hold love, nor know what love is, as you are not, nor is love….

the scent of joy merges with sorrow and perfumes love’s sigh

…love is, and is not, as are all things,… if all is love, what is left?

what are these tears that seem to anoint my eyes with your beautiful reflection?

~~~~~

light and colors are painted by this bouquet of words that cannot be grasped or held in the corners of your heart, as your hands and your heart are the sensuousness they long to capture…

mirrors melt into their reflections, all is liquid echoes blooming and wilting, waves of light and color pouring into a fairy tale, indefinably sensuous, sad and beautiful and wondrous 

and in the lofty caverns where you tried to hide and longed to escape… nothing was waiting nothing had vanished, the pandemonium that rises from the other side of across the galaxy is only worlds of words colliding…

…where is the edge of reality when no other reality can be found?

what does 'really matter' mean anyway? nothing matters is the same as everything matters... without separate notes there is no music, without us there is no love…

and this is yet another song of ideas rising and falling, waves plunging through their own wetness.... there is no finding a solid stable self or other, or a liquid one... I am, you are, love is more like a flowing description... and that is a story, and that this is a story— is a story…

love seems to be the knowing and feeling that there are no things, nor non things, no separate events, that all time, dimension, all measurement is made up, all that you are and seek is a dream, as well as finding the golden ring… it is all gold, all treasure, all…

magic

~~~~~

there is no director and the film is burning

you cannot escape duality, as non duality is the knowing that you are the dream of separation and this is the dream as well….

life looks and feels like anything at all

life as a human is filled with great sorrow and joy

how wonderful we can feel so deeply

the pulse the swing the zing of this amazing life, this love song, which sings itself, no words or notes are missing, there are no edges to fill or erase, no beginning or end can be found… no one can awaken to this, as all that seems to appear is, well, all there is

~~~~~

and the day stretched into its own light, basking in the electric, a magical light and sound show sensuously dreaming itself, tasting the flavor of deep deep shadows hiding under the roses where reds and greens disappeared last fall, drinking the scintillating echoes flowing through my fingers, the rush! of wind and tides and starlight wandering across the disappearing horizon, the songs of ancient seas melt sound and silence into this hush, this kiss of everything and nothing at all…

~~~~~

there is no memory of a girl who felt separate from life, from love, but there are stories that arise about a someone sitting on a cliff above the sunset sea, longing to grok the sameness of inside and outside, and the nuclear explosion of when that became obvious, …the merging of infinite and intimate, the collision of never and forever, and yes, these are old scratchy records that play when people ask, old photographs seen through a melting mirror, like the ones my parents showed me of their lives, or that strangers show me on airplanes of their families (I always ask),... people I never met, yet I always seem to cry…

the inner surf is the outer, and there is no sea…

a lullaby sings me into the arms of my own embrace, and always, an ungraspable untouchable magic, an edgeless womb of bliss of love, of nothing at all…

~~~~~

softly …gently …rain

windows dissolve into tears, reflections pour through my eyes, colors slide off the memory of moon splashing wetness into patterns of naked trees and doves …floating …snow …falling …feathered beauty weaves this elegant tapestry of wind streaming through a silhouette of echoes… shards of moonlight buried deep in the ground, or was it my heart that broke the hourglass, acres of sand melting into glass into this sea of dreams that has no shore, near or distant, no harbor in which to hide, no bottom where you can plunge your anchor and wait for the freedom of a calm day, storms may appear to gather and currents flow, but it is all ocean, all love, even the longing to float or sail across the sea is a dream …sinking …into …itself

~~~~~

tears are echoes sliding though puddles, reflections burning

feathers of rain, delicately your face

how beautiful this sadness, this sky, sinking

sails are wind, water rising, …slowly …rain

~~~~~

river descends into moon

texture of light swoons into a symphony of feathers

winds stir the grasslands of memory, articulating sky and pulse of night

in the darkness, tea blooms into a crescendo of warmth, a typhoon of touch and taste and the morning waiting for her skin to peel into songs of light and shadow and paint the colors of day, distant chimes sing, slide into their own echoes, …where is this sensuous of life, inside or out? your skin never held you, life breathes you as you breathe life, love slays you and swallows you whole, …how would love recognize herself but through your eyes, your tears and your beautiful broken heart?

~~~~~

we are fingerprints of water …in …water

songs of tears and tears drying sing our delicate beauty, our eyes super saturated, overflowing with love’s reflections…

we are a delicate symphony of wet …in …wet, the whirl and swirl of life, the crest of a wave in wave-less beauty, life falling into itself, love falling in love with love…

memory seems to create lost and found patterns, …wind …in …wind

left over leaves scoot across the garden, my cat and I watch, amazed at the beauty, the sound, the echoes, the taste of life, but without thought he cannot sing of it, and seem to appear in the singing…

I am a liquid poem of sunsets bleeding on to this page

~~~~~

low slung carpet of moon slides under the shadows, shards of memory howl at the sky, …underwater reflections burn, dissolve, …was there ever a sound other than this? ever a fragrance other than this aliveness blooming and burning simultaneously?  patterns of ashes slide onto the shore, traceries of what never was dance through the arabesque of footprints and wind, and ideas of moving of dancing of plunging your heart into the center of love and never coming out the other side, …you cannot enter or exit or merge with love, there is no outside or inside, nothing other or better, or more, no ‘one day’ when you will finally slide into a perfect pirouette of words that will reveal what you long to know or forget…

this is not a remembering, this is what ever it looks and feels like and it has always been and never was, and never will be

first robin song swims through the morning, anointing the dark with a promise of dawn, finches join the chorus of awakening, the dreaming of light swoons through the canyon, illuminating empty silhouettes, painting shades of softness into my heart, all tastes sublime, the fragrance of tears permeates this intimacy that cannot be captured or held, as the grasping, the longing for love would be simply love falling into its own arms…

~~~~~

love writes her name in your heart, and it is yours…

wave of love falls into itself, it is all ocean softness including these tears…

multi-petaled iridescence pours gently through prisms of light, symphony of flowers blooms and wilts simultaneously, life effortlessly sings itself, yet cannot grasp or hold itself, as it is its own embrace…

the longing for what is not, is what is… the effort to make the flower of life bloom is life blooming, all by itself, utterly unavoidably, naturally so…

you cannot accept or reject or surrender to love, as love has no outside nor inside, there is no other, …there are no two, nor one, nor none…

there is no next, no place to reach and no one traveling from here to there… life seems to meander along the meandering, a ballet of emptiness and fullness, sensually lost and found and in between, but there is no here nor there, nor both, nor neither…

there is no one to be free or bound by concepts like freedom or bondage, …life flowers and wilts at the same time, without time or timeless-ness, without space, or emptiness, without ever actually becoming, petals of your loveliness bloom in my eyes in this dance of echoes without a source, without sound or silence, love sings,

unknowable, un-graspable, inescapably so…

~~~~~

it’s all the big picture, there is no frame

~~~~~

I hear that many non dual speakers use the same words… I don't listen and I don’t care, but I love to sing, you can listen or not… I don't sell many books so they must not fit the religion… these songs are not hymns or prayers, …I am a song and dance man, …this is a call and answer love song, we are echoes and there is no source, simply scintillating reflections blooming and receding simultaneously in a dream of time and space, dreaming itself, singing itself, just like this

~~~~~

this elusive obvious immediacy swallows itself and spits you out in a tangle of memory, vines creeping toward the sky, roses and thorns and hints of blue shimmering inside these crumbling garden walls, …words tumble into colors, reds and oranges and fire on the mountain blazing burning all that you know, and rain… falling …how beautiful these fingers pricked by sunset, these tears cascading into ocean songs, murmuring echoes unwinding your beautiful nautilus heart, wall-less chambers resonate, beautiful sensuous echoes caress you from the inside and outside and dissolve your skin …I am the ache of the thorns and the roses bleeding, the ache of the robin song billowing through these spring leaves and memories of winter falling though the book of dreams

~~~~~

I am echoes of wind songs sliding through your horizon dissolving into the fade…

love’s ungraspable colors paint all and everything that seem to swirl and dance and sing, pouring a profound bittersweet loveliness into this tongue this heart that knows the words but cannot speak outside of these rhythms and rhymes that never rhyme... staccatos and smooth arpeggio'd glimpses of shimmering and the deep bottomless in between, and the subtle oscillations of moon

it is the looking for certitude, for solidity, that defines you, yet some look for liquidity or unknowing or emptiness... no one will find either, as they are the belief that there is something to find... which seems to create a barrier between them and it, but there is no 'it' or 'this' as there is no outside or inside to this magical appearance, as 'this' is not a thing, or an absence of a thing, it is ungraspable yet unavoidable, neither solid nor liquid, neither moving nor non moving without a background of time or timelessness, or space or spaceless-ness…

breathtakingly wondrous as there are no words, yet words still slide through these fingertips this tongue this heart that melts into the words as they paint them, this ballet is unutterably simple and unspeakably beautiful, ‘love’ comes close… but this fire of passionate beauty flowing through this itself feels like a sensuous lostness… yet there is no one to be lost and no location, no place no home to enter or leave, this love without other, this dream appearing and dissolving without a heartbeat or a breath or a moment in between

~~~~~

slowly slowly

the cat in the garden

I dream of sleep

thought is simply part of the wild and wonderful liquid dreamscape painted by thought, …truth and freedom and enlightenment and thought, are thoughts, all ideas are like pieces of sky, and you know even lightning cannot divide the sky… so there is no need to pick up the pieces and put the sky together, trying to do so or not is sky pouring through sky…

nothing can be out of place, as there are no things, there are no places, no here nor there, without an imaginary point of view (you) around which the rest of the fairytale revolves, …this is not perfection, as perfection is a word, word is a thought… yet it feels perfect… sublime… 

this is utterly, simply, infinitely intimate and completely unknowable

you can feel this seamlessness, this emptiness, but you cannot ‘know’ or ‘understand’ or grasp it, you are not a piece of sky… there is no sky

~~~~~

left over roses drenched in petaled sun explode

the long long rains are burned in love, no ashes are left

no winds to blow the emptiness away

sailing through your heart

what is left when emptiness is gone? …everything and nothing at all

love without other, love dreaming of love

the dream of non separation is not separate from the dream of separation… it is all dream, there is no dream

~~~~~

broken daffodils, faces in the dirt, …the scent of wonder streaming dissolving pouring through these hands this heart that cannot gather beauty, all is beauty, …empty hearts yearning, broken shadows in the growing dusk, …kids running, echoes drifting, …clouds plough through the blue adorned with sunset, moon slides through the billowing and bursts into its opalescence, …nothing is hiding inside or underneath these words, nothing can be plucked and tossed outside of this sensuous dream scape, day breathes, night sings

love is the question and the answer, …nothing can be learned or remembered or forgotten, …darkness hovers, she anoints your life with a preciousness, that this cannot be understood and yet it will end, this is the scintillating gem, …shooting stars burn and drown in their own light

~~~~~

robin song in the dark, cat sleeps

breath of dawn sweeps elegant shadows through fingers of light

which way does the day flow, in to out, or out to in?

tears and laughter, …and the hush

symphony of silence within the song

cascading arpeggios, rippling sky, ocean falls through ocean

bottomless sky

~~~~~

wings of sky soar through sky, …there is no where to fly, no where to land, …every feather tastes sky as sky listens to the dream of soaring, …wind pours and tumbles through the tips of wind, swirling in meaningless patternless patterns, whirling through your fingertips, pouring through your edgeless heart, an echo chamber unfurling its secrets, hiding them in discarded shells scattered across the desert sands waiting for you to listen, to taste the beauty that you are, to touch what you cannot touch, to kiss what you can never kiss, as you are life kissing itself, singing itself, …there is no need of words, …or silence, …love is singing and her song can never be understood or grasped and that is the beauty, that is the love… that is this, whatever it looks and feels like, …love is this without other, edgeless seamless beauty, …nautilus unwinds, …ocean pours, …love sings and answers itself, you may feel your lips move, your heart knows these songs, they are written for no one, for everyone, and just …for …you

~~~~~

we are stories, monologues of memory, 'one word at a time' seemingly spinning a tale like a whirling stick whose tip is burning, memory paints the appearance of time and a circle with an outside and inside,
and feels like the center is solid and unchanging and yet, somehow, broken, until the story changes, the circle is no longer chasing itself, as it breaks free from the imaginary center and runs through the forest and streams and somehow knows that it is imaginary, yet somehow it feels free, knowing that there is no freedom and it feels like love, knowing there is no love, …and the story is full and empty, love is full and empty and these are empty words, as word is a word, and I am these words that jump fences and sometimes my skirt gets caught on a piece of wire and rips into marvelous shades of water... leaving psychedelic trails that no one can follow…

~~~~~

moon slides across the windshield and into the gutters, night splashes sky into my eyes, handfuls of yesterdays rip open my empty pockets, slash the imaginary sides of my heart, love turns inside out and outside in and unwinds all ideas of meaning and meaningless-ness, …nothing is looked for, nothing is found, …we are a lost and found melody, trickling streams of memory, rushing roaring surfing soaring supersaturated sea dreams dissolving oceans and skies into bottomless…

we are seas of sapphire moon ache burning the deepening sky

radiantly obvious aliveness, profoundly wondrous, like a magical illusion without a sorcerer, indescribably delicious, the breath of morning and the dance of wind and light drifting through the blossoming trees, …is it sad is it beautiful, is it any ‘thing’ at all? the magic is that this is ungraspable un-figure-out-able, utterly un-knowable and utterly obvious…

not knowing, nor looking to know or to pinpoint or capture this elusive obvious aliveness leaves a deep and immediate recognition without confusion, blossoming into the utter awe of seamless freedom beyond freedom and bondage, as there are no things and no one to be free or bound... unthinkably so, simply this seamless edgeless utterly infinite intimacy, this symphony of perception and its inseparable simultaneous recognition, …there is no separate sight or sound or taste or smell or touch or thought, without words, there is no inside or outside without words, can you find them? can you find a someone who is looking?

self arising and simultaneously self releasing, no one is pushing or pulling life, …THIS, just as it seems to appear is magic, enchanting, wondrous without measure, …all measurement all dimension all separation is imaginary, it is not an ‘it’, or the absence of an ‘it’, neither full nor empty yet somehow both and neither

~~~~~

sea winds soar through the abandoned carnival, piles of sand gather in between the fallen ponies, painted now by memories of twirling, …waves of dust and faded confetti swirl across broken sidewalks, settle in the cracks of mirrors, broken reflections sliding, melting, return to sand… to empty beaches, …we are memories, of wind tattoos dissolving in wind, sensuously pouring through the eyes, the skin, the fading…

spontaneous natural perfection, infinite patternless patterns drawn by words like touch and sound and love which seem to lasso a swirl or a whorl of your fingerprint on water, yet the swirls and whorls are words as well, …no actually solidity can be found, no point when you can say, ‘this’ is, or not… there is no liquidity, as without memory creating a continuum of time and space, you cannot find anything, not even emptiness, …and what does this have to do with the flavor, the taste of moonlight sliding through the darkness and the naked trees growing where you once stood, waiting for the dawn?

~~~~~

we are reflections dancing, …no one began this ballet of light and shadow and colors rushing through our limbs out our fingers and into sky, echoes plunge infinite shades of joy and sorrow into our bottomless hearts that thirsted for what we knew not, …we are the hunger, the thirst and the drunkenness, we are the magic, the taste of taste, the enchantment of our imaginary edges overflowing with tears and laughter and meaningless words that can never capture this indecipherable feeling of aliveness that bursts and explodes all boundaries between you and me and love

…and infinite shades of darkness ignite the dawn, as we dance in each other’s footsteps in the tango-ing dream

~~~~~

and I am but an echo in a dream cast adrift in a fairytale of echoes, suspended between time and timelessness, …between never and forever love is singing, …sourceless baseless untraceable reflections ricocheting on the canyon walls, overtones and undertones with no pure sound, …yet this sublime music wafts and winds and weaves a tale of light and dark and infinite shades of rainbows sliding …roses bloom and wilt simultaneously and there is nothing in between, no petals to count, no colors to paint, no velvet softness to wear, no fantasy to peer into and capture the magic of flowers or the bittersweet beauty of love, the grief and the joy of this unspeakable wonder…

lost and found in a ballet of echoes between love and nothing at all

~~~~~

liquid mosaic of mirrors slides through its own reflection, shards of scattered sunlight dream of falling, softly, on the patterned ground, stab your heart with golden…

beauty twirls the knife deeper and deeper as you drown in your own amazement, …there were never any sides to the reflection of beauty, no separate voices in the chorus of morning breaking, breathing singing caressing you out of your shadow, dancing you into scintillating iridescence where you melt, again and again, into the golden

~~~~~

pierced by your own nakedness there is no place left to wander, nothing to gather into your empty heart, a river, now, overflowing its banks, flooding the desert with wings and wind songs, …secrets unravel as inside and outside loose their place, you cannot find your feet your voice in this chorus, yet all the notes are sung, steps are taken, kisses and tears fall, liquid light pours into the cracks of broken mirrors and erases your brokenness, your eyes, your mouth your face your heart were never separate, ….there is no place where love does not bathe this contrapuntal madness of sadness and joy in a magical beauty, …this enchanting wondrousness of life singing itself without a before or after or in between, …wind cannot capture wind, it slides through its photograph ripping all ideas of wind into wild tatters streaming, like all the prayers you sent into heaven, now just beautiful tender colors dancing…

 …all fades as I watch the spring leaves tremble, and long trees slowly waltz across the canyon skies… tinsel wings shimmering in a make believe sea

twisting and twirling into the horizon, wrapped up inside the dance, it turns inside out, no dance can be found, or lost in the sweep of never and forever coursing through your heart

all of life dances itself... there are no steps nor dance floor, nor a background of space and time, yet we are this dance, this heart beat of this and that and it feels like love blossoming and falling, plum blossoms racing across the garden through my heart into yours, through the streetlights, fading, dawn casts her shadow on the window, darkness hides under the roses, wrapped inside the darkest night a mourning dove sings

~~~~~

I am a song of sunlight bathing in a forest dream, fairy tales and hidden springs sing, the taste of plum blossoms hover in the shimmering, echoes pour into a river of words, …there is no knowing or unknowing and no need to know to capture love, …playing in the ripples dancing, weeping, laughing at the unassailable beauty of love of life, of what ever seems to appear, reflections soar through the falling…

consider the total sensorial display, which includes thought, …it is unthinkable, and not even an it, separate from perception, …attention seems to drift and scan and land on what will help the organism survive

…words seem to lasso and paint a ‘part’, a photograph of a note or a single voice of this symphony, which may include the feeling that there is a right or wrong way for attention to dance, or that there is something missing, or a trying to focus on the immediacy of plum blossoms and the beauty of spring, or to not focus on thought, or this, or that… or other ideas of other better more or next, but it is thought that writes the story, neither wrong or right, neither true or false, as all these mentally fabricated ideas are simply part of the story, …spontaneously naturally happening, all by itself... how could there possibly be a better when there is no other?

no other better or next can be found, there is simply the obvious magic of what seems to appear, this atemporal blooming and wilting momentary that never becomes a ‘thing’, …call it life call it aliveness call it love, there is no need, as this is all there is, no word or river of words will ever suffice to embrace this, when the embracing of this is it,

yet, poetry seems to escape its own words

~~~~~