is love a buried treasure?
where is the map to love?
it traces itself on these lines in our fingertips and on our faces
we are love's echo
our eyes are her reflection
we cannot see our own beauty
as there is nothing to see
where is the one who would find love?
what happens when there is no more looking,
and there is no love to be found
nor lost
as it is everywhere
and nowhere
love has no place nor time and casts no shadow
there is no tongue to pronounce it
no lips to kiss is
no words to hold it
the dream of forgetting wanders the dream of remembering
the dream of knowing is lost in the dream of unknowing...
love sings in the heart of the wind that has no center
or edges
soaring through itself, it greets itself
look and you will not see her
listen and you cannot hear her
yet she is in the looking
and seeing
she cannot be embraced or held
but she is in the embracing
the holding
and the letting go
where is the map to love?
it traces itself on these lines in our fingertips and on our faces
we are love's echo
our eyes are her reflection
we cannot see our own beauty
as there is nothing to see
where is the one who would find love?
what happens when there is no more looking,
and there is no love to be found
nor lost
as it is everywhere
and nowhere
love has no place nor time and casts no shadow
there is no tongue to pronounce it
no lips to kiss is
no words to hold it
the dream of forgetting wanders the dream of remembering
the dream of knowing is lost in the dream of unknowing...
love sings in the heart of the wind that has no center
or edges
soaring through itself, it greets itself
look and you will not see her
listen and you cannot hear her
yet she is in the looking
and seeing
she cannot be embraced or held
but she is in the embracing
the holding
and the letting go
Looking for the self is like trying to find the center of an infinitely faceted jewel
This magic cannot be
seen
It’s in the seeing
it cannot be touched
It’s in the touching
It cannot be kissed
It’s in the kissing
This love cannot be tasted
It’s in the tasting
Itself
Through your beautiful beautiful eyes
paper hearts
paper birds
paper worlds
crumpled and blooming
paper flowers
paper words
sea of ink flowing silently into sky
and sea
writing the lands known
and unknown
upon which you seem to wander
looking for more words
more knowing
more solidity
more land
more wandering
more time
echoes
that have no source
cannot lead you to the dreamless space
it does not exist
it is only an echo
like you
wind sighs its empty breath
first red roses are dancing
knowing not of spring
or wind
no one holds the pen that writes you
sketches you into this worded world
there is no pen
nor story
that is not story
and you, a beautiful story
rich and lush and glowing with all stories
ever heard
a flowing gown of reflections
that no one wears
memory's beautiful garden
blooms
and wilts
paper petals
paper dust
paper wind
no one has a story yet that is a story...
isn't is beautiful how this story writes itself with every word?
we are these beautiful thought dreams that sing themselves
circular are these words that refer to other words that are echos of echos of echos and have no source...
the spinning seems to create a center and that is a beautiful story...
and I love you, and that is the story of me being the loving of you... and weeping at the beauty of love falling in love... the most wondrous story of all
no one dances as starlight
shedding forgotten shadows
it is but a beautiful dream
that you were
or are
or will be
something
or someone
who awakens
or who sleeps
we are memories
blooming
and fading
there is no canvass
upon which the dream is painted
no stave upon which the notes are written
no one writing the music
or painting the lushness
and starkness
of love
singing itself
dawn slides into the canyon
night hides in the shadows
wind rustles the new leaves
slender stalks support a carpet of hovering flowers
life sings itself
spins itself into this wondrous daydream
looking and feeling like anything at all
the juiciness of life is not abandoned
in the story of awakening
nothing is lost
nothing is found
all is lost
all is found
words skim the surface of words
lightly tangled in more words
crocheting sky into sky
all these lines and sqiggles
and letters and spaces
sound and silence
are formed by the words themselves
this deep deep hush that lies in-between words
worlds untouched
unknown
unspoken
the song you have been longing to hear
to know
to touch
to feel
is in the knowing
and the unknowing
the sung
and unsung
the touching
and the longing to touch
it is born and dies without pause
it is neither bound by words
nor untethered
it is not emptiness
nor fullness
it is not in-between
there are no sides
or middle
not even nothing without words
and the tiger walks down main street
stalking her shadow
comes in through your doorway
while you are thinking about cleaning the windows
her deafening roar melts your eyes
your skin
your blood
your bones
your heart
your love....
ashes adrift on burning shadows
sinking in the sea of reflections
you were nothing but echoes
of echos
of echos
love calls your name
and you cannot fail to answer
it is her name
the tiger
and you
It felt like I was an empty shard
Of an infinitely shattered sky
Reflecting everything
Reflecting nothing
A sky of razors
Slicing my skin
My lips
My tongue
My song
My heart
I was the story of brokenness
That fell into the story of wholeness
But nothing was mended
Sky had never been broken
There was no sky
There is only the story of sky
And infinite reflections
And that is a story
That has no story teller
There seems to be a story-less story
That this is all there is
But there is no this
Or that
All these lines spin the tale
Of lines
And what is left when the storybook character somehow sees that it is the story?
It is not the end of the story
As all and everything is the story
Including this story
Writing itself
The story of a girl of a woman called Nancy
Became the story of wind
Singing
Love songs
For after the falling of the story of enlightenment
The story of love remains
I love you
You are a most wondrous part of my story
the song is the world
the world is the song
there is no inside or outside to this song
there is no inside or outside to these words
there is no inside or outside to you
without this song
there are no lips to sing it
nor heart to listen
the song is the singer
the singers
and the hearts that swirl in galaxies of wonder
that there is a world
of songs
love is the lover
the beloved
and the love
love is hearts swirling in ever expanding galaxies of wonder
that there is love
born of shadows
born of light
born of the wondrous uncrossable oceans
between lovers
between stars
between an imaginary inside
and outside
there is no middle
falling though the mirror
there is only love
no one looking
no one finding
no one loving
love is a mirror
we see our own unfathomable beauty
and the beauty of love
only in each other's eyes
just like this
love sings
and the song
is love
songs flow though these fingers
rainbows and wind flow through me
and I am the wind and these songs flowing
songs of laughter
songs of tears
the last strains of moonlight rippling in the garden
songs cannot capture this love
that sings itself
it is the song of the morning
and the cool winds rushing down the canyon
sun hiding behind the mountain
while shadows hover beneath the bushes
waiting for light to bloom
this heartbeat which sings the day
and night
is this spinning thought dream
this web of words
tangling threads of this and that
into a flowing tapestry ever weaving and unweaving itself
love requires two-ness
there is no love
nor oneness
nor two-ness
nor both
nor all
nor neither
nor none
through this thought dream
that dreams itself
we seem to appear
we require others to see ourselves
we are each other
blooming in each others heart songs
rippling waves of intimacy
never touching
always melting
in as and through love
this is the greatest intimacy
this loss of all and everything
this loss of all you have ever loved
and the one who loved
it is the end of all barriers between you and the world
and all lines and spaces between things
the wall between heaven and hell is as thick as thought
and what is left asked the child
wide eyed and full of wonder
what is left when nothing can be held
when the hands and heart have dissolved?
the fairy tale of love continues to stream through itself
as shoreless oceans do...
and a wondrous dance of life unfolds all by itself
no one has won or lost
it is all a prize for no one
a bottomless treasure chest
no thingness is wondrous
everything is amazing
liquid shimmering reflections dancing
in love
as love
though love
life flows
subsumed as awe itself
I am edgeless
there is nothing that I am
and nothing that I am not
there are no things
I am the sweep of loving this unfathomable seamless world
the knowing of no thingness
and this feeling of infinite sublime spaciousness
I am the sweeping paintbrush of love and beauty
drenching the worded world of things
of red geraniums and golden finches hanging upside down on the feeders
endless blue
and cloudy skies
tears of wonder of this immediate intimacy
and the filagree of lace flowing over the canyon moon
my fingers as they softly flow across this keyboard
my husband's hands as he stirs the oatmeal
the coffee maker burbling
and the cacophony of back yard birds
fountains shimmering and laughing
wind sailing through the morning leaves
there is no one writing or doing this amazing show
it is all marvelously unwritten
and un-rehearsed
no one reads it
or performs it
we are this love song
singing itself
simply, beautifully, this sensuous sensorial banquet is inseparable from its recognition
it paints itself
there is no canvass
it does not appear from somewhere
or go anywhere
it is simultaneously self arising and self erasing
painted with water in water
sky in sky
wind in wind
there are no sides to the looking glass
liquid love flows into itself
through our beautiful beautiful eyes
nothing is a concept ... what is beyond concepts... isn't beyond a concept?
isn't concept a concept
When imaginary walls are seen to be imaginary... there is a feeling of loss of stability of certitude of permanency...
This can indeed be scary
But isn’t this a feeling also of utter freedom
When there is no one to be free or bound?
This is a losing of everything, including the notion that there is a someone who had things and is now losing them... a someone who is losing their entire world of this and that...
is there someone who had a world or are you simply another concept in a worded world, in this thought dream which paints even the idea of thought as a thing...
of nothing as a thing
Of emptiness as a thing
Of things
As
Things
morning blooms
cricket song hides under the roses with the leftovers of night
I am a carpet of swirling light
and shadow
pirouetting in the garden
rainbows flow though me
I am colors dancing
in this echo land dream
there is no source of light
or sound
or this ballet of wind and sun showers
slowly
waltzing
in me through me as me
there is no source to love's echo
you can feel it but there are no words to sing it
it resonates deeply
breaks your heart
a million times each moment
you are this thousand petaled softness
this velvet sweep of love
blooming
and erasing
the lines and spaces of every poem
there is no beginning or end to the wind that sings these wind songs
soaring
dissolving all distance
between you and this brilliant immediacy
such heart breaking beauty
simply the intimacy of life just as it seems to appear
doves alight on the telephone poles
morning soars
through lace wing sky
Somehow the dream of delicious unknowing and lack of a need to capture the wind or love feels like love
No you or me or wind...
No you or me or love
All ideas all imaginings are wondrous
How marvelous that anything seems to appear... including the need to feel safe ...to feel loved... to look for walls that define an imaginary persona
To look for the someone or thing that wears the mask
To run out in a storm and yell
Stop!
Or to lay in the rain...
true and false are simply more imaginary walls that seem to shut out the light
But there is no light
Nor darkness
Nor both
Nor neither
and who sings the song of the moon's
last
sigh
where is the line between you and moonlight?
is it your skin
your eyes
your heart?
is it where the letters of the m o o n end?
who penned those love letters that melted when the sun rose...
gently
erasing the moon's reflection in your eyes
we emerge only in the touching
yet we never can
truly
touch
bodies can dance
we are merely reflections of moonlight
dancing in each other's eyes
there is no one under emotion or who has feeling...
Emotions flow and there is no beginning nor end
This deep deep current of un-named emotion is beautiful
There is nothing outside the flow
We are it
It’s like your heart explodes and implodes and there is no place for all this love
There never was...
This love was never yours...
love cannot be known or touched or gathered as we are it
We arise in the loving of each other
In the touching...
Knowing we can never touch
and she laughs and weeps at the magnificence of the story of a girl a woman a songster who is laughing and weeping at the enormity at this infinite intimacy of knowing she is a story, a spinning thought dream, a fantastical lover’s story where lovers magically appear only in the loving...
liquid sky cannot hold the morning
eyes cannot hold the sky
we are watercolor dream scapes of reflections
of shimmering echoes
without a source
we are thought dreams
wandering through a forest of words
thought spins
and objects seem to appear
trees
leaves touched by moonlight
skies and clouds
and feet
moving
and someone wandering
looking for freedom
looking for love
looking for solidity
in a dream
there are no things to be bound or free
nothing to be known or unknown
no one separate to know or grasp what is going on
the worded conceptual world is the only world we can know
the thought dream seems to create a knower and things known
perhaps there is an uneasy feeling that there is no solidity no permanency no certitude...
self is the looking for certitude...
as life is felt to be magical death is feared
more and more assumption of knowing appears to create solidity
yet this wall of knowing also seems to block out the light and love and magic you long for
you are the longing for solidity
and the longing to dissolve...
there are no ladders you can climb to reach the sky
sky needs no scaffolding to hold it up
where do you end
where does sky begin
it is only thought, these very words, which seem to paint a sky
and you
and love
morning sun spreads light and shadow
and colors blooming
clouds seem to catch the sunrise
but it is only echoes
that we see
that we hear
that we are
what is underneath the color red?
what is underneath the words
is unknowable
ungraspable
not even nothing
or any thing
there is no solidity
nor impermanence
no fleeting momentary
underneath thought
this conceptual dream scape
is like a razor net of words
seemingly slicing up the sensorial display and its inseparable recognition into separate bits
things and events
it paints a thing called a symphony of perception
and awareness
a you
a me
and love
all words reference other words
every word seems to create a thing
and everything which is not that thing
including a you
this is most marvelous
as without this conceptual dream scape
there is no sky
nor trees
nor you
nor me
nor love
all of life does itself
simultaneously self arising and self erasing
ever emerging
ever dissolving
without movement
or non movement
love flows
first light in the garden
the feeders are empty
I can hear golden finches in the roses
gently swaying in the canyon breeze
softness of morning light
flows through the windows
flows through me
I am the morning
morning is me
the dream crochets me with words
and I am the unravelling
of words into letters
consonants and vowels
lines and squiggles
painting all and everything
into an echo land dream scape
reflections dancing with reflections
a treasure without a source
the magic you long for is life itself
there is no need to look for something under it
or beyond it
or outside of it
it has no edges
it is not an it
you are life's enchantment
a love song of stories without beginning or end
memory spinning itself into a tapestry of unparalleled wonder
words weaving themselves into a flowing web
a cat's cradle of thought
without hands
or anything to capture
thought paints an imaginary window between you and the universe
splashes light and color and golden finches singing
nothing on either side of the looking glass
no sides
and no middle
it is this imaginary membrane
that trembles at the majesty
of life seeing itself
through your eyes
kissing itself
through your lips
falling in love with itself
through you
ocean of love beckons
your can hear your heart song
faintly
softly
calling your name
it is the waves on the rocky shore
it is the wind in the tree tops
It is the sound of sunset
bathing your beautiful face
it is rainbows
blooming
flowers wilting
leaves tenderly unfolding to catch the sun
sunlight dancing on water
and the stillness when all the ripples have dissolved
it is a faint and mysterious echo
a song you thought you heard
long long ago
it is reflected in starlight
and waits in the shadows
where you try to hide
it is the world singing
and weeping
it is your own love calling you home
a home which you have never left
nor can enter
for it has no sides
nor center
nor any thing called love
When it’s known that there is no perfection nor imperfection it all feeeeeeeeels
Perfect
No matter what it looks or feels like
Spontaneously utterly beautifully so life does itself
No one is doing it
It is not happening to anyone
It is not an it
The dream of love subsumes the dream of separation
