25 July 2012

Twenty-Two


22


The body is the sanctuary, the temple, the portal in which awareness resides.
It is ever-changing, replete with every sort of irregularity, and fated to one day dissolve.
But for a relatively brief perception of time, always within the unednding moment,
There is the opportunity for the temporal consciousness, the dream weaver,
To play out whatever capacity and limitation and inclination allow.

* * * *
What can true wealth really ever be but a quality of mind,
And so many, with piles and piles of gold, so very poor.

* * * *
The mind-body is but a transitory dwelling, chaff,
From which the kernel drops into the ground,
From which the drop returns to the ocean,
From which the self merges into soul,
From which the persona dissolves
Into that which is timelessly absolute.

* * * *
To love thy Self is not some vain notion.
It is to discern your true essence
At such a profound level
As to expand into your splendor
In whatever way consciousness allows.

* * * *
Awareness is prior to all things
Born of thought, born of passion, born of time.
All naming is ultimately meaningless.
Even the greatest song of god
Is fated to be forgotten.

* * * *
This manifest universe
Can be nothing more than a reverie
Because its makeshift foundation is quantum sand.
All dreams are marinated in vanity.

* * * *
Still searching here, there, everywhere,
For something that really, really, really matters,
When over and over it is again and again more than obvious
That nothing really does, nothing really ever has, nothing really ever will.


Twenty-One

21


Every life is a one-time affair,
A kaleidoscoping outcome of the given seed.
And each and every seed is a blueprint, a pattern, a potential,
Which is ever filled with the same quantum source, the same dynamic essence
From which the unfolding creation has ever been fashioned,
But none ever formed the same way again.

* * * *
This eternal moment, this stillness of awareness, is all there is,
No matter the form, no matter the time, no matter the context.

* * * *
What you really are has absolutely nothing to do
With any memory, any thought, any idea, any concept,
Any movement of imaginary notion, whatsoever.

* * * *
The grand theater, and everything in it,
Is the dream of the mind-body.
You are the awareness,
The witness,
Which discerns all,
But is none of it all the while.

* * * *
You are not the body, the body is not you.
You are the eye out through which eternity peers.

* * * *
Atoms, molecules, particles, quanta,
All just names for that which can never be seen,
But are nonetheless the building blocks, the underpinnings,
The bedrock upon which all creation is founded,
The infinite nothingness
Upon which the manifest is spun,
The stage upon which you witness your Self
Playing every form across the dream of time and space.

* * * *

We are all that which is God,
Merely moving about in different guises,
Tagged by different names, speaking different tongues,
Playing out different realities, on different stages of the same mystery.


20 July 2012

Twenty

20


This insight into the singularity cannot be forced; you either discern it or you do not.
So there is absolutely no point in creating any dogmatic belief system
Except to continue playing out the meaningless theater
To which all middlemen and followers defer.

* * * *
The body-mind is a product of time; it is not you.
It may feel great pleasure or pain, but it is not you.
The body is but a mortal container; you are immortal.
It is only the many delusions of consciousness
Which veil the truth of you from you.

* * * *
Dogmas are generally more about
What you are not supposed say, think, or do,
Truth includes absolutely everything
Ever said, thought, or done.

* * * *
Why venerate anything imagined?
Why not just be in the here and now,
Free of all imaginary constraints?

* * * *
How can anyone settle for a lie
When the truth is plain as day?

* * * *
If god is as petty and ruthless
As some make him-her-it out to be,
Then what, pray tell, could be the point?

* * * *
Every moment is in itself absolutely effortless.
It is consciousness that manufactures all struggle.

* * * *
One wonders if Jesus
Could ever have been the Jesus
So many engineer to their own vain rationale.
Is there any believer who does not have an agenda set in stone
For his oft-predicted, more than mythical return?
Is it any wonder he’s still a no-show?


Nineteen


19


Probably relatively few
Would harm those they know and love,
Mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, friends, acquaintances,
So how is it so many so willingly murder, rape, or plunder complete strangers?
How is it the monkey-mind cannot seem to transcend
Its tribal beginnings?

* * * *
The human drama is really founded upon
A monkey-mind, a larynx, opposable thumbs,
And a seemingly endless capacity for tool-making,
The sum of which wreak havoc upon the world
And its myriad creatures great and small.

* * * *
All organized religions, cults, sects, creeds,
Are really about dogma, limitation,
One groupthink or another.
Even in a large gathering,
Real religion is a solitary act,
Unfolding each and every moment,
Unattached, without any care, any concern.

* * * *
How can anyone not be able
To step in another's shoes
When we have across the board
Trod over each other so thoroughly,
So many times, so many ways.

* * * *
Your body is not really yours at all.
It is merely a temporary biological casing
From which you witness the mystery of creation.
Consciousness is in charge; you’re just along for the ride.

* * * *
Whatever game-changing events are unfolding in the human paradigm
Have nothing to do with any convoluted dogmatic assertions.
Just good old biology doing what it has always done
Until it reaches a limitation, a boundary
That stops it in its tracks,
And sets the course a new direction.


19 July 2012

Eighteen

18


The drop is within the ocean, and the ocean within the drop.
The writing is within the writer, and the writer within the writing.
The painting is within the painter, and the painter within the painting.
The sculpture is within the sculptor, and the sculptor within the sculpture.
The garden is within the gardener, and the gardener within the garden.
All creation is within its creator, and the creator within all creation.

* * * *
Nothing can fundamentally change
As long as the one percent and their brethren
Decline to take much greater responsibility on a global level.
A profound awakening to a vision of the true nature
Is the reformation the future requires.
No real paradigm shift
Is remotely possible without it.

* * * *
You can only perceive the source you ever are
By being the very motionless awareness.
Eternal life is right here, right now,
Nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.

* * * *
Imagine witnessing this garden world
Before our two-legged shadow
Came down from the trees.

* * * *
No sense of identity is needed
For you to be what you truly are,
Have ever been, will ever be.

* * * *
What are all those mammon worshippers
Going to do with those piles and piles of gold
When there is no world left in which to spend it?

* * * *
Trying to meld a nondualistic view of this immeasurable mystery
With the egocentric-ethnocentric-geocentric collusions born of time
Requires way too many rationalizations, compromises, and contortions.
Just because some falsehood bears the authority of tradition means nothing.
Give no weight to what is unnecessary; travel the journey that calls you.


Seventeen


17


At what point did you begin losing your innocence?
At what point were you drawn out into the manifest world,
Into believing it real, into believing you were the cloak of identity
You have so diligently, and with such utter conviction, worn ever since?
The other has shaped you into believing you are an identity,
But it is only your collusion which makes it so.
The key to real freedom
Is discern the indivisible source,
And then surrender to that awareness,
The timeless witness prior to consciousness.

* * * *
Dreamtime … dreammind … dreamjourney … dreampath …
Dreampast … dreamfuture … dreamnow … dreamfate …

* * * *
The human epoch is really about pride,
About the emergence from the slimy pool
Into an extemporaneous theater
Forged in dualistic notion.

* * * *
Life is a maze we all wander alone
In the given body’s sensory matrix.

* * * *
You are not what you know.
You are not what you do.
You never have been.
You are only what you are,
Have ever been, and will ever be.

* * * *
Imagination, in its capacity
To explore to the farthest reaches,
Itself becomes the creator of all limitation.

* * * *
Are we any more than recordings
Playing our minds over and over and over again?
Try saying or doing something really outside your box, if you can.
No matter how great or small, profound or foolish,
Every frame of reference has a frame.