12 May 2014

One Hundred and Eight


If you must have a religion,
What better than a quiet wander in nature,
The most incredible ever-present church creation could offer.
Misspent as it is, what remains is still the one and only Gaia you will ever dream.
And what attachment can you really have to this temporal garden creation?
All it is, all it has been, all it will be, is but an ephemeral dreamscape
In the vast cosmic dust storm in which you are all and none.

* * * *
The art of guardianship is one humankind will likely never master.
What can the tyranny of self-absorption ever know of compassion?

* * * *
As significant as humankind might believe itself to be.
What can indeed matter on the cosmic scale
When nothing is as nothing does.
A major cataclysm in this tiny corner
Does not even register as a trifle to a smidgen
To the supreme totality, the greatest story never known.

* * * *
Death makes all history absurdly irrelevant.
All tradition is the delusion of imagination.

* * * *
Within the ocean, an infinity of droplets.
Within every bead, the infinity of the ocean.

* * * *
Sexuality is a force few ever master.
At all ages it continues to draw
Even the most restrained in directions
More rational minds would likely fear to tread.

* * * *
What a constant chore to cling to ideas of gain and loss,
Of wealth, power and fame, of permanence in any realm,
And all the other myriad idiosyncrasies of mind’s vanity.

* * * *
Words come to many who clearly discern the truth of this mystery.
There is no possession, there is no ownership of the song of godness.
Nothing about which to manifest the unending mayhem of dogma.