30 May 2014

One Hundred and Fifty-Four


It is all you,
Terribly, wonderfully, absolutely alone,
A vast stillness without measure, without rhyme or reason, without cause or effect,
Without purpose or meaning, without beginning or end,
What else would godness be?

* * * *
How pure, how simple, how free, the existential beingness.
What need for anything more, really?

* * * *
The ability to control, to manipulate, to destroy,
The many other life forms in this garden
Does not make humankind greater.
At anything but arrogance and absurdity.

* * * *
There is nothing to save, nothing to spend.
What is, is, has ever been, will ever be.
Enjoy and endure it as best ye may.

* * * *
History is the play
Of graven images of every sort.
Forget everything.

* * * *
All assertions born of mind
Are meaningless worldly claims.
Nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.

* * * *
You will always suffer when you believe
You are this body, this world, this universe.
There is truly no other, and you will ever suffer
Whenever you forget to remember that simple truth.

* * * *
What is it to be born again,
But to be the awareness of a newborn,
As still and silent and attentively timeless as the cosmos
From whence all things great and small have been immaculately woven.