14 May 2014

One Hundred Twenty-Nine


To you who were never born,
Who are your ancestors; who is your progeny?
Who is your father, your mother, your uncles, aunts, brothers, sisters?
Who are your friends, who are your enemies?
Who is anyone, who is anything,
But the ultimate you
Wandering yet another reverie of time.

* * * *
The sage is no different than anyone or anything else,
Perhaps just a little more Self-contained,
A little more Self-absorbed.

* * * *
How much more significant any action
When done for its intrinsic nature
Rather than some other gain.

* * * *
Truth is not something that can be attained
In any imaginable way, shape, or form.
It is merely source to the ever-fleeting,
Ever-mysterious, ever-indivisible moment.

* * * *
Just playing it out as best you can
The first-and-last, one-and-only, never-again attempt
At pretending to be a human being.

* * * *
If you want to know god,
Then observe within very closely
Until you clearly discern that the awareness
Is the indivisible source to which all are seamless witness.
Neither yours, nor mine, nor anyone else’s.

* * * *
Other than in human form,
Nature has no ego.
A confabulated play of consciousness,
Evolved entirely by the creative dynamic of quantum intelligence.
Intentional or not, here we are, doing what vanity does
In its mixed bag of mindful and mindless.