08 September 2014

Three Hundred and Forty


Do not all stories have a certain predictability about them?
Same old monkey-mind plots drawn up with different characters and sets,
Different languages and costumes, different this, different that,
All ultimately merely tributaries of consciousness
Racing in time back into the eternal,
From which all arise.

* * * *
No matter how much any may experience in any given lifetime,
It can never be more than a statistical sample.
Enough to discern the whole,
But no more
Than the merest drop
Of the infinity of all things possible.

* * * *
An angel of death you are
To so many creatures great and small
You have consumed and destroyed to be here now.
Alas and oh well, it is a god-eat-god world.
Nothing is lost, nothing is gained
In the grand dreamtime.

* * * *
Despite the fact that cheating does work,
And even though there is no score,
Give your Self fewer points
If you are using chemical means
To investigate the imperishable within.

* * * *
The ancients called the elements
Earth, air, water, fire, ether.
Scientists in these times
Call it quantum mechanics.
Intuit it, name it, label it, describe it,
Measure it, organize it, in whatever way you will,
It is, has ever been, will ever be, must ever be, the same mystery.

* * * *
All things great and small are of the same grand eternal infinity.
Any lesser vision is but mind-born idolatry and dogma,
And not even worth one moment’s bother.