21 November 2014

Three Hundred Ninety-Seven

397


That baggage you daily carry about in your mind,
Jam-packed with knowledge, likes, dislikes, fears, desires, worries,
Hopes, beliefs, regrets, all the this’s and that’s, that formulate your dreamtime universe,
You could just put it down for a bit, perhaps even never pick it up again.
But no, letting go of all your imaginary renditions,
That would be beyond the pale.

* * * *
The secular triumvirate: creation, preservation, destruction,
Are equal, ever-present, kaleidoscoping qualities
Of this indivisibly timeless dreamtime.

* * * *
Self-interest inevitably sows disharmony.
Pride, coupled with the great dread of life and death,
Ultimately makes true cooperation
All but impossible.

* * * *
Feel all the wounds and tension
Your vat of flesh and bones has endured
That you might arrive at this point of existence.
All these injuries are ultimately imagined.
Allow the ground to nurse and heal
Your twisted, misaligned spirit
Into the totality it truly is.

* * * *
Though death be all around you,
Your time to greet it
Will be sooner than you think.
May as well put a call into the coroner now.

* * * *
Mystical writings across the world
Are figurative how-to manuals to fellow mystics,
More often than not misread by those whose minds are literal.

* * * *
One of the many challenges of growing older
Is remembering one’s youth, and the longing for all the things
Waiting to be seen and heard and tasted and smelled and touched and understood.
The preciousness of innocence can only be lost once.