11 April 2015

Four Hundred and Sixty-Eight


Philosophers, students of existence that they are, ponder anything and everything.
No stone is left unturned as many times as is needed to learn
Whatever it is he/she is born to discern.
We are all seekers seeking out one fate or another.

* * * *
The river would not be but for the spring at its source.
And the spring but for the clouds from the sea,
And the sea but for the returning river.
To every thing there is a season,
A time to every purpose.

* * * *
Just you, totally alone, absolute, indivisible,
The senses streaming a world, a universe,
To which no time or space is attached,
The eternal life of the quantum soul.

* * * *
What are you but
A historical collage,
An economic statistic,
An anthropological result,
A psychological adaptation,
A sociological paradigm,
A scientific curiosity.

* * * *
All sense of persona, of Self,
Is a temporal fabrication of imagination,
Of the winds of consciousness blowing every which way.
Nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.

* * * *
Consciousness is an evolutionary mutation of instinct.
The fruit of this garden world is knowledge.
Once it was plucked from the vine,
Once Pandora’s Box was opened,
Once the Genie was out of the bottle,
All the cards followed suit, all the dominos fell.
Much less about original sin than it is original separation.
The rub is reattaching the fruit, closing the box, corking the bottle,
Shuffling the cards, and somehow putting Humpty-Dumpty back together again.