Socrates shook people with pointed questions.
How unloved one becomes trying to awaken
those snuggly ensconced in dreams of delusion.
Admitting one’s ignorance doesn’t soften the blow
of cluing others into their own.
Star-spiked silhouette of feathered palm
stamped against an orange evening sky.
It’s fireworks in reverse,
but with a little hang time —
but only a little.
Soon the sun will hide
behind the world —
leaving the tree to play
the role of a hole
in a patch of stars.
End of the wall —
End of the world?
Who can say what lies
beyond one’s line
If you tell me,
“Thar be Dragons!”
in that sad, gray mist —
I can’t well argue the point,
but it doesn’t mean I won’t keep an ear open for wing flaps, and my skin tuned to flashes of heat.
This morning, walking, I saw a new door.
I’ve walked that stretch a million times, or more,
and that door has never been there before.
You probably think they just cut the ivy,
or that my imagination ‘s lively.
But, this evening, that door was no more.
waves crash upon the tetrapods
geysers squirt random whack-a-mole
guess the jet with no better odds
than one over the sum on whole
the chaos wave won’t chase the past,
but finds its line so mean and fast
that one can only speculate
Waking up — but uncertain from what…
-awaking from sleep?
-awaking from wakefulness?
-awaking from life?
-awaking from death?
All one knows is that a threshold has been overstepped.
Something inside feels new.
Something else feels ancient.
But nothing feels the same.
The moment when you’re everything
and are, at once, nothing.
Time exists, but is lost to you —
no lagging, nor rushing.
Space is the world that expands and
collapses with each breath —
the infinity through which you
stretch beyond life and death.
And in quiet moments of mind,
when no voices call out,
it becomes still enough to feel
something within you sprout.
sets my mind on each breath —
air rushes in,
but the sinuous seedpod
merits no gasp
in the stillness,
my body skips breaths —
sometimes I notice…
in balance —
my mind clear and at ease
watching each breath,
none is the same, otherwise,
all of them are
Patches of pink on army green —
the rhododendrons bloom.
In the hills of Himalaya —
gone the sad winter gloom.
Gone the weight of weary sinew —
the soul begins its float.
We feel the fire of shining skies
as we shed pack and coat.
The body, so still and silent —
nonetheless takes to dance.
The hike’s exhaustion falls away
and one tunes in the trance.
A sage, throughout his cave days,
whiles away the summer nights
in a darkness within darkness.
The tomb-like silence fades into
a faint resonance.
Musty earthen scent becomes
the dominant sensation.
A tomb within a tomb within rocky ground.
And — slowly, at first — his mind spills out,
and spirals beyond the bounds of all constraints.
Until it reaches the cave rock,
and then it sets into the stone.
Whether the rock starts vibrating
at the frequency of bone,
or bone oscillates from contact with rock —
I don’t know —
All I know is that this cave
that was empty save some flesh and bone
is now full.