There is no breath that's like a breath
that's taken three miles high.
And never so deep was a sleep
after days of light in eye.
And water is the most beloved
when burning thirst is slaked.
To starving souls no gourmet meal
e'er bested bread, fresh baked.
I stared, and stared, into a leaf
until my vision changed.
And I could see the whole, wide world
so artfully arranged.
The leaf, it mapped my universe
from atom to the sprawl.
Compressed, layer-on-layer, there
was one and, at once, all.
But before I could grasp all that
this vision truly meant,
a gust of wind did catch that leaf,
and fluttering it went.
I've seen in ordinary eyes a special twinkling glow. In rough and sinewy muscle I've seen a grace in throe. From rotund torsos, I have seen a lithesome prance or strut. I've seen a thing called character, in schnozzes that kink or jut. If beauty below the surface, it finds you splendor-blind. Then defect 's not in the object but in the viewer's mind.
I know nothing
of the sea-bottom,
or of the darkest void.
I know nothing
of the ancients' lives
or how most are employed.
I know nothing
of an atom's look,
or how works, gravity.
I know nothing
inside my organs
or nasal cavity.
I can but know
these simple truths
that live within my mind.
That it's better
being together, and
to err toward being kind.
I stand upon the cobbled walk as scooters whiz on by, and think this world 's too fast for me, and tilt my face to sky. But there's a contrail gash up there made by a hurtling sky-tube that jets its way to who knows where - while I'm the slack-jawed rube. To match the world to my breath's pace, and watch the blur lines form, and hear each note of music played... We'd sync to my waveform.
What will be your master,
and what will be your slave?
Will you court disaster
to be perceived as brave?
Will you call your pastor
to hide that which you crave,
or be your own ringmaster
and own how you behave?
And will you choose virtue,
or live in fear of vice?
Will you choose to be true,
or default to being nice?
And when there's much ado
will you jet their paradise?
Or just defer your view,
as act some men and mice?
I pause in woods one winter day when leaves stick to the ground, and twigs and trunks stand stiff & straight - a breeze the only sound. It's a world without walls or bounds, but one can't see a mile. One's sightline is obscured by trees -- their trunks not single file. A world, at once, open & shut to eyes and ears and mind. But I've never felt so at home, for i'm no lonesome pine.
Seeking perfect moments: in times of bliss, in times of pain, in times of sanity, and when insane a divine meal, a fine strong gin, the kindest virtue, a dark age sin falling into never, coming out the other side, landing on one's skates in the smoothest glide falling but not crashing, running but not gasping, finding but not keeping, fingers interclasping, and wishing for nothing more.
Plunging into darkness, there is no other way. In the tomb-like silence, the mind begins to stray. To roam, to roam, to roam, or does it simply sink; with neither light nor eyes, one might just be hoodwinked.
It doesn't need wide open spaces. It doesn't need direct sunlight. No bark-wide chasm through the tombstone -- Gardner, leave that tree alone. Hey, Gardner, leave that tree alone! All in all, it's just another fig in the wall. All in all, we're just a bunch of figs in the wall.
the !n(tro)verted yogi 