Quiet Landscape Rising You

February 27, 2010

Quiet landscape rising You.

Where I recall,
there’s nothing to be mapped.
All line-designs reside in the clean
whiteness of these eyes looking.

God never makes the same thing twice.

Where I recall,
there’s nothing to be truly owned
or truly donated,
all is form to ether…

God never makes anything to stay still.

All these credits and debits
are levied by the same
one breath’s lifespan;
life is shortest
where the mind is too long.

God never disperses a crowd that is one.

*

Yes, the soul does smile,
and when the mind is not planning
an announcement concerning the
toils of charity or the soils of poverty,
the soul keeps smiling,
straight into the blazing sunshine
that illumines all
and out the other side of
what’s inside a human outlined
galaxy smiling,
wet secrets, dry secrets, wet secrets…

Where I recall,
there’s nothing to be doubted.
All that the mind ‘has’ to say
is a proclivity towards distraction
from where its own identity is
originating from.

Within its ability for such an insatiable
tendency, the mind wants immortality
in physical movement,
it wants guaranteed pleasure
in an ever separating splash,
it wants warmth on the outside
of a polar bear’s hide,
it wants and is a reflection-echo of
its own birth pains as a cell-spirit
belonging to the Universe
filled with owners who build
their mansions inside one-cent-pieces.

These coins are soft
and do make that jingling sound
that bring children running toward
want of more promises,
the sort of favor that hangs
onto the giver’s predicament
as a remedy for a sensation of lack,
a sensation that will not go away
until the giving out wears out
and only then can the rich trance
be poured in reverse as antidote,
back into the hungry child within,
its eyes, big and in color,
bigger than
any name naming nameless You.

*

The mind yearns to return,
no doubt,
though this returning is a turning
that is already here; it gets dizzy
while fixed on all the fins
of the pinwheel.
Then there is God’s hand
supporting it,
God’s lips parted,
bringing it to turn…

The glamor of the blurry is part
of the dream’s lace and when the
veil is lifted in this physical dimension
it is not always to show the illusion’s
conscience, but rather to display how
more intricate the lifter’s workshop
can play.

The Universe is holding its own hand
with that ‘one hand’ turned inside out,
an action to infinity, no wearing out:
this slightness occurs within the trillionths
of a second; this is nearly too much…

*

Where I recall,
there’s nothing to be held.
The addiction to recalling is to undermine
the heart-gold-veins throbbing with Ra
and deeper feeding within Right Now.

The mind looks ahead
so as to detour the heart’s diving
into the immortal justice of
unconditional forgiveness
for whatever is binding dark to dark
and blind to blind,
this ‘glue’ is not You,
though it holds God’s shoes together.

*

The mind does not want love,
though it secretly mumbles love notes
to the heart in its slumbering exhaustion
in having explained all day the sort of
love it wished it had.

These wishes are sparks set to alight
upon a grief-damp landscape, find the
rose-star within, find its already-voice
praising you as you are praising being
that which cannot talk, explain, be anything
the mind congeals into joy or sadness
or ‘thinking about,’

And here is the origin of
wishing upon a star.
The confusion began
when someone pushed
‘up’ and ‘on’ together;
proximity is All.

An ascetic yells, ‘I have finally made it
to the inner mirror!’ And an angel whispers,
‘Go around to the shiny side.’

*

‘The mind does not want love.’?

I am speaking of the sort of ‘want’
that is the wetness on Surrender’s lips,
who kisses everything god has gift-touched
and balled up and thrown away,
kisses all these as the only true gold
worth the steam from its last earthly breath
so to prepare-polish it one more time for the
next reflection of the Beloved’s loved to come.

What we ‘think’ we sacrifice,
sacrifices us,
lets go of us by the nature of its
very mortal molded gamepiece…

There are the risen that fall when walking,
there are the fallen that cling to the walking,
there are spaces in between this motion that
stills the Earth’s axis and shuts all of God’s
creation off for a millisecond.

*

There is no such a thing as aging.
A fifty one year old person’s soul at the
end of its poem read has lived in 18,615
separate bodies and dimensions of context,
not counting those of the womb-world’s.

Grand is the scale when it is sitting
quiet, reading ‘tilt’ with nothing
to be measured upon it.

*

What to do with Love?

Nothing,
there is no work here for Love,
only move-surrendering
to its galactic hold
upon those gossamer threads
that steady the soul in awe
when Death smiles
from the perfume leaving the rose,
from the gorgeous see through skin
blowing in the breeze behind a coiled
and perfect growing cobra,

When Death smiles from the laughter
leaving a terminally ill child,
who is glad to see the manifestation of
its own selfless joy at not being made to
laugh, rather, pulling the emotion from
core-galaxies and pouring it forth as the
first laugh ever to resound in that
star-cluster.

When Death smiles from the curiosity
that orders a new book at the age of 89.

When Death smiles from underneath
the burden that just gifted another life
out into its majestically diamond lined
temple site,
to hold and bathe this departure
as nothing more than the
collective movement of trillions
of particles from the depth of the
sea-section where mermaids
file their nails.

*

‘Where’ comes from a place holding
no birth, no gems, no silver balm to
massage into a dragon’s aging skin.

‘Then’ follows,
trying to drape blazing god-furniture
with heavy woolen quilts
made from this world’s transient
soul-clothes.

‘Tomorrow’ gleams its vivacious fangs,
daring a heart to come out of its hole,
yet the dare has gotten the best of this
starving thing, who, out of its addiction
to being a volunteering sentry to its own
fears, has placed itself in front of an
ancient restaurant who never opens
due to proximity to no one…

As tomorrow dies, the heart does arise;
its sun shines from within tomorrow’s
body as the glitter from its cracked lips
blows away and its tongue pronounces
‘I do.’

*

‘Solution’ stands tallest in quick sand,
‘Determinism’ and ‘Career’ too…

Form’s beautiful feathers have never
saved its body from being plucked by
the kitchen attendants ‘Time’ and ‘This.’

*

‘Shape,’ ‘meaning,’ ‘context,’ the sense
that whoever I am is an ‘ever’ to be again,
and the sense that there is a ‘who’ or a
more fundamental ‘what’ to apply.

The ‘sense’ is a contract that will expire
with this atmosphere of solidified dreaming,
the mother-father-Dream of dreams,
where dreaming can touch itself dreaming
and say, ‘I am not dreaming.’

This is where Creation too dreams,
this is where falling off turns Life on.

Dolphins do not wait,
they twirl now,
whales do not wait,
they dive now,
treasure does not wait,
gleaming golden now.

*

Since I am here,
dances who do not move the body call
and there are windows that do not close
since their glass keeps turning to sand
at night.

There are candles that spring from
the intent of a held out palm facing
heaven,

And there are holy seals placed
between everything that connotes
movement from being so ‘still there.’

We enter and exit,
standing most quiet
when it is discovered
that the exit signs exist
on both sides
of the same double doors.

*

The door: a dimensional symbol having
three umbilical cords fastened by three
removable pins, all made of Procreation’s
alloy.

Shut the door and mysterious births begin
to gestate, similar to colorful mushrooms
who grow in complete sunless light,

Open the shut door and mysterious births
arise and cross pollinate confusion and
rebirth, neither of who have redemption
as baby-food,

Remove the door and take it with you,
beyond having room for such rooms,
beyond the sensation of being able to
shut and open,
beyond the sensation of a will willed out
into inner action by outer form
and consequence;
this is a game mind plays
between choice, desire and fear…

This it is a sort of trading place
that never speaks of ‘the price’
or the availability of a final bid.

Take this corrupted table top with you,
then the belief in such open and closed
places will begin to disappear as you
realize that the best place to carry it while
crossing the fire-raining-Valley of Death
is upon your head.

Eventually it will begin to tremble at the
joy of having rediscovered its legs and
arms and you will tremble when it winks
once and enraptured you disappear within it,
as its shell falls to the Earth,
being one more path stone
for a luminous shadow
to find harbor and bloom,
even one more star
to wish from
while standing up on.

When the heart crawls into bed with
the mind, not a spring can be heard
because there’s allot of love staring
to do…