rings (haiku) 6/30/19

circularity

trees living year after year

hold their secrets dear

say what? 6/29/19

an inner voice got whisper-loud.

this was almost distracting

as crossing the lines of hush-hush

of sacred secrets and self as intimacy

into the shared experience 

with an invisible other.

no, not quite the compulsion 

of talking to oneself

in the unassumed presence of others.

because overheard then

is cause for a neurosis-observance

unless there is cell-phone-usage reprieve.

but then, still murmur-loud

as if into my ear

from right next to me,

soft muttered vocals 

right beside myself.

but within me,

maybe this is a hostage situation,

as the start of a multiple personality 

take over.

I can’t even deal with what was said.

so startled,

much less now remember. 

so, I’m asking.

how was your day? . . .

the hum of it 6/28/19

hum is a complete language 

unto itself.

it speaks emotional volumes 

while minimizing particulars as distractives.

it is a layering of immersives

on a canvass of emotives

as volumes rather than layers.

the pluralities of non-specifics 

are flooding the space as occupancy.

hearing is absorption 

rather then listening.

feel is all ears.

what the heart comes to know,

it will then tell the mind 

to supportively attend.

now (haiku) 6/27/19

push you into now

then yell at you to grow wings

time is made of sky

isness is readable 6/26/19

we are all the writing instrument 

as well as the paper

as we live the life 

of the flow of ink.

the script seems to generate itself, 

as the trickle down

is made of the now.

history is a mired reflection

yet the longhand is made 

in readable isness.

one has to be it 

to see it, first hand.

and at that moment, 

they are only the consciousness 

of reading themselves.

chasing after their aliveness,

lifeline by lifeline . . .

the four horsemen 6/25/19

everyone is their own book,

box of crayons

pen in hand

as well as their own set of paints

the difficulty is that

the written page, the coloring book,

the blank sheet and the waiting canvass

are the four horsemen of manifest:

the page-horse of aware,

the box-horse of animation

the pen-horse of intimacy

and the canvass-horse of passion.

they are the foursome 

of the fierce human foibles.

if one rides,

the spirit of the others will follow . . .

and so it is 6/24/19

deep, from high within,

down the stares from human eyes,

light calls out 

as if silence has lips

and everything of mass and form 

is made of listening.

trembling within 

begins a celestial dance.

stillness is the majestic 

and the profound in motion.

that which is shimmering 

is check to check.

shoes made of breathless

glimmer, dazzle and pause.

the appendages of timing,

grasp, sway and embrace.

all of nothing that matters

is ever the dance floor,

never getting in the way.

the skies beyond sight 

and the real beyond feel

are taken up in the devotional 

as devour is the subtlety of motion.

the melody is molecular in all of nature

and the dancehall itself

is a continuum outside of time.

each dance-card has lifetimes,

line by line.

each of us, as an instrument, 

both simultaneously dances and plays.

as the dancehall entrance 

comes down the stares,

the light of revelation

is reflected in the mind’s eye.

that the music itself is composed

of was, is and will-be.

and as if, for then, 

there are soft smiles all around,

reveling in eternity . . . 

beside myself 6/23/19

all of reality 

is the experience 

of special effects.

as long as 

one perceives oneself 

as audience.

in that same vain,

reaching for the stars is bad technique.

expanding to the stars within 

is to the surrender of technique 

as usage.

technique often disguises itself as myself

and then goes around making discoveries.

there are times I ask technique to leave

as I would rather first-person

come through from revelations . . .

cheerful emptiness 6/22/19

cheerful emptiness, 

is the beauty 

of the void smile.

no teeth, 

as for the show of time.

just shiny vast reveling.

eyes that beckon 

beyond perspective.

presence without fill.

faceless 

as if recognition would be 

small-minded rescue.

free-fall as invitational. 

pressureless embrace 

as envelopment.

self-emanative 

as if contagious. 

a nose dive of ascension.

all as colossal 

has vanished,

as the widespread of emptiness 

is brought forth 

out of being . . .

routine is the godsend 6/21/19

routine is the godsend of insight.

it eventually strips away all of distraction.

it features an introspection invitation to viewing.

nothing seen is essentially relevant

as only the viewer comes pronounced in frame.

the assessment of self is by inner-directedness.

this is not a self dialogue for judgment,

but more so an edginess for discovery.

a placidness for facing deeper truths 

out of the camouflage of being,

for discovering the broad strokes of subtly,

the emphasis of the unrealized, 

the source points for emotions 

and positions for the megaphones of drivenness

as well as the cryptics of drawnness, unrealized.

routine is the bear-downs on inadmissible discoveries,

that which illogically hides from value or reason

yet is eventually unavoidable in its stance and worth.

ventures into the how, 

a greater depth of being comes into the light

by the constituency of consciousness 

brought into living,

and how inadmissibly 

but made of necessities unclaimed,

we all have backroads of undiscovered virtue.

we are always the path of acting out

to get there by paradoxical means.

honesty has more depth of field than press produces,

and as a self-sense may loose its boundaries of this,

a larger sense of self 

may come to include others.

routine lays down a path 

as if monotony is a god of wisdom.

angels inadvertently appear along the way.

purpose of a lost soul becomes a fragrance appeal.

light from within may magically be spread.

routine is senselessly sacred 

as an intoxicant can be.

it is the death of smallness 

becoming the dance of life

from the music played 

on the instrument of a wandering soul . . .

blather as cryptic 6/20/19

the breath from blather, 

as if clouds spoke a wisdom in passage,

a paintbrush held as cryptically 

the acumen of tension applied,

well-worn sandals as story-tellers

of weight-bearing’s description of self,

the height of a soapbox

that makes spoken-ness almost inaudible,

the weight of arm apparel, 

rings, bracelets, bands, cuffs, 

watches, chains, or shackles,

signifying the presence of the untold,

the content array of a refrigerator door

disclosing family unity and disarray,

the stampede of fingerprints smothering fingerprints

on a glass doorknob overwhelmed with public usage.

blather becomes the sign language of breath,

paintings from unnamable artists,

uneasily traceable beach-walk, 

ankle deep at high tide,

mental places of insight 

where meaning has worn out its welcome,

where adventure is robust with closing remarks,

where sleep is the preferred option to sensibility,

where is this, in god’s earth 

where inanity become cause-worthy

as if cryptically yet passively spoken

as the breath passing as blather . . .

self-empathy 6/19/19

I am having a blizzard, 

rain-soaked emotional state 

in my brain.

a fury of tears, with no place to go.

gravity to the left and right 

but nothing grounding.

how can this be uplifting sorrow?

the door to open is in the sky.

but which ever way is up 

is trouble-tumbling to me.

yet a torment of roses, 

heavy with fragrance,

as if wings of angels are near by.

each moment is as an eyesore to face.

I have no continuum to align this all,

straight away.

some place within me has carriage.

but where I have mouth and voice

is beleaguered and in dismay.

how is this small of the universe 

so myopically large?

and I have a loose fit

for believing any of this.

not that reality ever offered me a firm grip.

I like that emotions are buoyant within me.

but some episodes seem lost 

as if to purpose or meaning.

since what has rational ever done

to clear the slate or end this drama?

I am my own child-like comforting. 

and it will come 

and I will reflect on all of this

as grand and masterful 

but beyond my scope to grasp 

when I was in it.

I appreciate the pallet 

even when I’m messed up with these colors.

I can’t name what this is

but maybe it is a cleanse 

or an endpoint to frustration.

but I would bestow this on everyone

as much as the joy of towering sneeze.

this all maybe square-one with a cleaning cloth.

it is certainly more than just a crying rag.

there is sacred in consternation 

and wealth in the undefined.

but back to simple steps after cloudbursts

and self-empathy to become refined . . .

call it caring 6/18/19

caring, in the medium of the receiver,

ignites the common source between the two more readily.

the more that deep essence is offered 

as the environment of the apparent exchange,

the more profound the potential

for the receiver to source from themselves

the transformative elements of their own evolution

that are the kindling for the spirit of embrace to occur.

that occurrence of caring provides a continuum 

where by the two become one of constancy 

is in deeper vibrational truth 

beyond the affect and effect of experience

as this apparent account took its origin from.

dilemma presented as circumstance

was only an invitation offered from the unresolved.

but the deeper harmonics surfaced 

with an integrity to bare as the opportunity

for oneness to transcend

and for oneness to be made more evident

as a deeper residence within the two unfolding.

caring is the origin of the tuning fork sound

but sounding the pitch that both attune to,

reveals the one source to the all of it

as each are further dismissed 

from being isolated selves.

and the communion expands 

as consciousness is their medium 

living the profoundness alive . . .

(and, for now, we call it caring.)

how to prepare a sumptuous

with the sharpened blade-edge of a hand as a feather

delicately comb 

the landscape contours of skin on her back

searching for tingles, shivers and shudders

that lead to soothes which come in the form 

of deep welling open mouth sighs

then fondle sensuous feminine breasts 

by putting delicious finger-foods 

delicately on the curvy surfaces of the two koi ponds 

where invisible nerve-fish sumptuously surface to feast

then taking the immediacies of teases and faint touches

deep diving back to further arouse delight in her brain

and finally, with the quick twitch finger skills

of a small band of curious and fidgety digits 

apply piano playing hand placements 

any where from lower calf to upper ankle

and then deftly migrate down on to the soles of her feet 

leaving titillating tracks with tantalizing edginess 

that may provoke leg twitching 

but will eventually lead 

to inbreathe seizures of sizzles and sighs

and a distant deep audible pining for it to stop

and yet not so, actually to be interpreted as,

just much softer but more of the same

are we sumptuous yet?

the origin of interest 6/16/19

how do I know what constitutes interest?

I get the heat of attention

but where from within me

does the minuscule of kindling come from?

who of me inhales that fire of interest

yet unbeknownst to a conscious me?

I only then get the faintest of smoke 

cuing into interest as enthusiasm for blaze,

eventually lit up with attention span.

broad strokes of streaming cognition 

attempt to intervene.

curiosity sits in, as alert is all ears.

the first inklings of speech 

are making waves in the brain.

language is constructed and consuming

by a brain-full of words

as if fuel for the engine of attention to continue.

I get the gist of all the moving parts,

but what constitutes interest of itself?

no, I am not saying the topic at hand

or the item being attended,

but where does this cuing of attention starts?

is it anything in contrast to boredom?

is it sensory frames in search from thirst there of,  

for image or topic or a matter to be in hand?

is interest always positional in seeking?

is curiosity always an innocence to start with?

so much escapes into the flow 

from the cross hairs of readied concern.

it seems that my mind, of itself, 

is only there at post-arrival, immediately thereafter.

so, out of what interior unknown does interest arise?

are there cues within me that work on their own?

is interest an attention summary for defense purposes,

or story-ability as a way of interest seeking props? 

interest seems to have account-for 

working almost the unconscious, behind the scenes.

is interest only a self state of awareness then

a made-for-reality context takes over?

is interest eventually my white cain for reality purposes?

is interest a lifetime skilling to piece together

the reality puzzle day by day ongoing?

a bicycle has gears and a chain to translate into motion,

so what does interest have for its occupancy in life?

are words that pop up, just as flash cards 

to coerce interest into some conscious sense of act?

if I go to the bare knuckles of pre-birth awareness

does that get me to the source of interest?

is interest an unstoppable plague that generates of itself?

a glue that has no known countering agent,

the tongue of conscious-speak,

the swizzle-stick of reality 

that doubles as a mind-suck straw?

it seems like attempting to get off of fly-paper

by using other fly-paper does not get me free to the source.

this maybe deeper than hormonal 

and certainly beyond the use of words

as if props ever truly identify 

beyond their usage to identify their true source . . .

  

the essence source of happiness 6/15/19

everything I am, as mind-fill, 

is a distraction from happiness.

my happiness is not a receivership state 

of my otherwise awareness,

but a broadcast state of my being.

happiness is not a conclusory state within me either.

sure, it can be noticed as claimed happiness

while being happy

but they are not the same for me.

my self-consciousness version of happy

is viewed from my witness state

which is ever so subtly distinct 

from happiness itself.

to me, happiness is 

an embodied exuding state of permission 

without interruption from outside stimulus as cause.

my short term happiness is a response 

to ignition from outside culturally conditioned cues.

but the generativeness of my happiness 

is ever internal and always there 

if not placated by overwhelming external circumstances.

or without the experiential overrides 

developed through living with 

some unsaid contentiousness

that is derailing happiness by my preoccupation 

with a mood or a judgment.

happiness has no evidence to prove itself

and I see no need for its approval.

essential seeds of happiness 

emanate an ongoing presence in all of us.

but the flood of apparent happiness 

is not really at the cause.

being without an external context 

is closer to the real source

and more resourceful in our human nature.

that the mind then becomes aware of happiness

is only a wardrobe of self-consciousness worn.

happiness has no answers

and is not, in a dialogue sense, 

and is not the byproduct of entertainment.

to me, happiness has no rational cause 

and no proof of worth.

that laughter occurs

is a rebalance of the my mind 

without rational means.

for me, happiness is before evidential

as the mind is already preoccupied 

when happy spontaneously occurs.

quite subtilely, happiness precedes search 

and self-conscious seizure.

happiness is more at source and resourceful

then any seeking can engender.

to me, only the periphery of happiness 

generates memories,

for happiness is empty of memory as a need 

but a wholeness of hearty soul . . .

the mind is the last to know 6/14/19

I am wandering in an atmosphere 

that has no surface, still, no boundaries.

it has a distant voiceless calling. 

it is a consummate fragrance addressing me.

it possesses a far-flung badgering past

and a distinct vaguely nagging future.

this inherent worth lives inside of me

as an unrealized wealth.

having a mind for the all of it 

is not the imminent calling.

yet it has a deep carriage 

somehow weighing upon me.

but I naively want to experience it 

as embrace.

for I have only come to sharply know of myself 

better as a deep well hidden away but surging

yet that is not the true source of this streaming

that eerily fills me.

I daily drink my destiny

but only to appease 

the immediacy of a dust-dawn thirst.

the inherent wealth of all of this 

is beyond my ability to grapple into grasp.

I can only identify with soft urgings that compel.

I have no certitude to concretized my stance 

or my efforts to reach the whatever’s of beyond.

what is divine will not answer to my callings.

it appears I am playing a drum that has no skin.

it would be crazy of me 

to ask thunder to clear my throat,

for rain to cry my tears in the absolute.

my willfulness is drawing with melting crayons 

on storylines I make up 

as if to script this pretend for reality’s sake.

I don’t believe in the existence of gravity

and yet that part of me that doubts

seem to also claim it to be so.

I can go no further

and yet the babbling search is made clear to me 

that I am taken along.

for I can’t seem to ask a world of answers

exactly for what was my question asked.

time is the only dyslectic response I hear.

listening to my soul repeat in stutters, 

knowing I am its only keeper.

I seem to wander in large circles 

that exponentially repeat themselves within me.

where apparently I have left breadcrumbs 

from previous go-arounds 

that I come upon to nourish me for now.

I can go no further 

that doesn’t also take me there.

it is made clear to me

that the mind of the self,

is and will be,

the last to know . . .

letting go of holding on 6/13/19

the only grip there is 

is the complete free-fall 

of letting go.

for the sense of overall might 

is minuscule

in discovering 

that I am only the content 

of my keptness,

a curator of that capture

in servitude of self-ness

a lighthouse 

on a dry seabed 

of muted reflections,

a 360 degree view 

of a bird-less sky,

a concubine of ink 

kept in a page-less book,

numbering the day after day 

of senselessness, 

from cover to cover.

the integrity of being

doesn’t have a handle

but assuredly has a blade.

swift is the blade edge

and not the escort of intent.

the conduit lives

while the container is in comatose.

nothing is ever featured

if one is in a fluid state.

every blink is a whiplash to my seeing

until I stopped looking

and live within the inner gaze.

there, free-fall is up-lifting

I only have falling

if I come from separation.

I am more of emptiness 

between my cells of substance.

I am more of spirit in the sky

then substance here on earth.

letting go of holding on

is to release memory from its tasks

mindfullness from its certitude

and me-myself-and-I from its conviction . . .

hostage of the groupthink 6/12/19

the groupthink of the common mind

I am a consignment to living it.

is there thought without predicated influence?

can’t understanding be of its own accord?

why is listening so referential?

I said what I said. 

you heard what you heard

yet what it means to you is so separate 

from what it means to me.

that we claim agreement is a hoax 

of our shared attention span.

even shared is in question.

all of composition plunders as a gloss.

timely polite in a give and take fashion 

but otherwise stimulus and response 

and the content defends for themselves.

I didn’t want language to be a flotation device 

to keep meaning alive.

maybe all of thought pronounced 

is murmurings above soul.

and soul is not reducible to mind-speak.

therefore happenstance is its own innocence.

and notice is a form of collateral damage 

that lives on as if it is reality based.

observation is so after-the-fact distant

that facts are only down-wind kites 

put in the sky of reverie.

I hold up a brush, 

full of emotional paint 

and let this canvass of now 

edge-wise maul me.

I call every painting by the same name

‘my projection’.

art only had one breath of life 

and it was used in the stroke of contact 

it accounted for.

now is the hereafter,  

milling of stills as cognitive-assemblage

held up as a mirror to be audience-viewed.

I wanted to be at causative 

and not be straddled 

with the posing of my impotent results.

every thing spoken 

still has the absentia of cursing in it.

language is working me

as a hostage to a retentive mind . . . 

the thief of me 6/11/19

I am a thief of my own solitude.

can’t be there in the first person,

attempt to eavesdrop instead.

try to overhear what is being said,

not so much for the words

but clearly for the feeling

and its place of origin within me.

can’t leave it alone

but can’t easily stay.

am a foreigner to myself 

in some strange way.

there is a place within 

that knows me better

but won’t reveal in my everyday life.

wants the sight of inklings 

and blind passion out of me.

I don’t have cause,

so bound by indifferent reasoning.

I wish to call out from within

but not enough of me willing

to let it unknowingly out.

to risk a hurl I can’t source.

let go as if I am my keptness

and released from sensibility 

and composure ordained by others.

to say what is so, 

from far within me 

but can’t be heard, 

even by me

until I have said it.

compelled then 

to defend and account.

not free to be. 

if that is what is the call,

then still want a deeper truth within me

to set me in motion,

to speak through me

and let out that say 

as if to open the floodgates

to where heart-feel is without restraint,

where the shortcomings of logic

do not stop or stall me 

from letting it all come forth

gutsy, without hesitancy 

or a need for other’s approval.

to be a wellspring upon myself.

to share where the fire within

needs no tending or further council.

to be a channel of human connection

as a given with expediency and warmth.

and so, I am a thief of my own solitude,

a bandit, a burglar, a charmer,

and a cheat.

I moonlight to my own dreams.

I would plunder my rational mind.

I would embezzle precious moments

to plead for their full time release.

I would steal from my own feelings,

feelings left buried deep inside as if captive

and bleed them all over into my being

to give me the clarity and strength

to risk what comes through me as me

rather then pose and project and render.

but for now, 

I am the spirit as a thief of me.

and my solitude is 

only a disconnect from my soul.

for I have to feed who hungers within.

even if I steal in good conscience,

to become from the origin of me . . .