the canopy of being

 

I long for the upper tree canopy

far from groundedness

clinging to the ever-swaying

viewing the sun reflecting off leaves below

as rippling in the breeze

showing waves and flutters

the up-here has a breathy intimacy to it

carefree but a constant wind-conversation 

is passing

the glimpses of far away are inviting

as if I am on a bobbing ship at sea

yet smothered in a closeness 

of friendly branches

there are canyons of leave-covered surfaces

giving dimensions 

and yet suggesting fluidity

all of the immediacy appears to be dancing

all of the soundings are loud whispers

not going for articulation into words

just breathy fleeting affection in passing

there is a feel of expansion 

coming to the senses

a vigor of towering elation

as restive and calming

I feel the never-landing wisdom 

of an albatross 

high above an open endless sea

where I take cues from the wind as dialogue

speaking through to me 

not as a listener 

but more as a philosopher 

purring over the presence 

of this as a conveyance

I feel heartfelt with steadfast wings

I am the confession of unending flight

that I'd give away my body to be

no, not a cloud in vapor carriage

but a free spirit

amongst these elements 

as my dearest friends

all humans have this place 

somewhere within themselves

take me there whenever we meet

I want to share in the canopy of our beings

I want your eyes as mine

and mine as of yours

where we have knowledge 

beyond the say-so of time and space

and we all mutually live 

into its aliveness . . .

two trees of me

memory is a hammock 

made from threads of the past

woven into a somewhat stable mishmash

strong enough to endure 

the weight of a now resting

but capable of aging and fading 

without any constancy 

of attention or concern

it is tied between these two trees

the tree of private self 

and the tree of public self

they are not of the same kind

public tree has height, 

colorful leaves annually

inviting branches facing all directions

private tree is a conifer-like

shielded from see-through sight 

produces cones of inner delight

occasionally dropped for others to discover

my hear is to the tall, wide-spread 

my heart dedicated to the evergreen

I look deeply into the pine while lying there

re-experiencing 

what can't obviously be seen

memories that have no shared surface 

with others

but fill with the scent of self-intimacy

the hammock made of woven time

has a levity to it 

that comes in the form 

of a gravity induced embrace

restfully I let the words leave

that pronounce what I am feeling

it is as if my eyes close 

to the outworld for then

comfy gives way

vast swaddles me 

as dreamlike initiates breaths for me

while I, in levity, immerse and reflect

what of memory is this drug of now?

that has an intoxicating fragrance 

of unscentedness devouring and attracting

I taste without tactile

I sense without seeing

I feel without merit or reward

somewhat muted 

but marvelous in passing

just a memory as breeze

stunningly simple in re-vision

slung between these two trees of me . . .

boat on lake (haiku)

 

the mind is a boat

boat on lake reality

lake, more than just float

the river

the river that came forth

out of naming itself.

this river had a sense of location,

knew itself from its banks,

its relationship to the land.

served humans that lived nearby.

they had a name for it

that everyone came to know.

the river was there with constancy,

meeting all comers with interaction.

seasons delivered the formats of attending,

summer for swim,

fall for float,

winter for skate,

and spring for adventuring.

the river knew of itself

from the nature of all of its interactions,

with people, weather, 

its movement and its steadfast presence.

there was nothing introspective

about being the river in this light.

this context was commonly shared by all.

but the river did have a privacy,

a self-intimacy that was rarely in exchange.

even a self inquiry in passing

as if, from where do I come,

how do I have mood as evident to me,

having surface above and yet surface below.

surface above already speaks for itself.

but surface below is so private,

burdened with excess from before now,

in the shaping of itself,

the errant additions from humans, 

by dumping, runoff or spillage

but more essentially 

by its own temperament,

the sense of self as embodiment

and the private experience of flow.

speaking for itself, 

I am a constancy of livingness

beyond what is commonly interactive.

I discovered that I come from sacred

as the religion of weather 

recites through me.

I have sacred mountains as forefathers.

I have the spirit of the sky run through me.

I am a devotee of gravity as a greater being.

I am never in one place for long.

I live what time offers me as alive.

for now, I am only local to others.

for myself, I go on and on.

I live through embrace of many kinds.

but I seek the eternal, 

the cycle of life

by evaporative means.

I am of one nation 

beyond whatever is humanly claimed.

I have an inner life beyond the evident.

I transcend as inner movement 

beyond constant.

my essence is a bonding humans call H2O.

viscosity is me loving.

I am a complete cycle of life.

you may know of me as river in passing,

have a nickname for me by locale.

but I have come to know 

more wildly of myself.

and I now, by the spirit of intention,

call myself flow.

for however the medium of my existence,

wherever the journey takes me,

I am the ever-change,

the embodiment of endearing,

the efficiency of movement,

the embrace of gravity, 

from near or far,

below or above.

I am also human-like, 

but free from that bind.

I am dedicated to the earth-mother

in service to her causes.

but think of me 

as in some ways, you.

and remember us as essence, 

the essence of our flow . . .

 

like no other

I can't explain it into words

as I can't carve a tree into existence

I can't make the tidal beach 

into a script of the moment

you, of yourself, have to have 

the eyes of the maker for that

I can't be the capture of your mind's eye

you, in your inner wisdom,

can only embrace it

as the wisdom of your being

I can't be the light you shine upon me

you, realizing our oneness

are the maker of that dream

but I can be 

of the us of our making

the joy of our unfolding

mirror to your soul

I can be inwardly

more than the space around you can offer

I can be a slipstream of invitation

a canyon without echo to your thoughts

a forest of nearness to your feelings

a residence of closeness without crowding

a sentence structure to your verbiage

we can appear to others as friendship

but deep down within

we privately know of each other

as Siamese of soul . . .

beyond the standardized self

I took this risk that meant nothing,

that was the goal.

get out of meaningful,

stop with the self lip-service 

as if to bribe yourself 

into the next moment,

started watching the mind chatter,

compulsive but empty.

behind the lack of any audience,

there was nothing,

actually richly nothing.

I hadn't considered that as real,

but there was nothing,

a huge expanse of nothing at all.

it was there all of the time,

behind the acoustics of my mind.

there was an authentic presence of nothing.

not empty, not vacant,

just a part of me.

not interested in the think,

or the trickle-down of words,

as if say was the eventual goal.

no, just a disinterested nothing

from the viewpoint of a need for something.

a need for self as preoccupancy,

an audio of conscious inward concern,

a pressed to the glass need 

as self in character?

no, nothing,

not without feeling. 

amplitudes of feeling,

as if emotions unattached 

to topic or storyline.

a reservoir of feeling with less surface

but way more depth

that didn't settle for the safety of words.

somewhat happy to ascend 

into unexplained images,

visuals trying for a cognitive say.

but without the chitchat 

of linear construction,

big widescreen 

unfounded feeling immersions

that didn't do the immediate work

of identifying a me or a self or a rationale.

just a sensory domain with emotional draw,

coming up from deep within me.

yet nothing or certainly out of nothing.

no orientation, no impetus, no driver.

a land that exists without topic as reference.

possibly interfaced with another unexplainable dimension.

I sense it when I'm there, 

but nothing comes clean 

in an otherwise reference sense.

at some point the sense of risk was gone.

there was no one of me 

left back there concerned.

this is as whole as I have ever felt

but without any priority 

to come home to real.

it was never pitched as an either-or.

no place in me 

attempted to regather a sanity.

nothing did not contest.

it is just selectively expansive from within.

it surely is where 

I would like to meet others.

but how that goes-about 

as happening works?

not know, does not react with concern.

in this way, 

happens is not caused by demand.

if it will, it already has

and I was 

just not conscious enough to engage.

but now, nothing is the groundwork 

and witness from within will realize.

nothing is everywhere, 

gifting yet unrealized.

vast has all the heart space 

that expression can handle.

emotions are so wise to be open to this.

I now wonder 

what mindfulness is attending.

life without the context of interpretation,

very slippery to attend.

thought wants to steal its way in.

but I now have a witness

that see nothing for its prominence

and reality for its mindful-addiction.

you just have to go within,

where no words have passage,

where emotion has 

a widescreen skinny-dip invitation

and be before 

it comes to be named or claimed,

by the standardized self of our making . . .