where is

 

we go to it

that we already are,

that is there,

that is also already here,

that has always been here.

where we and it

are the same essence,

as here and there

are the same place

and that place is always where,

essence is here . . .

the poignancy of grieving

the poignancy of grieving,

for it lives delicately 

in its desperate blossom.

but its life had limitations and progressions.

if one takes the richness of memories 

to a level of personal emotional endowment, 

then grieving has a myopia to it.

if one is the meaning of life 

to be a timeline measure,

then death becomes the final note 

of that song

and the melody is forever hummed 

in morning.

if one lived through another,

as a compensation for the lack of self 

in fulfillment,

then that death of another is also 

a self in death.

all of these can be held as viable and true.

but in the poignancy of grieving,

there is a great whole,

there are larger truths to be honored.

one is not but a single lifetime lived.

one was never the body in restraint

but ever the spirit in exploration.

the being journeys on 

without this limited frame of reference,

while we, as kindred of that spirit,

shift the mediums of our connection,  

our attachment and our continuance. 

no more the act-out of human endeavor

but ever and always 

the connection of spirit to spirit.

the poignancy of grieving 

has transition of the mind 

and from the heart.

there is not a loss of essence, 

just a shift of a medium in usage.

but beneficently, 

there is a gain in inward clarity 

and strength of carriage, 

in the long journey,

from spirit to being to spirit,

over and over, 

until where we are one,

all of us, 

as one, 

are . . .

smoldering

 

smoldering, 

as a scent that beckons beyond the calling,

an underground fire 

that sweeps away my groundedness,

an invisible forest 

that produces an endless whispering,

the rub of two parts of a oneness, 

loudly,

the getting out of my skin 

to a lightness of being,

that which is foreign 

admitting the truth of connection,

where I swim into the cry of abandonment, 

for truth,

where the grind gives way 

to the smooth of the churn,

where no straight lines ever go 

to recover their directness,

where the past is molting 

while the future beams life.

smoldering is the yoga of desire 

in full expression,

where the paint on the brush 

is seepage onto the canvass,

where all details are only tails wagging 

on something vast.

is all breath in as a new world sensory 

that exposes itself 

is all moving parts, 

meeting up unexpectedly?

has no answers as motives 

but lives on inquiry?

where an arched back is more useful 

than a yawn?

get back to me further, 

even though you never left.

for we are always, 

smoldering . . .

what if thought

 

what if thought called for a parade?

a parade in which

all of the floats are thoughts,

all of the bands are thoughts,

even all of the marchers,

the inflatables, and all of the animals, 

are thoughts.

eventually, the clean up crews 

are thoughts also.

and it happened in a town 

designed by thought

and constructed by thought

and the parade route is thought provoked,

and most fitting

the parade martial, in the lead vehicle,

is, yes, you guessed it,

a most dignified and honorable thought.

and this celebration is 

all for the audience of feelings

to experience.

and this audience is made up totally 

of bystander feelings.

feelings that get to passively watch 

in appreciation

that thought is having its daily parade

in its thoughtful town.

and feelings get to participate

as audience, compliant, 

indifferent, unflappable,

long-suffering, otherwise moody, nonresistant,

going through the motions, 

uninvolved receptive,

and therefore, resigned.

it happens every day

as if cause for existence.

and if thought could have it,

it would want feelings

to only communicate 

in thoughtful ways and words

such exactitudes towards acumen,

as if the kingdom 

of understand and reason reigns.

only to discover,

that it is on a planet without fluids,

no oils, no water, no vapors

no clouds, no saliva, no blood.

the pomposity of thought

to create a billboard of its existence

in faultless precision 

is its own self serving demise.

thought is its own unannounced virus.

a myopia beyond its self observation,

a cultured sense of self-blindness,

obsessing as if that were real substance.

oh when will the craft of feel arrive?

when will feel emerge?

when will feel appear as its own

as the universe of sentient existence,

consciously felt, rightfully arrive?

thought provoked does not live

in this world as born of aliveness . . .

coming from far beyond

not enough to know 

but need to know the how of knowing.

some sense of energetics 

that streams function,

but the concealment from general attention's search,

is beyond 

what knowing's evidence provides, 

as if in a general search

of looking for queues and clues.

to be the living experiment concurrently,

is starting with self 

and venturing beyond that containment,

finding an internal equation 

for mind-body spontaneous remission,

finding a focus from beyond 

the causal condition we stress under.

some means 

beyond the analytical mind entrapment,

a means 

beyond dualistic thinking's proposal.

it's not in the flat-range of change.

for change is the illusion 

of comparative truth,

hiding inside of dualistic thinking's maze.

a means of think, 

that does succumb 

to thought's accommodation. 

a think that is freed up from the past.

a think that is energy conscious in play.

basically a creation rather than a concept,

a resource of self in constant recruitment.

mind, body, emotions, and spirit

working together coherently.

a kind of mixed media of vitality,

coming into the now,

as a generative of being.

a belief that has no apparent past,

that rises up from deep within source fully, 

from beyond a sense of sensory containment

and from this, 

a somewhat unified field of being.

drawnness is synchronicity expressing,

as the future integrity of you becoming.

this creation is the present moment arriving,

the sweet spot of the now forthcoming,

the reveal that does not answer to account,

but lives itself alive as your being,

and you in that residence of your being,

but coming forth from far beyond . . .

to define

 

to heal 

from what I didn't know

to bless 

what I can't fully sense

to walk in the shade 

and feel lighter

to curse 

at my judgment's stance made

to laugh off 

through the top of my head

to bargain with trivial 

for fun

to be amused 

at the power of emptiness

to forego a position 

I would normally take

to feel unjustified ease 

forthcoming

to astonish 

my conventional wisdom approach

to find 

where lost would hide with ease

to benefit 

from the absence there of

to delve beyond 

what conclusions keep me safe

to open 

where I would have never looked

to wonder 

where within that thought came from

to forget the self 

I claim to be

and eventually 

to express 

in all of the above directions 

there of . . .

poker life

night and day pass,

like staring at a deck of cards,

passively mindful

of the shuffling going on.

days of card-face images

and nighttimes of fluid table-top space

made player evident. 

always waiting for a hand to be dealt

that one would want to play.

reality is poker time.

chip stacks vary.

we are all of some relative worth.

somehow the game never ends.

we take breaks,

for sanity reasons,

otherwise,

eyes are always on the potential

of a winning hand as the prize.

at some point,

the game is discovered to be

not about winning

but about the nature of play,

who one is,

for what they say and play.

it's where we all ware tells

but who bluffs the truth,

given what they're dealt

only determines

ongoingly,

what's your worth to yourself

and your assistance to others . . .

leaf cut free

leaf cut free.

no more of gravity support restraining me.

winging it to the ground,

short flight, 

for all that life is born free in flight worth.

once landed, tumbling in the dream.

upside facing sky

with all the past history 

of day's journeys 

and night time, passing loud silence.

downside facing ground,

the intimacy of a small world view,

patterns of people 

and movement remembered

as close-ups 

that give telltales of character in play,

where impressions were not lost,

the stare-downs soaking up the presence.

if upside facing down as lasting,

to hear-see the other side 

of the eternal dialogue,

how gravity muses 

when sky is out to play,

how earth embraces of itself 

and of that which has descended,

to feel for the warmth 

and the eventual transformative demise.

if downside facing up,

as last refrain. 

how sky has sung through my entire life

to appreciate the everlasting, 

from background now to ever grace,

where shade taught me so much

that now sky delivers in wisdom,

for composition to take on,

to take on a great course of action.

soon, lifetimes will past again,

to know of myself from way before,

before upstanding as a tree presence,

before whims and cares about time.

it is all a grander course of action.

then to be known as a leaf.

but as angelic as it was,

being a tongue in the breeze,

shade to those with need,

ever in chorus with those around,

for one free flight.

my destiny becomes the circle-round. 

as this chapter retreats,

and the resounding story goes on . . .