silence on retainer

we, as a species, 

actually think silence exists.

yet, we don't actually know 

of silence directly.

we know it, 

by the lack there of.

we only are aware 

of the claim of it,

by a framing context of contrast.

sound, we know,

but only in a limited fashion,

as that which is in our audio range.

there are sounds above and below that,

but we are not attuned.

so anything outside of what we sense,

is then perceived as silence.

we really have no clue as to silence.

for us, it's all relative,

as in experience-endowed.

our concept of silence 

is somewhat sensory based.

but if sound was a transitional phase 

of matter versus non-matter, 

what would sound actually be?

we, as species, are wildly displaced

from that sense of existence.

we are assumptions buried deep, 

away from the functioning of sound,

unless it is experientially hearable to us.

we crave silence, 

sort of.

which is to say,

we are contextually bound to sound

or the lack of it.

thus we claim that in immediacy,

as silence from our experiential point of view.

so craving silence,

could come to mean what?

possibly realms outside our experiential range?

a sense of being,

not accounted for 

or in denial there of?

how to question silence,

as if to obtain relevant audio-answers . . .

the life of a fact

what a fact has to do,

to be mind-worthy 

of occupancy and transport.

the tonal wardrobe a fact has to ware,

to get noticed as delivered

and to be taken up,

as relevant in an ongoing way.

not that a fact was ever freestanding purposed.

fact to be impactful,

has to be prepped and timed.

it has to be appropriately framed,

either by contrast 

or as somehow heightened 

in the garden of know,

yet having lots of recycled potential lingering.

if a fact is to have a meaningful life,

more than posterized,

it has to gain behavioral relevance.

become further, 

as thought provoked,

be featured in mindfulness, 

possibly venture into conversational exchange,

receive that special treatment 

of being further reviewed

and eventually placed with prominence

into front lobe existence.

if a fact is further escorted 

by details and anecdotes,

then a bonus eminence has been obtained.

if said, someone knows for a fact,

then liberal usage may be forthcoming.

somedays a fact can be dressed 

to be theoretical,

while other days, 

somewhat practical,

maybe even demonstrative.

if taken to heart,

a fact could become a belief,

or even a reason for living. 

however malleable,

could then become a possible philosophy.

some facts do achieve a high status,

rarely, but they do.

why some facts even outlive their usefulness,

yet still have imaginary lives,

that are rich and fulfilling.

maybe as attributes

or apparent as character traits,

that actually started out as a fact,

that got assigned, 

as a personal endowment.

hey, it could happen,

and does.

the fact world is ever changing

in its appearances, its meaningfulness,

and in its length of relevancy of existence. 

some survive, 

as slightly displaced, 

as historical.

some committed to memory, 

as personal or turning points, noteworthy.

some were just fashionable,

as having their time in the sun.

some went on to great careers,

having generated a huge amount of details,

almost as celebrities of knownness.

one can never be sure,

what fact passes from mouth to mind,

that will become the fulcrum

of a human's further existence . . .

my hands into yours

I dig with a dirt shovel,

to let my hands talk amongst themselves.

I steering-wheel wander to let my hands

slow-dance in a private setting.

I clap as if entertained,

but secretly, 

there is their nudity and touch

in public surroundings, 

that otherwise they account for.

if I reach out to touch,

they go as emissaries,

carrying a deliverance 

in a diversely secret code,

possibly to be followed 

by my eyes in affirmation.

I have seen my hands

just lay there,

as if obedient service dogs in waiting.

and when they wave,

either one or the other,

they both know of acceptable methods

and appropriate distances in usage.

they attempt a lip service act

with voiceless distance covered to convey.

what they say and do

is mind-worthy in effort,

yet the tension they privately carry

is all about emotions that remain,

unspoken in their deliveries.

if you ever see my hands trembling,

they are about to weep,

either for joy or sadness.

take them into yours.

let them mutually converse,

for the rest of our beings 

will be grandly served . . .

ambience

irrelevant trivialities,

as all eyes on a distant sky,

with sighs as summaries, 

yet not directly spoken about.

there are dry riverbeds, 

that are winking back,

as compositions 

that reek of the overwhelm of technique

and overbearances, 

that fumes with directed-ness.

we are all

but pregnant moments 

of unsaidness bearing down,

with witless impendings, 

closing in.

this is apprehension's silent approach,

the way feel speaks, 

without the use of spoken words.

it is how clouds unquestionably form,

how a moment of attention, 

somehow passes,

in the aura of cognitive doubt,

yet, by casting no shadows.

so what was I thinking,

as if ambience is, 

just a lip read away? . . .

 you, with the asking

you're asking me with presence,

what I can't answer with words.

your stream of past experience 

runs through me.

I read that in brail, 

with a heartfelt mind,

for I am blindsided by your request.

how to be in the form of answers,

as if a dialogue is in the demand.

our time like this

is not a dimension for comforting.

your past is all but ashes, 

spread across the land of your present concern.

at best, I am a breeze to spread them,

in admitting to you,

that true sacred, 

takes no form.

for you appear to me,

as this smoldering, 

with laser focus from your eyes,

transcendent but yet unrealized.

you want poignancy as a mind-fill,

as if roadkill is, 

as self-evidence,

dances above, over its own lessons learned.

for you, the habits gleaned from experience

only generate unconscious wings,

to fly away, 

far above and soon beyond, 

as if now, you, 

as the spirit of the wiser.

you are the disguise of yourself,

using the mask of time to hide behind.

but I can read where stream-beds were,

before their flourish came and went.

I can feel for tree stumps,

buried in the vast of cemeteries, 

that lie transfixed as root sculptures, 

passing as non-relevants, 

now underground.

but you, you are a fever of yourself,

without the heat of anger or resentment.

you have a mastery of self as witness.

you ask of life, 

for something more,

more than human kindling, 

for its warmth.

you want to hear that choir,

made of diamonds in the rough.

you want to be at the feet of now

without experience being, 

the nature of its presence.

you want what is as mystery, 

now unraveled,

for what is shine, 

as being at its source.

you bait with the worm of live questioning,

as if this victimhood is your lucky charm.

but I see into source,

before it had a direction of purpose,

even before it had any means.

I know where you come from within me.

I am there before experience as a distraction.

you remind me of that,

even though all dressed up as questioning,

making experience, once again,

as if it runs through my veins.

ah yes,

let us toast, 

to time and space,

to our sense of preoccupancy,

to the truth beyond self as consciousness.

where our restfulness 

is all of vibrancy, 

as the void, 

the vast, 

and the oneness, 

but, not in vain . . .

as if silence speaks

silence has taken up the breath as speech.

fresh air around me,

lingers as if pronounced.

the mystery of life is slow-hummed 

with out-breath clarity.

all ears are in revered receivership.

to understand in this watchfulness

is as a sacred bow.

receptivity is a sign of my heart in presence.

this almost whisper, 

is a method of motherhood.

we, as humans, 

are always seeking breath-nurturance.

if so, we are then composed 

of inner awareness received.

wisdom is imparted, 

as if silence now speaks.

peaceful is poignantly buoyant,

subtlety in its magnificence reigns supreme,

as we awake in each moment,

to an inner aliveness,

to that which is in and of each of us,

as the dance of the dream.

lucid is this wakefulness,

as if this is of a conscious deep.

for each breath taken,

overtakes the time of it.

and this mystery of our aliveness,

is now living in the dance of unending resolve.

soft shivers, up and down my spine,

as if this potent breath of now is speaking.

and I, as all ears, 

am each breath, 

in the sacredness of listening . . .  

curvatures

the curvature of perception 

is through the prism of interpretative means.

these quizzicals, that present are,

for light emits versus what meaning identifies.

yet truth is the weave of this bent fabric of light.

mental conditioning, as calloused hands, 

works with common sense, 

woven throughout all of perception.

yet from the crochet of wonderment,

imaginative takes presence into form.

light speaks to us all,

from the daily hum of the ongoing,

to the mastery of special specifics of attention.

the evocative of curvature

is both message and massage,

is both meaningful and illusive but mesmerizing.

that color passively chauffeurs enrichment,

is a given.

that color enhances the awe capacity of sight, 

takes us to heart.

perception is seduction made evident.

we, as audience have the option

of being blessed with the bouquets

of awe, amazement and bewilderment.

that beauty speaks to those, 

who visually are receptive to listen . . . 

awareness

awareness provides 

for the vast lands, 

that I travel.

I take my senses along, 

as sort of kids of mine.

each having their own delighting perspective.

notice, as my sidekick,

makes all kinds of commentary,

as we are a traveling band.

they all have free reign, 

but tend to like 

to all hang out together.

they each have ideas, 

about where to place my attention.

surely I listen up, 

appear to be initially interested,

as such is the influx of incoming 

from all of them at once.

I guess if I wanted sensory overload, 

I'd go for the hologram from them.

I mean, 

they all got points of interests, 

for me to notice.

I am a residence of reception,

a canvas of response,

a river of the ongoing,

a feel state in their ever embrace,

a wellspring of emotional animation.

and they,

all contributors of stimulation,

artists in their own right.

and I,

am in a constant sea of receivership,

as if blessedly so.

all of them, as sensory, 

laying down a petaled path,

for me to journey on . . .

belief

belief is a hot-air ballon.

breath refills it by speech.

floating in the big sky of self, continues.

once spoken, hot air looses its dignity.

the collective of this still exists 

as forward momentum.

to believe in oneself 

has ego manifestations.

the sky is/was a holy place of residence.

once there in the float, on the rise,

the eyes expect truth to be sight-able,

as if belief is to be trusted.

yet trust is based on 

the gravity of going forward.

float is something else altogether. 

when belief had meaning as its friend,

holding hands was impactful.

some deep imprinting went on,

somewhere within.

but beliefs expressed out loud 

are like homing pigeons set free, 

never to return,

yet mentally expected to.

for one drove far away, 

out into the land of conversation, 

to set belief breath-free.

expecting it to justify its verbal release.

such is the senselessness of speech.

once the author's breath has cooled

and the minds of others 

have seen it come and now gone.

belief was a kind of self-branding.

yet the only true audience that exists

is oneself, 

in the sky,

without a doubt . . .