unrestrained tranquility 11/30/14

Startling behemoth-like intentions, as acts of love expressed, by their assertion in my direction, as if out of a fog of feeling’s deliverance, are coming forth to graze on my consciousness. They find my presence sweet and delicious. They are further uplifting me by their tenders of attention. They pass through me now as an expandedness to embrace. Their verbal action is this illustrious beauty pouring forth onto me, without edges or frame. I am to myself, a pasture of non-particulars in bloom. My questioning mind has no ground-figure to work with. Every breath-in from within this state is heartening. The season of feeling loved is upon me. I want to go out from myself with harvest in mind, only to discover that the yield is self love and then self-love shared. These beasts of essence roam throughout my being as fertile fields of feelings ever to arise as an awareness. I find myself separate from my being to identify what is so clearly in my heart, a oneness of terrain. “I love you” as an utterance of unrestrained tranquility, sent my way, is wholly a cross-rippling, a skyward presence reigning down, emergent from the weave, blessedly upon me as the lay of our shared land. My mind-fullness, travelling like a bird in flight, is at play in this bountiful ever-presence of surroundings. Hearing that call, honoring the fabric of its pronouncement, with feelings that continue to voluminously prosper in these fields of communal unrestrained tranquility . . .

The crux of the matter 11/29/14

Understanding is a consensual form of human addiction.

It is excess baggage in the isness process. It’s part and parcel of our species entitlement claim. Thought is a self-media press-pass experience of now. Thought suffers from time’s imposition, accountability’s restraint, rational constructionism, and conclusionary common sense. Yet we exist in the holism as a presence of the presence. Experience, at best, is always riding shotgun. Even our senses are trained to phenomenalize and quantify towards relative story-ability as our experiential version. And we primarily agree as the species with ourselves. We use a questionality that never questions that of itself. Our words are only land-locked views to the oceanic nature of our feelings.

And yet we stand on cognitive shorelines, talk in navigational terms that are not truly immersed in the hologram of our heart as the ocean of life expresses itself from within us. As a species, we are living a lament. We are a form of stillborn consciousness. From our inception, there is an integrity of oneness. But we have taken to a versionary life. We subsequently disconnected from the energetics that we possess to live into visionary existence. Space-time has become the handrail that we, as humans, indulge ourselves in and claim that this is a necessary appendage of our consciousness to be. Yet here is the crux of the matter,

If the trunk of a Birchbark tree was the future canoe to the water from a rainstorm currently showering that tree, then we, could all blessedly time travel in the wisdom of an innocence having shared clarity and be. If we could take a core-slice from the stump of elder fallen tree, held close in our arms and softly stroke-strummed like that of a harp, we would have a wisdom from that melody that would take us to beyond time.

If we could sensitively put our hands into a mountain stream and know the moment that snowmelt was released as well as the kiss of the storm that originally brought those crystals to snow, then we would be more deeply be in touch with the nature’s authenticity. And lastly, if we could be aware of the shadow pen-like signature, scripting out into the deep space of the universe from the sunlight rays cast upon and then blocked by this earth, then with expansive joy, we could celebrate the evident period-like punctuation that comes with every lunar eclipse as it appears to us before our eyes. The crux of the matter is not the matter itself but us, in our symbolic Machiavellian attempts to matter . . .

A moment 11/28/14

A moment of genuine emotion surfaces from within the scheme of things. Roars softly. Rules the facial land. Heart fountaining is upwards then transcends in the face to flush forward and falls out of the eyes, then downward. There is a sweep of radiance, a whirl in all directions. Tall trees of the mind are filled with a glorious weep. Everything that is growing within its reach is more secured in the subtly of its growth movement. Those tree rings of awareness now secretly glimmer. Those of us that are present, we find heartfelt from within. Emotions like this start wildfires of caring. We then are all caught-up and cause-worthy with topic and direction. It is like a rain-reign of new felt rules that begins anew to reframe everyone to everyone else. It is a flint strike of genuine emotion on the otherwise barren dry forrests of beings being. And, boom, once struck, we are taken up into the light. Everyone is actually a pyromaniac-donor of the heart. Given yourself, and the right conditions and poof (!), old souls in cold winds disappears. And varoom, (!) the roaring sound is of heartfelt rising. Combustability convenes shared amongst a new light of friends! This all started within someone with just a moment of genuine emotion and then, it’s surfacing . . .

Strong doubts (haiku) 11/27/14

I have gut-strong doubts

but I don't know where to start

or how to confirm

Handily from readily 11/26/14

Everyone has time on their hands.

Some wisely read their own palms.

There are handfuls of reasonable info

readily available as themes and directives

to first person follow.

Every behavioral act scribes deeper

into this living truth of oneself.

You not only see out

but your eyes reveal

their stored history of you,

by surface in details

as well as how they are positioned to see

and also as windows to your indwelling soul.

Your ears, as well as as your wrists, tell all.

Not to disregard your tongue

both for speaking

and for a gathering an informational view.

This is what we would do

If we have the skill sets in place.

Then that would be by readership,

handily from readily . . .

fatigue (haiku)

feels like sleep walking

I cannot wake up from this

it is all too true

this orange 11/24/14

There is this orange,

sits in the fruit basket,

the one on the right

up near the rim,

the one that poses like an apple,

a Fuji organic

and I won't eat its poise . . .