Eternity’s Hourglass

without even the gold-painted husk that once I held as mine own,
realms of rapture become felt now as recalcitrant glimpses,
waves upon a distant shore lost to the horizon,
somewhere barely reached by time,
that false prophet
of mind.
what
emerged in its
retainer, after the slow merging
of sensory murals splayed with seductive colours
and expansive promises, was a return to conscious transparency,
as it was before I was born, transforming this life into its detachment.
there remains an equanimous stillness wherein the seeming continues to grow,
germane to freedom and to the musings of peace, but openly restful within,
without worry nor even care to stop and reconsider
the mind’s former stratagems of self-sabotage;
the wonder without has met the
knowing within.
and so,
consciousness,
the self-recognizing presence,
naturally works its way out of the planted shell
of inquiry and eventually cascades itself outwards to reform
the entirety of the self-experience, until there remains nought to pursue,
other than what, in this very moment, could best reflect the beauty of timelessness.

Under the Cool Moon

there is a collapse
of walls held round the heart
and then the reflected light of the body
graces itself to love again:

a slow walk under the cool moon.

it’s not a big moment
it’s not a big event
it’s not an enlightenment
god, to only let go of that word,
we’ve all done our work!
let’s remember what we share

it’s a slow, gentle, patient falling away:
snow drifting onto parched earth
and melting in, deep, through
muscular tissues and fascia
into the cells and marrows
of memories laid down
time before time.

there’s also a sharpening to this,
a grinding away of ignorance’s block
it doesn’t all feel like snowflakes –
but this part comes with that satisfying feeling of
pulling apart pieces of old dead flesh
making way for the light to cascade through

light that is living
that’s beyond care
light just for light

it’s animal and beatific
it’s pure and it’s rude
it’s a divine melting
and a burning crash

This isn’t really for angels.
I mean, I don’t know any.
Do you?

life is red and black and blue and white
and everything else for that matter
it’s a symphony
it’s all transparent

it is

Of the Sun

This wonder lives
in the eye of the I,
as brief expanses of light
echo within galaxies lost to time
that soar through the night sky,
regardless.

When waking life is seen to be the waking dream

then Life, never parted from beauty,
is known once again in the heart of Awareness
and all of this enfolds itself inside once more,
and there’s no more gap.

the empty cup is full
but the dizzy dancer doesn’t settle for terms.

it’s all too much sometimes
too much to take in
so there’s a melting into the words of a song
and then the song melts itself into the motion of silence
and then it springs backwards into fireworks over the bay

stillness laughs
and motion snores
and everything between is singing for us to remember

because there is nothing to fear:
not a belief, not a thought, not a dream nor a nightmare

the one in charge is good
we have a good captain on deck

I only know because one time I glimpsed the sunrise after a dark night,
a night when everything collapsed,
and now I know.

or, maybe, now I know I don’t know much but
what I’m trying to say is:

The sun doesn’t stop rising,
And we are all children of the sun.