Crystal Bubble

Watching, I saw
a splendiferous world
of majestic mountains
crystal streams and emerald forests
all whispering their invitation
inviting me in

Scrambling to reach out
to touch a panther lily
devour the scent of pines
and drink my fill
of a cool flowing
crystalline stream
rushing
down a eroded
waterslide carved
into ancient stone
falling to a tranquil lake
in wait

Only I tripped and
fell over my still-born
inner child lying
a congealed motionless
mass at my feet

Only movement
of the corpse
a horideous horridus
slithering within the
putrefying flesh –
a stench on the edge
of vomiting

Yet, I see everything as if
it were all put together
in one masterpiece
painted to capture that
precise entire moment for
all of history

As soon as I crawl into
that very same moment
it and I are suddenly in
two different worlds

There it is –
everything we think
everything we do already
there waiting for us
to step through

There we are
sitting inside
this crystal bubble
of now waiting
for it shatter
becoming
then and
with freedom to reach
beyond the now

In the moment
we the unruly
are incessantly
fighting for control
to posses it
as if it were
ours alone
and not
us who belong
to it

That is us
it is who we
think our selves to be
It is I,
it is you,
it is them
who think it
belongs to me

So I sit
sit and watch
as worlds
as magical and full of life
as any I have seen
explode into existence
before my eyes
and are unrolled
before my feet

I sit and bounce
about as if
there was no reality
other than this game of life
a game we create
whose rules
we define
and
choose

Choose for this game
with every play
who wins or loses –
only caveat
it I who is each player
not them

It is I who Can
only win
it is I who Can
only loose

It is then that
I know that
I am
not I
so with we
me
and them

We all just paint
in serious colors
as if any of it
really mattered
–
even the seriousness
has no matter

It is a game
like we all played
as kids
a game we play
for fun
for pretend
as if it were
all that was real

Is this so outspoken?
To laugh at reality
at you and me
and them
to make jest of
life’s living and it’s death
to profane the sacred
and make sacred the profane?

Is not the making of
the playing of
the being in the game
the game?

Is there not pretentiousness
in pretending reality is
really real
as if real has any meaning
other than what we give it
to be?

Paint authentic reality
with dazzling water colors
on a rainy day
and perhaps after the storm
your canvas will be clear
clear to paint a new
and more magnificent
authenticity

Paint in the rain
write words
in the shifting windblown
sands of the Sahara
for therein
lies their
permanence

Sit in the
crystal bubble of
sand melted
by heat of
this moment

There is the wasteland
there in the lush green
forest of our being