Forgotten Words

The purpose of a fishtrap is to catch fish, and when the fish are caught, the trap is forgotten.
The purpose of a rabbit snare is to catch rabbits. When the rabbits are caught, the snare is forgotten.
The purpose of words is to convey ideas. When the ideas are grasped, the words are forgotten.
"Where can I find a man who has forgotten words? He is the one I would like to talk to."

~ Chuang Tsu


Or "Where can I find a woman who has forgotten words? She is the one I would like to talk to."

Validation

We all need a little of this, sometimes more than others.

Rainbow Flight

Learning to fly
with rainbows
on a starry night

Colors
raspberry
blueberry
lemon or lime

Space bending
lifting like
wings soaring
into luminous
nebular clouds

Where is time
the earth
the self?

all left behind

Flying
with rainbows
into a starry night

Worlds of Time

Riding life’s brush
dragging time
cross landscapes unending

worlds of time
and none do we posses

We, you and I
Shaper
Shape
and Shaping
mysterious 3

Existential transcendent being
eternal birth, never born
nor conceived

Becoming always and never
not being and being
neither one nor the other
lost eternally in the loneliness of God

Sky inseparable from blue
stars dazzling an infinite void
dolphins
in a primordial sea
effortlessly swim
as the red giant sun
engulfs it all
eons beyond their birth

Past and future
forged together
shaping now
as this moment
shapes them all
while the shaper
wanders lost
knowingly
within our soul

No here nor there
or earth or air
no post or pre
no you or me

Yet countless
subatomic beings
each named
dancing into and out
of existence
as I transcend it all

I known by no one
known only by piece
and slivers
parts and partials
divided divisions of separate crumbs
of inseparable One

All a mystery, all

Worlds of time
and none to do I posses

i thank You God for most this amazing day

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any--lifted from the no
of all nothing--human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

~ ee cummings

More IS

The more what IS opens up to me, the less of me I find remains. I envy those who can be a father, lover, husband, friend or the man who does/is his job. I am finding I am none of these things (and yet all of them to everything). Through it all, only the questioner remains, who is forever asking who am I and what IS? The questioner who shatters all of reality as soon it is grasp, leaving not even dust to float silently in the emptiness.

The agonizing part is that no one seems to be OK with their not understanding, and feels I need to be fixed, changed or more often that they have been cruelly betrayed by me, by who I am. The crushing death I often feel inside these moments is so excruciating; it seems to overwhelm the joy of my rebirth.

But the stones smile tenderly as the music carries me amongst worlds beyond the stars…


All blossoming there is inside my soul.

Soul and Reason's Confliction

"Just as the heart is hidden in the human body, so is the body surrounded by the powers of the soul because these reach to the ends of the earth."

~ Hildegard of Bingen


Perhaps the soul comes from and goes nowhere, because it is and always has been everywhere. Perhaps the alien soul I feel is mine is so only because I haven’t traveled far enough within it to know to just how vast it is. If so, why does what is so obvious to others elude me so? There is so much to learn from everything and all those around me and I have nothing to give in return. So many epiphanies, and not one coherent sentence I am able to articulate. Perhaps silence is the best elucidation.

So the mind rambles on, and on with this mesmerizing confliction called reason.

A heartfelt request

Love Poems

Love poems of Rumi, My Burning heart & Bittersweet

The World Is a Beautiful Place

by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

The world is a beautiful place
to be born into
if you don't mind happiness
not always being
so very much fun
if you don't mind a touch of hell
now and then
just when everything is fine
because even in heaven
they don't sing
all the time

The world is a beautiful place
to be born into
if you don't mind some people dying
all the time
or maybe only starving
some of the time
which isn't half bad
if it isn't you

Oh the world is a beautiful place
to be born into
if you don't much mind
a few dead minds
in the higher places
or a bomb or two
now and then
in your upturned faces
or such other improprieties
as our Name Brand society
is prey to
with its men of distinction
and its men of extinction
and its priests
and other patrolmen

and its various segregations
and congressional investigations
and other constipations
that our fool flesh
is heir to

Yes the world is the best place of all
for a lot of such things as
making the fun scene
and making the love scene
and making the sad scene
and singing low songs and having inspirations
and walking around
looking at everything
and smelling flowers
and goosing statues
and even thinking
and kissing people and
making babies and wearing pants
and waving hats and
dancing
and going swimming in rivers
on picnics
in the middle of the summer
and just generally
'living it up'
Yes
but then right in the middle of it
comes the smiling

mortician