In dream, on tiptoe on the edge
of black and navy Gotham City,
I trip backwards from the platform.
My fall is bottomless, there is no ground;
my dream-soul’s stolen, lost and maybe found
when by a shrill effort of will,
tendons in my throat popping out,
I reel myself to a real conscious illusion,
pull myself awake and blindly see
the redness of my mirror-projecting eyes
and become an old DC Comics hero
“Stalker, the Man with the Stolen Soul.”
At last I shook the ■■■■ of family off.
No longer have to take care of their feelings.
A year ago, I made a post to Facebook
in answer to a prompt from Firefox.
My nephew, when he saw it, blew a gasket,
as if he could control the things I say.
My sister, at his beck, began to tell me
what I could or couldn’t say on Facebook,
so I in my turn, seeing red, blew up
with volleys of the ■■■■ word at my sis.
That was the end: responsibility
for nephew’s feelings lived with him alone.
Censorship is something I abhor;
what you can’t handle, you don’t have to read…
But anyway, he’ll never understand,
and now I have no commerce with my sister.
Mayday Poem
The time is now to let go bitterness
for water that has gone beneath the bridge
and set my mind to work on better things,
the things that count, like breaths of ecstasy
my voice can sing, and with indulgence, do
this Mayday when our lives begin anew.
The flowers know when it is time to grow
and blossom, and the trees as well to fruit;
it’s nature’s music to the ears and eyes
and nose if not allergic to the rose
that offers beauty, liberty, and love
to all who pause a moment to adore.
For nature’s way is to unravel freedom,
to fix mistakes along her way to perfect,
perhaps unreal today, but always hoping
and knowing that the best will come to be:
the truth of liberty will always out,
it is her promise and necessity.
To be born into this world
and to quite not understand
he said, she said just a walker in this land
to live on automatic
than shaken to the why
was it evolution or a creator in the sky
yet still i question and this gives me pause
all happenstance? then why the wonder of the cause
But still i see the beauty
and shrivel to the fears
what once was understanding
faceted to spheres. So i know i procreated
and loved them more than me
should such a great creator
be better than thee?.
So i can’t help believing there is beauty beyond self
not magical like a unicorn or an elf
but something that wanted to share love
a gift from something above
but it got lost in misinterpreation
pride, glory and elation
it simply said we are one and all
and i’ll catch you if you fall.
but to see beyond the differences
was most difficult of all.
So i suffer with my questions but i thank you for this time
i may never know the truth but you gave me this mind.
I like this because you’re talking about thinking about thinking, or meta-thinking, as it could be put. The question “why” that regresses infinitely. Do you like zen? The idea of thinking with no mind (or brain or body) is difficult to grasp rationally because reason is dualistic. Satori is non-dual; it is not thinking about thinking. Aw, I have to be in the right state to discuss it. When even subject/object duality is dropped away and reality just stands there intuitively, without use of the senses, without mind, etc, then what need to explain (for explanation would be rational)? Forgive my ignorance. There’s a lot more I want to read on zen. Thanks for the poem.
I’ve been listening to allen watts but still am caught up in the projection of duality. I listen to binaural beats now am trying to understand it all really. it’s slow going.
Getting around reason is what koans are for, too. Ever try those? Dunno much about zen, actually. I’ve heard of Alan Watts. Koans are Q&A sayings that don’t make rational sense. Right now I’m revisiting Vedanta. I like the idea of Brahman, and like comparing it to satori. Hinduism is much older than zen… but the advantage of the latter is it requires no church and no priests. It’s just you and the practice.
I placed a copy of the I Ching on a stump in an Oregon forest that the wind might catch the pages and turn them open to a certain hexagram to let me know what nature intended for me to do. The effect was like breezes on a wind lyre, except in a specific verbal way, the way of words, the way of ancient China. It made me wonder why shadows on a sundial do work but my Book of Changes idea didn’t. Like nothing else in Oregon.
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