On A Balcony

On a balcony

Breakfast set on a small table:

Strong, bitter coffee in paper cups,

A croissant, a white roll, milk

And jam in plastic packets.

The near world:

Weathered stone buildings

With Terracotta rooves

And balconies from which

An array of washing dries,

Narrow alleys webbed together

By cables and telephone wires,

And covered terraces

Festooned in succulents

And semi tropical flowers.

Ratcheting Cicadas

Unseen in the trees

Haul the just so-ness,

Drawing it with percussive song

Until it miraculously oozes

From the pores of all things,

No one

More or less steeped

In equality’s being,

Reality broad and encompassing,

Presence vibrating as a unified field,

Every tangible element

Totally equanimous.

A Loving Moment

For a moment,

I am in love

With the world

Dancing before eyes,

The whole and beautiful spectrum.

My heart

Has broken the bounds of my body

Escaped the cage of my chest

And gone free

In the sphere

In the space

In the being.

Oh, how there is warmth in this,

Warmth in it all,

Myself mellow in my finger tips

As it it is mellow in the trees

And distant fields.

How broad is gratitude?

Broader than the flawless sky,

And deeper than seeing,

The yolk of my heart tumbling out

Until there is nothing untouched,

Nothing unglazed by light,

Nothing that isn’t dripping

With love,

As if form

Were some bizarre

And delicious flower,

Pungent and exuberantly expressing

Such divine fecundity.

Sometimes The Storm

Sometimes the storm

Is turbulent

But when the gusts calm,

When the fearful thoughts

Settle down,

The love we find is serene,

Bright-eyed and beautiful.

All that was tumultuous

And all that raged

Was but a movement

In love’s dream,

A squall playing on the surface,

A temporary disturbance

On the facade of our lives,

Fleeting and momentary

But unable to touch the depth of us.

The Artist’s Way

Immersed in the landscape

Or fixated on an object,

This artist does not paint

What his eyes see,

Rather, he absorbs the sight,

Places it

In the cauldron of his being

Where life seeps

As the language of the soul.

It is this he paints,

This aliveness

Mirroring landscape or thing:

His spirit

And God’s spirit

Dancing as one

Infinite being,

And reaching out

To his poised fingers,

To transform the inanimate

And deliver magic on the canvas,

Every stroke of his brush imbued

With the inward spirit he feels.

Equality Of Being

We fret

For the things in the world:

How many,

Which ones we should get,

Their value,

How they make us look and feel

As if

Our arbitrary

Systems and scales

Were in fact

Real

And not at all made up.

What we forget

Is the equality of seeing,

How each

Has an equal

Eye upon the world,

An equal stake in being.

The vagrant on the street

Is no less

Than the champagne oligarch:

The poor man Is

As the rich man Is;

They are one

In the space of seeing

Where being rises

Fresh to the crisp now.

And so,

Out our minds go

To squabble for resources,

Ever waring

Over the importance

Of tiny little pretty things,

While the fact of our being

And our seeing

And the one who sees

Is sunk under mounds of stuff

That once attained

Lose their sheen and their gleam,

Dulling in the ignorance

Of our self

To our self.

Master Artist Of The World

Now, right now

I dwell in future doom

In which

What could be

Sprawls out

As a dismal landscape.

I’m in pain,

A heaviness rides upon my back

The now

Is a polluted stream

With no hope

Or respite from darkness.

For some time

I believe this truth,

The fact darkening the now,

Which I think must be endless.

Then, I wonder,

I query this “truth”

Threatening to pull me asunder,

And lift the curling edge

Of my feeling,

Glimpsing a flicker of light.

Could this feeling really be

But the consequence of thought,

My thought

Projected out

And so colouring

The whole world?

Could this world

Be but a blank canvas

And my thought

The paint on the pallet

And the brush in my hand?

Could it really be

That I am master artist

Applying tint

And shade

To all I see,

Reality fluxing before my eyes

As thoughts

Conjure feelings

Morphing under the spell of my eye

And dancing to my every preconception?

And if so,

What does that mean for truth

And a “real world” out there,

And the me

Who thought himself buffeted

By forces beyond

And things

Other than himself?

Photographer

In the moistened autumn air

Morning time is late,

Shuffling from the lengthening night

Through swathes of disintegrating leaves

Let loose the life that gripped

So urgent and productive

To branches now revealed.





Rooks craw in skeletal beech

Where only a smattering of bronze

Tenacious leaf, still reluctant

In the wind, cling jewel-like

And fluttering. And other birds

Pick at the glut of berries

With the needle of their song.





Somewhere in this,

Where the sky morphs

And reveals and holds

The whole landscape,

Walks the photographer,

Drinking in the all that he perceives,

Almost convulsing

With each perspective seen,

Almost pained by the utter beauty

Unfolding in fleeting perfections,

That even if time were his to own,

He could never hope to capture.


			

Idea number one hundred and fifty-two: Hold Firm

The limited one

Who’s listened and learned

And thought

In all manner of spiralling pathways,

Listing reason, rejection, and facts

And one hundred and fifty failures,

Leading to failure

Number one hundred and fifty-one,

Says: you’re just not good enough.

And chatters, chatters, chatters on.

Yet, the one unlimited,

Says: speak

For your voice

Is a voice to be heard.

Go on always forward.

Write with the wind behind your pen,

Unleashing genius upon the page.

Let your life flow in ink

For the joy

Of ideas metamorphosed,

Ideas grasped from realms ethereal,

Buzzing alive in your head

And conducted

Into the matter of the book

That will be read

If you but put your whole mind behind

The creation of it,

Knowing the limited one

To be a friend enlisted,

His chatter a misused tool

Not a hindrance,

His ideas, gold,

If only directed,

His creative urge

Your own wand

Through which the magic unfolds,

Emboldening your life

And the script you must be

To be wholly yourself,

Holding firm to the pen that you love.