When The Noise Stops

When the noise stops,

When the machine of thinking thoughts

Slows to a lull

Or is brought silent

In a moment of

Concentration.

When the worker sets down his tools,

Rests a while,

Leaves his ideas alone,

Then,

In this pause,

This relaxation,

The love that was always there

Is seemingly exposed,

And Life,

Beautiful and whole

Is known in fullness.

From The Ashes

From the ashes of my beliefs

Awakes the child of myself,

Born into the moment.

Can he remain true

To the idealess

Realm of his beginnings

Or must he age

In the world,

Heavier with each moment,

Each new belief?

Is the ageing process

And stiffening up

An illusion

In which we dwell

Stiffer and more unwell

In the hardening carapace

Of personality’s

Hard work and upkeep?

Or is the child unblemished,

Cocooned in the now,

Eternally fresh,

Ideas burned to ash

Under his gaze,

Illusions

Nothing but ciders

In the presence

Of his presence?

Where Is Heaven?

Where is heaven?

Only here

With the past drawn up

And collected

Like the skirts of time

Were no longer historic,

Nor paid much mind,

The future too

Is clawed back home

Until the now is pure and plump

And filled to brimming with love:

And the measurement of things

Is scrapped

And swapped

For the absolute value

Of the universe,

The self brought

Wholly to heart.

Heaven

We walk in heaven

Barefoot on the grass

Drinking dew-cool breaths

Or we dance on the burning pavement,

Our thoughts like shards of glass

Cutting us deeply.

Yet still we are heavenly set

Upon the earth,

Our gentle or angry mother,

Goddess or foe,

Living our lives in grace

And the freedom to choose

To make this world

A heaven or a hell.

Falling Into Nothing

I lean back

And fall into nothing,

Released from the world

So various

And swallowed

So the tight knot of ideas,

Beliefs and concrete thoughts

That I called myself,

Melts away

Until I am naked

But for my essential self,

Zeroed in formlessness.

When I return,

Pick up my thoughts,

They are loose upon my back,

Less important

Than the warmth of love

Irrigating my being,

And somehow charged

By the seeing.

I am reborn in myself

As myself,

Free in my body

And free in my mind.

Where else but nowhere,

Being nothing but being,

Can you be free

Of the entanglements

Of the physical world?

The Path

In the ever present now

We find ourselves

Expanding

In knowing –

That we are infinite being

At the crisp edge

Of happening:

Becoming ourselves

In the unfolding of the universe.

And sometimes we forget,

Dawdle lazy

On the road

Of our making:

Obstacles scattered

By our own hand

That make the journey

Seem tiresome and long

And effortful.

And sometimes we remember

The ever present now,

And step inside ourselves

And the universe,

And the being

That we always were,

And see

We too are always infinite,

And the road

And its obstacles

Are but illusions

On an illusionary path.

The Wealth

Not one of us

Upon the earth

Is anything less

Than the whole sun

Shining in being,

Illuminated in the endless wealth

Emerging from the formless realm,

The nothing and the nameless,

Our infinite self

Ever at our finger tips,

Infinitely Infinite and infinitely free.

It is only our crowded thoughts,

Straight-jacketing us rigid.

Gripping us to an idea

Of a drought-ridden self,

Stiff within our skin

And so hopelessly lonely,

That thinks us

Thought-severed from the Source,

And made bleak as a separate entity.

And yet, those thoughts separating

Are but tenacious thoughts,

Combined, conjoined, layered,

Believed, stiffened, judged

And felt solid enough to be real,

Each one hiding us from the truth:

That universal love

Is the absolute fundament of our nature:

The life force propelling,

Filling us up,

Upholding the fleeting entities

We call our selves,

Buoying us

Even when we deny we out buoyed.

Not one of us

Is anything less

Than the soul

That is all,

The one,

The only one,

The love emanating from Source

Becoming something,

Ever unfolding as the form-ful manifest.