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.

Do Not Fear

The heart says

Do not fear

Even if the danger seems imminent.

You must act

For the body’s safety

And as the conscience decrees,

Of course and most wisely,

But not from fear,

Not from an idea of future doom.

For the future is unborn,

Made of imaginings

And infinite potential

And all the combined karmas of the world:

And who can know that conundrum?

The now, however, is filled with love

And made of love

And witnessed by love,

And so too are all possible futures

Despite the dark veneers

That might come to pass.

And surely these dark illusions

Will tempt and prod

And precipitate

Any knot of fear held within the body,

Inviting the mind

To follow their bitter prospectuses

To a seemingly pitiful demise.

And perhaps you will be ensnared,

Caught fearful and flapping,

Making up facts

To fit the worry

You’ve whisked into a maelstrom.

Yet, you might pause

When fear offers its seductive hand,

Pause in the precious moment,

A moment with no past

Or combined future,

Just the here

In being and beauty –

A beauty never once touched

By fear’s tarnishing word.

And in this quite,

The heart’s voice

Offers silence

In a hundred multiples of love,

And fills the dawn

And itself in one

As love is unveiled

In its entirety,

Ever unfettered,

Never annulled

And never ever diminished.

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.

Really, That Simple?

Is it really

As simple

As remembering love,

Acknowledging

The love in being

And that being is love?

Is it as simple

As turning one’s head,

Looking inward

To the source

And seeing

That source is love?

Is it that simple

To notice the beautiful

Hidden before your eyes,

Hidden in plain sight,

Love at your centre

Brimming where it has always dwelt,

Love waiting with open arms

For you to see

And be one

With your heart,

Finally coming home

To the home you already are?

Potential

Turn

From the tired old trudge

Into limitation,

Where the mind conjures

Ever decreasing lack

And multiplies of hardship.

Turn towards

The vortex of love

Spinning perfect

In the centre you forget

While straying in the dream

Of you as lonely entity,

You as lonely, separate fact.

This infinite you is limitless

And born anew,

Fresh and ever fruitful.

It calls the thoughts,

Enrobes them rich,

Colours them

In love’s ubiquitous energy,

And spins them

In upward spirals

Bringing more and more

And glorious more

In never ending

Expansion of being,

A potential

That cannot be reached

But can be

Reached into

And rode:

You,

Forever uplifted.

No Need To Love

You need not love the self

For the self loves you.

Relax, forget about the work

Of loving, it’s not yours to do,

For the self loves

Your every limitation.

Stop attempting the impossible:

You cannot conjure love

Through will and the toil of thinking,

Just chill

For you are loved already,

Wholly and infinitely,

No part of you left out.

See you are bathed in love,

See that, only see,

Then sit back

And do absolutely nothing.

Don’t Delve

Don’t delve around in the mud,

Searching for the lost parts of yourself

In a quagmire of regret and loss.

The lost parts of yourself aren’t there,

And nor are they lost,

For the self watches you over your shoulder

Aware of the mud on your face

And the oily stink between your fingers

As you dredge up your shameful

And sordid past,

Offering yet another ugly

Memory for memory to feed upon.

Instead, climb up upon the bank,

Sit in the sun, allowing your mind

To drift free from the sludge

Of past chronicles.

Your lost self was never lost,

And sits, enjoying the sunshine

Smiling kindly upon your tribulations.

It was you who was lost, not yourself,

Who’s love for you

Was never in question.