I could sit on the train forever
Going somewhere
Going nowhere,
My heart an empty space
Through which love travels
Carrying me as passenger.
life
Walking In The Supermarket
On the shelves
There are all the goods
You would expect:
Produce in colourful array.
There are people milling in the aisles,
Shop assistants serving,
Trollies wheeled,
Announcements made.
In this
You move, breathe, exist.
Reality happens – reality is.
What more could you possibly want?
Source
The flower of my heart
Blooms on a stem
Of gossamer energy,
Upsurging from the world
Behind the world,
The space that is formless.
My heart smiles on me
As the heart behind the heart smiles,
As love comes
Like a river from the source:
Like a river from the source
Provided endlessly.
Love Is
Love is movement,
A gift,
Unowned
Yet given.
You can not hold it
Only ask
Or make a beautiful wish
Or speak a prayer
To expand and broaden the world.
It is not yours
But you may use it,
Feel the expansion
As it flows away,
Your life acknowledged
As it leaves,
Yourself made Infinitely fertile.
For as it is given
The well refills
The source expands
And you are changed,
Lighter for the affirmation,
Joyous because you are more,
Loving because you gave it all away.
The Heart Through Which I Look
The heart
Through which I look
Burns like a torch.
Like the sun, it does not combust
But ejects the plasma of love,
The light of life
Bringing all things to seeing.
The heart
Through which I look
Is ever replenishing.
The matter of it conveys my words,
Offering warmth in waves,
Carrying all things
Within the everness of its totality.
Where Else?
What is there to discover
Beyond the warm heart?
What need is there
That the warm heart cannot vanquish?
I would settle here,
In the valley of green possibility
Where dreams manifest
In the twinkling of a joyful eye.
I would rest awhile,
Sit quietly on a rock
And watch the day unfold,
Listening to the silence and the twittering birds.
For the day is as broad as being
And warm on my upturned face,
My eyelids resting comfortably closed.
And I can hardly discern
If it’s the sun’s touch
That so warms,
Or some inward principle
At the centre of me.
Endlessly Refreshing
The air in me
Is not mine.
The bone and the flesh,
And deeper defined –
The vessels, the nerves, the cells,
And deeper still – the molecules bound,
Are not me or mine,
But companions
In a movement of time.
Am I the river, a stream?
Am I the wind,
Am I the rain?
Together we are something
And nothing.
But alive is
This dance of form expressing,
Unfolding, degrading, re-expressing,
For this world is but a wondrous garment,
Worn and tore down
Worn and torn down
Worn and torn down,
Endlessly refreshing.
Being
Moving in the garden
My body is free
As new expectant air,
Mellow in the coming.
The push of bulbs
Rises through my limbs,
The sap called by the source
To come and become.
Is there better than being,
Just being?
The gnats know,
Ascribing their wisdom
In choreography
Written on the breeze
Where the afternoon is nothing
But a pale yellow light.
The End Of The World Is A Phone
With but a look
I am entranced,
Sucked inside the screen
And away
From my body,
Away from the world.
With but a look
I am inside the flurry of images,
And away from outward stimulus,
And for a moment
Or an hour
Or a day,
That physical place
I call the outside
Ceases to exist at all.
For All
The drunkard on the street
Begging with dirty fingers
Is no less worthy.
The banker mired in wealth,
Fiddling his taxes
Has access to everlasting love.
The warlord
Entrenched in violence
Could touch the eternal flame.
The everyman
Just getting on
Is a request away from energy.
The robber, the thief, the swindler,
And the police
Are equally entitled.
All are welcomed
Into the heart of love,
The sun inside, shining infinitely.
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