The Paradox Of Separate Worlds

In the this singular world,

This individual,

Personal reality

In which I am centre

And no other exists

But as myriad watching faces,

(Equally individual

And no less personal,

Yet experienced by me

As face, not world),

I see my thoughts

Only my thoughts,

And you see yours,

Only yours.

And we will never know each other,

For you,

As I

Are master artist,

Applying a veneer

To all

Upon which our thoughts alight.

And we’ll never really meet

Or experience

The truth

Of our separate realities,

For all I see is me

And all you see is yours,

Except in the richness

And depth of our being

Where we are undivided,

Sharing wholly

The abundance of love.

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?

Love Fills

I am lifted upon a cloud

As light as love

As playful and transient

As love,

Making no mark upon the world

But indelible significance.

For what else lifts us

In the body?

What else

Conveys the clouds,

Makes the moon the delicious moon

And the sun magnificent?

Even when we are down,

Crowded by thoughts,

Living beaten

By the throng of our thinking,

Still we are lifted

And still we are born

In the world and of the world,

Love in everything

Despite our tenacious denial.

How long can we hold

To absence, and the idea

Of heartless universe?

A lifetime, perhaps?

Or perhaps,

There is instantaneous recognition

That loves fills

And always has.

In The Feeling

In the feeling

All that was future

And past

Is gathered

To the beautiful, unfolding now.

You,

Withdrawn from scattered self

With eyes only for the world

And the things in it,

Are returned inward

To yourself,

Finding that you are whole

As you have always been,

And full of love

For every wrong turn

That lead you to the truth.

Never were you parted

Never were you alone

Never were you distant

From wisdom’s place

And the heart song

Singing

Life’s simple authenticity.

You are the outpouring of self,

Fresh and new and crisp

To the world

And joyous

In the living of it.

Love

Love sees you

Dwelling shameful,

Harbouring secret thoughts

Too ugly to own,

And puts its hand upon your shoulder,

Turns your face

Towards the sun

And whispers

‘You are not alone in this

For I hold all in warmth,

And all your shameful thought

Is but a heavy weight

You need not lug about

Nor even believe.

Come out

From the shadow of your thinking,

There is no weight in love

Only fullness

Of the heart absolved

And the infinite wealth

Of joyous being.’

Wonderful Space

The garden is ripe with being

For sunlight

Diffuse through haze

Illuminates

And encourages

All green things

To be

Ever more themselves.

And like the plants

I expose my skin

And open my pores

And breath in

That light,

Absorb

The sweetness offered

Unconditionally,

And drink in life

Knowing, as it is mine

So it belongs to all

Whose hearts beat

And in whose veins sap rises,

And in even the static selves

Of soil and stones

And things thought inanimate,

Nevertheless

A pulse of being still thrills.

Identity Struggle

We wear our race like a heavy cloak

Painting our skins with uncomfortable ideas.

We wear our gender like lead boots,

Stumbling in discomfort proclaimed as ease.

We wear our sexuality like a brightly

Coloured mask.

Our religion and politics

We wear as indomitable rightness.

Our point of view

Is an impenetrable stone castle

Fortified until the last soldier is killed.

Our countries are emblems

For which many will die.

So many are the dividing lines,

The fractious ideas,

For we are tribes

Of a broken mind,

Switching allegiances

Like a fickle tide forgetting the moon,

Changing our image to suit,

Gritting our teeth

In gripped identity

Held as a fist

Shaken at the world.

Are you for or against?

⁃ the what does not matter

In this politics of imagery.

Is it possible we are mistaken

In our hell-bent

Desperation to be somebody?

Could we be

Loose in all the periphery

Of our difference?

Could we see that we one in our being

And the rest is but a jumble of ideas

To wear, not for the war of it

But for the fun of it.

Where is even rightness in this?

Perhaps nowhere

But within the expanse of our boundless self

Containing nothing but the infinite.

Spring’s Self

Under soft February light

Where warming ethers

Carry earthy scents,

I remember my spring self

Among crocuses.

And yet again my heart is lifted

By the tide turn

Of day-length stretched,

Being motivated

To peep as a myriad

First shoots.

And yet again

The soft spell

Light upon my heart

Shimmers hazy

As sunbeams diffuse

In the mellow heavens,

And I can’t quite tell

If this space myself

Is me or the world

Or just spring’s fluid

Billowing out from itself.

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.

Rest Awhile

Come thought,

Dogged and persistent,

Rest awhile,

For you have laboured

And toiled and tried

Yourself weary.

Rest awhile

For there is nothing

You can do,

Nothing you can improve

Or fix or even make right.

The world is as it is

And you are small,

A child in all of this.

Rest awhile

For the thoughts you think

Only momentarily eclipse

The love

That holds you in the world.

Rest awhile

And you will see,

You will feel,

All is well,

All is as it should be.