Coming Home

is when being away from yourself is no crime, and where wrongdoings are smiled upon, attracting no shame.

it’s when Ill thought is not made Ill with thought, but allowed to be but thought in the cosmos of your being.

it’s where there is no requirement for change, for already you are whole, and where need itself is looked upon with equanimity, and even calming is calm beyond calm.

it is when being is simply seeing what is being, and when warmth is all there is or could ever be.

Connection

How would our world be different

If when need arose

We’d but call upon God

To ask for what our hearts required?

How would we change

If this was more

Than fanciful belief

Or a hope derived from pain.

What certitude

Would such a connection make,

Our needs satisfied

Way before they became malignant?

Who would we be

With love’s channel open,

The answers flowing out

As if from an infinite spring?

The Settling Dusk

In the slowing moments

Of the settling day

Where stillness nears its absolute,

The honeysuckle dusk

Blooms in windlessness,

Prickling the senses

Of moths.

This is dying:

The day spent,

The light away

Beyond the curvature of the world,

The night

Not yet begun.

There are sounds:

Birds chuckling in the canopies,

The swishing of cars,

A throttling motorbike,

But all belong

In the settling,

All are borne upon the air,

All are called

By the magnitude

To witness,

To witness a death

More alive than words

Could ever carry or convey.

A Traveller’s Sweet Moment

All the various people toing and froing with bags pause as heads tilt to orange lights capitalising arrivals, departures, long lists of destinations, or mill about waiting to board.

A deisel thrums, fuming up the place, and a tannoy mumbles. The sun shines, diffused through skylights stained with pigeon droppings.

And in this intersecting place which is no real destination, I find happiness in the happening of reality unfolding, suddenly miraculous as if the being in me, my heart, had melted like butter in the dish next to the half eaten croissant disintegrating on a plate.

And as the guard blows a whistle my insides break from something solid to a free flowing fluid made of nothing but lightness and space and the joy of dying, where all paradoxes balloon inside until my skin seems a transitory coating, a boarder and yet an open door, a bubble’s width transparency, in which, and through the world I momentarily glide.

Happiness

The heart that is no heart,

Broken yet whole,

Fluid in the nothing,

Being in the free,

Disintegrated beyond particle

And solitude,

Blended and indistinct,

Dying and alive,

Timelessly destroyed,

Obliterated,

Overwhelmed

And pounded from existence

Into existence’s open arms,

Until nameless,

Until faceless,

Until placeless.