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.

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.

Borders or Being

In our thoughts

There are borders,

Endless frictions

And contrary points of view

Fermenting grievances

And ideological wars:

All sides stubbornly gripping

Their high-minded-rightness,

Where ideals are more important

Than the tender heart’s

Love-laced and conciliatory say.

While in the heart’s being

There is only oneness.

Identity Trap

You sit there

In your skin of ideas:

What you’ve learnt,

What you’ve imbibed,

Parroting out

Your culture

Just as I am spewing mine.

And in all this soup of thoughts,

A million-hand reused,

We take our arbitrary stand

Against each other’s placards,

Clinging upon the cliff edge of identity,

Fingers bloodless

In the fear of where we might fall.

But if we were loose in our thoughts,

Seeing them as harmless

Products of an endlessly spitting machine,

And not really ours at all,

Might we see

That the apparent void

Into which we might fall

Is no void to be feared

But an endless source of spaciousness.

Wealth

It’s a feeling,

Warm as a scent-laden breeze,

The succulent breath

Of a fertile night

Rich with possibility.

It speaks, and says,

“the universe is infinite,

And you,

One with it,

Part of it,

Every molecule bathed,

Are infinite too.

Drink of me,

Be drunk in me,

Wealth is love

Bubbling as creation’s

Spring;

Only through you

What is seen

Is seen.

Join the feeling

As the bee joins

Summers fecundity,

As beings all

Rise aloft

Life’s indomitable spirit.

Wealth is yours,

Your essence,

Your birthright,

And the deeper truth

Of your reality.”

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.

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.

The Two Lookings Of Me

Always, and first-off, I reach for mind,

Spewing story forward

Or back in time.

Invariably Imaginative,

I dwell in the colourful imagery

Of that dull and flat land,

Wishing for more,

Ever, ever more.

Later, I speak the words: “I am”

And feel the colourful future

Withdraw from absent lands,

While the past retreats into me,

Coalesces where I be,

Ever and always myself.

And here, the colour is love

Where fictions are impotent

And the warm smile of being

Dissolves all but itself.

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.