Garland Crown of Flowers

the girl-child's little legs carried her back and forth
her hands full she ran rampant flowers to the garden table

"What will you make for me?" cried she

"A garland for a crown"
said I



they were daisy-like
a brilliant yellow aura around the blood red core

I plaited long stems into a flower spangled crown
and set it upon her head

the gold of her hair shone in the summer sun
and the brightest flower of all
was she
in her garland crown of flowers

she struck a pose and she cried out
"I'm Beautiful!"






and I was struck through the heart

I saw the garland crown of hours plaited for me
by you
in the moments of our life together

and I found my self whispering her words

I'm beautiful





.

The Only Sound

the cool dark of the forest
was shelter from the blazing moon

and fire flies punctuated the darkly seen



crunching foot falls



the only sound

Hearing as Seeing, the Noise of Being

In the market today I couldn't avoid the sense that I was hearing the being of those around me. Just as each creature in its movements makes a sound, each creature in its existence is a noise in the silence of non-being. Civilization en-mass is rather like the roar of the 17 year locusts, and the sound of a given individual is the noise of its hopes and dreams, its disappointments, its weight of archetype, and the cacophony of its individuality.

We could be perceived as singing our selves into being. And though we are taught to sing certain songs, the song of our individuality can always be heard through the chorus by those who know how to listen. Most individuals are a source of random noise; the modern jazz of being I suppose. One finds greater and lesser degrees of harmony, but a being that strikes an awakened chord of being is a rare find.

Until we have met the silence that is the substrate of our existence we will never hear the sound that is the fact of our presence. All that exists is noise. Music is the product of integration. To hear the music of the spheres is to know ones self.

Slice and Dice a Bucket Full of Stress

The slice and dice guru guys crack me up. Last night on the TV the guy says that no one can bring him a bucket of stress. Well now. He says that there are only stressful ideas. Well I don't live in my head the way that he does, and I guarantee that if he would like a bucket full of stress, I can deliver.

The salesmen of self-hypnosis make a darn'd good living. The sick part is that they teach posture as being.

We are what we are. Perhaps we should start from there: discover ourselves before we launch off into some exercise of self improvement.

The Monkey Factor

There are all kinds of dogs. There are all kinds of cats. There are all kinds of birds and all kind of bees. There are all kinds of monkeys. As animals go we are apes. And the only thing that will make us happy is the life that makes the ape that we are happy.

Perhaps we are unique in the animal world in that some of us are capable of a radical awareness that transcends the chipmunk-like unreflective consciousness we recognise as life even in paramecium. We are hypnotized by form, and fail to recognize in ourselves the endless awareness which is all manner of existences.

Would we castigate a Water Buffalo for not recognising the fact of its existence? No. Humanity has all ready specieated. If you have ever been in front of a dot matrix color-blindness test you will be in a position to recognise that you either see the dots or you don't. You can not connect dots that are invisible to you. We are animals. And we are as different amongst ourselves as wolves are to sheep.

People really are as confused as they appear to be. And if the universe should wake up in the space that you occupy my condolences. Its not much fun to be a wake-up monkey right now. Unless you content yourself with the monkey life.

The Fire Monkey

We are the fire monkeys

The smartest of them all

Noses itch same way ours do

They reach up and scratch-it: just like we do

We are the fire monkeys

No more

No less

Lest the substrate of our existence wake up in the space we occupy.

Befriending Shadows

We are conditioned from childhood to be critical of our thoughts and our actions. This manipulation of the instinctual need for tribal approval is probably effective enough left unaggravated. Much unnecessary suffering is caused when instictual habitual assessments are made with a view that is hostile to vagaries that are inherently human.

We do not expect our friends to be infallible. We tend to see our friends more or less as they are, and accept with good-will the idiosyncrasies that are the marks of individuality. We extend good-will when they trip on the stones of their humanity, and comfort when error has led them to sorrow. We will not jeopardise friendship by harping on some small flaw. Friends extend counsel in the face of error, and in the face of error give support such as can though the friend may have been foolish or unwise. If you have no friends who will tell you when you are fucking up, you don't have any friends at all; but this is a far cry from a beating over the head for every failure to operate in optimum mode.

Many actions for which we berate ourselves express a need to jump fences we have made in ourselves. Fervor that religious sects exhibit is due to fear that without ridged behavioral guidelines humanity would reduce to chaos. This is not so. The will to good is instinctual, and the natural aversion to disorder does not require pathological proportions. Self destructive behaviors: emotional, intellectual, physical, are almost always unconsidered attempts to jump fences that we have set up in ourselves with the generous help of others.

We cannot be set free by chaining ourselves to a self image, and unless we befriend ourselves we can never afford to see ourselves as we are. We run from our shadow because we have not embraced our shadow.

Shadows

the setting sun has put the sky ablaze

trees loom black

shadows reach long

there are shadows without

there are shadows within

vacancies in luminance

when perceived

appear as creatures of a nether light

Dream Good Things

the me that looks out
drinking up the sunlight exploding from every leaf

the me that so delights in symphony of breeze and limb


the me that loves the new burgeoned closing green
closing off all avenues of vision but for its self
the tambourine of spring rain
the bandstand of the chorus frog

this me
is the only Me that is

and when not hypnotized by self
I am all creatures
and everywhere I hear the hum of Me
awakened from the silence of dumb matter

all creatures sing Me
our song is the Divine chord of Me existing



if the sleep of self hood is our fate

let us dream good things

Enlightenment Imagined

When the imagination passively flows into and saturates what we find in ourselves as "reality" the fabric of the real begins to glow with awareness. This is called enlightenment. When imagination amends "reality" with an application of its projections it is called "normal". It is not necessary or even particularly desirable to separate the dye and the stain of our person hood from the fabric of pure being. And though it is not necessary or normal, it is most certainly desirable that the fabric of being be soaked with the Awareness that is substrate of our person hood.

Origami

in all creatures the universe has folded itself as in a faceted white-paper swan

is it ours through discipline and discipleship to fold ourselves tighter

ever tighter

to heat and press upon ourselves 'till we become a diamond lucid and alone

refracting recieved colors into colors of experience

or should we through self knowledge

in perfect freedom unfold ourselves

and once again become the universe