ShivAllahSita sutra 57

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After deciding not to indulge in some meandering thoughts, everything

became extremely silent. Spontaneously I wondered what the silence

had to say (if anything) and before I knew it I was in the midst of a

vision. I was watching Kheyala kneel beside her sleeping Jim and there

was a white light permeating them. I saw her reach into his chest and

cradle his heart with her two hands. Then I watched as she kissed the

heart tenderly, touching her cheek to it and weeping, and her tears

were running down onto it from her eyes.

~Kheyala

 

Now that you're gone, no longer living

I miss the moments I spent with you,

gluing and glittering, adding beauty

to whatever we happened upon

for no secondary reason,

simply for our love of color's birth.

I know that you'd be glad to see

that each and every kiss does count

and that all love flows on and on.

For I continue to pass this love

we shared, right out of me

into the rivers of those I meet,

and they then mix it with what they've got

and send it back on out

into the Heart Sea on boats of smiles.

~Hilary Collins

 

deep in the forest

of tall trees.

Black stream flowing

through a crystal world

slowly freezing in its own grip.

~Alan Larus

 

"Well sure," said life, "At times I may be harsh, brutal, and demanding,

but -- Hey! --

I make up for it by letting you be just as self-centered, slow witted,

and distracted as you want to be."

~~~

just listen

 

can a tree speak?

just listen.

can a road write a single word?

or a cloud feel mercy for the parched earth?

the poet

is the tree

and anything else he wants,

not in spirit,

not in metaphor,

but in reality, in unity, in a holy communion

of chant and air and eyes and word and mind.

don't listen to the psalms,

listen to the trees and clouds and air and eyes and...

~Ken Phelan

 

:-)A Sign Along the Roadconsider,that what one calls 'other'is really

a blind spot of oneself.and that foolishness can aboundfrom one's

exclusion of that otheras if one could remove one's own heart.careful

of blind spots,pests breed in pools of ignoranceas controlling leashes

one who controls.~Tykal

 

It wants to write its own poem,

to be the creator,

and the created,

my heart.

It wants to pluck a quill from the pheasant,

or the swan,

or the eagle,

to dip the tip gently,

softly into our blood,

and to gracefully inscribe its own tales

deep within it's many chambers,

right there on the walls

like so much cave art.

The beautiful drawings it would paint

there inside

amidst the unceasing whooshing,

undeterred by a throbbing pulse.

The heart inscribes its own poems

right there on its walls

inside the chambers

and waits

with

silence,

pulsing,

for the archaeologists to come.

~Barbara Gilmore

 

Energy and Strength,

Like a Lion at Nightfall.

Fling open the Gate.

~KnowMystery

 

My knees will not take the weightso I cannot kneel before my idolsthe

way I should, or feel that I should.I sit in submission instead,

orlie prostrate looking up to the ceiling for God,knowing the divine

is present in the smallest things,the machine stitching of my

pillowcase,the mysterious foreign woman who inspected and folded my

cheap linens while a mysterious foreign manwaited at the end of the

assembly line for the next linen clone shining in sealed plastic to

fill his empty box,mine indistinguishable to the naked eye, but

uniquejust the same.And I pray for every stitch in their families and

mine,for our anonymous efforts toward a livable world,for their

children who wait at home for a swatch of attentionfrom tired

parents,for the children of earth who wait for a sign from Heaven,The

presence of Godthat waits to be discovered, quietly ejectingfrom the

most insignificant scraps of nature's efforts,a porter to the

infinite spectacle of stitchingthat holds together God's creation,so

that sitting or standing we are at the altar,always at the Gates of

Heavenwhere our souls kneel intoxicated with the God of it.~Lisa

Adele

 

Today I awoke, finally I see the Self has re-turned to the Self.The

Self is none other than the Self.I am deathless. I am endless. I am

free.The birds outside sing ..The birds outside sing and there am

I.The seeing of leaves on the trees, that seeing am I.The body

breathes, breathing am I.I am awake and I know that I am awake.Seen

from the old eyes, everything is asleep, a game, a delusion.But now I

am awake. I am the play. I am the game. I am the delusion.I am the

enlightenment I sought, looking everywhere.Nothing is separate,

nothing is alone.I am all that I see. All that I smell, taste, touch,

feel, think and know.I am awake and this awakeness is the same as

Shyakyamuni Buddha's.Today the leaf has returned to the root.I am all

name and form and beyond all name and form.I am Spirit, no longer

trapped in a body.I am free. I am free because I am awake.So

ordinary. Who would have thought ? Who could have guessed?I am home.

I am really home. Ten thousand life times.Ten thousand life times but

today I am home.Ten thousand life times but today I am home.This is

not an experience. This is me.I am awake. Finally, I am awake.Nothing

has changed, but I am awake.Before I tasted the root many times and

felt, how delicious.Today I became the root. How ordinary.

~Adyashanti

 

Suspended between night and dawn,

bittersweet loneliness washes over me

in this quivering moment --

there seems a kind of vulnerability

inherent in this human form --

the womb of art and soul.

I've heard tell there's a mysterious

crack between the two worlds.

In the soft gray misty drizzle

not a breeze stirs and yet,

as I look out from my cave,

spirit steps through that crack,

shifting into another realm.

Perhaps it has been this realm all along, yet I –

still hypnotized by subtle beliefs –

have been too blind to see.

Impossibly, the many trees before me

begin to weave and sway in a sort of

orchestrated standing dance –

all in syncopated directions,

perfectly coordinated in a

movement that is wild,

ecstatic,

free!

They are alive as consciousness itself,

and they are within me, laughing

in this recognition of our

undivided being.

Awakening birdsong joins this

crazy chorus of life loving life,

I am broken into weeping joy,

there is only an immense Being

bursting with unbearable Happiness,

and the earth is rolling in sure, steady bliss,

and the soft rain now is nothing but nectar,

sublime moisture of sweet lovely life,

source and motion of every river spilling

carelessly through the landscape of my being,

irrigating the dryness of my despair with

the nourishment of remembrance,

remembrance of the source of

all rivers, and I am

an enormous aviary embracing

all the varied birdlife within,

all the lovely birdsong, the trees, the

world, all worlds, all beautiful breathing beings,

only a thin perforated mesh of boundary arcing

nearly transparent between what sings within

and the enormity of song extending in all directions

beyond this fragile love-sifted shell of heart,

garlanded with the watery wreath of

its own mystery.

~b

 

LoveEternal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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