voice that is not my own drones in duo-tones

[Guest guest]

This voice, stalled, stilled

in some myth of seeking safety

startles then halts

in the sound and motion

of me holding back,

of me looking back in the past

and believing that anything that's happened

could have been done differently.

 

Regret never grew wisdom-roses scented

in the song of rapturous refrain.

We gain nothing in the running monologes

And ruminations of could'a, should'a, would'a.

 

This head that holds onto itself

with hands pressed like prayer-cranes,

with palms feathered open

like young herons as Mystery-wing in flight,

in origami offering, flickering

like moon-moths against a dark sky-face

wet with tears for the Love of others,

for brothers and sisters and lovers

whom i shall never see again,

never speak dearly with again,

never hold close enough again

to feel the Friend Breathing

Bright inside our Heart.

 

When we depart from the Art of Being,

of being who we are As We Are,

we seem to fling all the reality runes

we laughingly ran with to the Sea

into the vasana streams

that feed our sense of security

and into the rivers that roar

and rumble with the tumble of tamas,

of tendencies and traits we traipse around in,

straight-away flailing into the Yaw of Yahweh and Yama

yakking it up about how They're going to rip-tide

us into realizing that we are never less

than

OneOceanBeing

DreamBeing everyone

everywhere

everything

forever

eternally

existing as Love

lifting

and falling

rising

and calling

in the sound

of the stalled, still voice

recovering from self-affliction

and the addiction to outcomes

and hoped-for situations.

 

In discovering that the Sound of Silence

is sung in the sutras stitched

and strewn with the tune that is particular

to this being called, teehee, me, Mazie,

It made a motionless mudra-mouth utterance

that Love will triple-take us to the river of LightLiquidLife

and Diamond-Sutra deliver the bill to the doer of the Do, errr,

You, Yes, You of No Name and No Face,

and Yes, You

Are

That

Which

Dream-bo Boos this creation with colorful shouts of "Ghosts!"

and Mirthful founts of being trounced by the Bounty of Bodhi

and nobody and no one never did anything to anyone.

 

I hum to the Tao,

I concur with the Dharma,

I dip with Balarama in Bhava,

I arc in the original aha of Advaita,

I paint persona-gonna portraits

in Abraham and Muhammed's Awe.

 

Ahhhh me,

what I see

cannot be me,

for what thinks that what it sees is the thing it be's

is the story breaking,

and what Sees

is the groundbreaking news...

 

FirstEditionDharma

done and done in the non-dual dip

and the lawn is green

and the green is gone

and the gone is

not

and yes,

everything is not what it appears to be.

 

Boo! Beautiful Persona Ghosts are glints of hints

given to the idea that reacting from the memories of the past

and hoping to parlay prana into Jnana in the future

are just like trading in the marketplace in pork-barrel futures

and bears and bulls are just that –

 

naf n'er do wells wanting to whipstitch like a mamba

making moves to groove his teeth into our super-imposed hides

and continue the dream serpent striking

and someone getting bit drama

of beliving that we are the doer

or the done unto one.

 

D'Oh!

 

Who could'a known?

 

 

LoveAlways,

 

Mazie