stars call out

[Guest guest]

Filament-thin

and tenuous has been my grasp,

a gift of God as, "this is recent,"

on the day to day reality

of living in this world.

 

The heavens open up

and light spirals and sputters,

spending itself out

inside where I've climbed.

 

Like a web

that has no center and no farthest edge,

i circle myself nightly

and I see mind like a tiny spider

stretching and vibrating

in conundrum

of cause and effect.

 

What looks,

studies language to see who others are,

to see the effect on those

circling all around us?

 

I race affectionately to friends

when Love detects my hiding place

and calls me forth

to the `scape of fragrance

of solar flares garble

and black bears warble.

 

Star sounds call,

in fall from inside black holes.

Nobody knows what they're saying.

Lovers' sighing can say nothing more

and nothing less genuine

than that authenticity of dying stars speaking

in matter moving in illusion.

 

It really doesn't matter.

 

Sometimes we surrender to scent and song offered dialogically.

Sometimes God saunters in,

inside you and I, heart-spiders

waiting for God

in the nebulosity of netted jewels,

in the web of beautiful lies we tell ourselves

in the brazen breach of day's bold bravery.

Late at night though, we 'fess up in the zaz of zen

and the good friend wakes inside our head.

 

We, the OneLight, learn to adjust brightness with Mind.

 

There was a time when i was eight years old

that time and space lost their ordinary face

and i beheld the night-sky bursting open

with a brilliant display of light

undulating in star-sensuality,

prism-blooming as the play -

Rainbow Bridge of Life and Death, saying:

 

"I Am."

 

Am I spinning this web from dream-stuff,

sparkling in spirit-stories

that clothe these bones with the past?

Past all help

and hopelessly loving b,

I've begun to understand

what being spun-out on Love is.

 

It's being burgled and bitch-slapped by life-light;

bamboozled by every bargain-basement belief

before it's lost in the opening eye of I Am.

 

Slender thin and tenuously told,

this story of love and life's little rope tricks,

it's not what it appears,

to me or to you,

or even to God.

 

This Soul-sod carries the spirit-seed of existence

in the single blade of grass I'm chewing on.

 

 

Love,

 

Mazie