not the tired but restless soul earns no rest. wavering and wandering uncertain pondering searching to express. for what is the grub that departs its hub but a dragonfly at its best.
souls nature deplores confined – not extraneous tethers and iron fetters but the trembling state of mind. seedlings travers the night dispatching sapling to the light redeeming destiny from time.
opulence nor pleasure is sublime or bliss, neither can satisfy natures wish to reveal her latent treasure. to dive the souls abyss resurface with gold in fist is man’s meaning and measure.
The superior man lives in harmony with conscience. He suffers no schism of thought, his actions are firmly fixed to his aim in public and private. He moves without hesitation looking situation in the eye without concern. The whole of life is contained in self. The external world can never be right until the self is in order, for all that we see is a mere reflection. The arrangement of thought is no different than the arrangement of atoms. That is, the product produced reflect the substance arrangement. Wisdom is acquired by default in the self disciplined life and the true self dwells in repetition.
when i rise before i wake, i surmise which path to take.
one of touch the other i feel, to release my clutch and grasp what’s real.
a life on earth i use to seek, was one of mirth among the weak.
in umbrage i dwelled eclipsed by fear, a living hell but now I am, clear.
subjectively frail without resolve, tossed by the gales forced to evolve.
In their purified form all region, like music, is man’s inadequate attempt to express his very own nature from a particular cultural perspective. Every character is a chord vibrating within the unified field, projecting and contracting in search of harmony. We are the sinner and the savior. The roles change, the characters vary and the interpretations differ according to culture, perhaps even geography — but the least common denominator is always common. Man is both creator and creation.
Shh – hush now, the time has come! draw the shades, still the mind, calmly now, sheath the blade — all is fine.
embrace the embers beneath the flame, return the chared to ash again.
the dew has risen and settled
upon all that was won – never to win. it’s finally done, never to end.
the mammoth remembers the long road home, in solitude he journeys but never alone. summers canopy must release its hold in exchange for life amid the cold
Shh – hush now, the time has come, a gentle smile emerged to one.
The nature of the warrior follows the path of nature. Ever striving for balance within self, that he may impart peace to others. Storming the gates in the war of men. Slaughtering and slaying the enemy within, restoring peace and unity among his brothers. He sees no opponent, no opposition, no other. He seeks not conflict nor does he fear it. His mission is clear, he understands the path to peace can not be restrained and harmony is the dance of odds.
love was premature — golden brown, eyes round with curly hair.
innocent, precious and vulnerable,
splendid!
idolized me and I adored, we loved each other.
experience untold, troubles come as life unfold.
allegiance i swore
no harm come to thee, sometimes i wonder harm came from me.
uncertainty and doubt pain and fear, pretense that hide things you hold dear.
i watch you struggle with affairs of men, dismantles my heart time and again.
forgive me son— my first love,
adore you now as did then, bold and beautiful man, among men.
Uncovering the subtle and sometimes awkward cause of tension that can often exist within child, parent relation, can be an amelioration, hinging on the subjective process of perception.
beneath a thought within my sight under a touch are things untaught.
i trace a sound to where its found absent time.
nothing lost nothing gained nothing’s all that remain
nothing is now nothing was then nothing’s all i can ever win.
all i sought was for naught no matter how i strained in the void i destroyed all i contained.
The writer, the poet, the ponderer, scour the ether through cycles of time and arrive at nothing – a wonder so wonderful wrong words are written in wisdom searching for reason. He who finds nothing to write about is commonly no different than he who has nothing to say. Banning intellect and sloth, the reason may suggest perception, at least, within the subconscious — of a more unified implicate order within perceived arrangement. If you’ve written about anything, you’ve riddled everything. The default phenomena of reality is the institution of all reality and leaves nothing to craft. Language’s inadequacy to express feeling is barely sufficient to untangle pain and joy, its application to anything beyond that, reduce or amplify us to sound and symbol – and unless you’re performing on someone’s stage, making high pitch sounds and clicks, could have you evaluated for a padded cell. So, you just learn to keep your mouth closed. If life is experience, maybe it wasn’t meant to have so many vowels and consonants, I mean hell, listen to a tree. What kind of experience is she having? Monks and Hermits figured this out a thousand years ago. Existence may be the greatest recipe for life, how do you pen that? Language, like everything else, is no less a toy than it is a tool. Sometimes smart people try to separate them to make themselves feel better about playing with toys but simple folk know it’s all the same. So they just keep quiet and try to have fun with life. Separation is the paradox of pain and pleasure.
The farther we drift from tonal language the less chance we may have of capturing the meaning of anything with sound. Language condensed to a form of expression is much broader and simpler than our daily use of it, just sit amongst the birds at dawn or dusk; each responds to it own, amidst the indistinguishable tones. what sound does vibration make, and with what does it resonate? Ahh and ouch is the feeling expressing itself, rather than the descriptive joyful and painful. This is the gift and bliss of sound, when it becomes the recipient of emotion and feeling; but what’s beyond that? Language like knowledge is restricted in all of its outward manifestations. Conceptual thought is independent of both sound and symbol.
Twenty-five years ago I would frequently play the sound bowls through out my home. Language has no symbol to accurately translate the reverberated tones I heard, or the impulse it sometimes prompted. Its meaning is frozen in interpretation. Which returns us to silence, or at least simplicity. Om may be the closest symbol we’ll ever see represent a sound, or sound represent nothing, yet it contains all. It seems sound baths have resurfaced as a means of reconnecting back to something more primal and expansive than words, something nothing can define, no sound, no symbol – Nothing, is the one thing I’ve been trying to understand. After this reading, some may feel I’ve succeeded (lol).
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