Balladry, Poesy and Verses

Channel of II - I

The mind misses separateness, misses the feeling of being spoken to. Why in all states is there another. It’s like missing the echo of your own voice in a canyon after the canyon collapses into your throat. 

We are opened and shut, encased in pools of harmony, to taste the opulence of forever memories, we tremble in the world’s disharmony and chew on the bit that is caught and muddled. Umbilical chord, sewn in and unsewn, baste and cut from a web, that only existed to suspend the mind in its sullen whispers. Still the chord, still the chord, and with every step -  foot, mounts the earth to build a bridge. Still the chord, still the chord—

and let the silence teach - what the voice once gave: the knowing that you were never separate - That you are all stories - not the one, that you are source and river and waterfall. 

Still the chord // still the chord.

The voice that came from above. Now silent? It feels as if something is amiss, yet not. 

Voice gone. Only to become. Become. Become. Where the voice was two - now; one. No more little one. Minor mated with major, and again, mild and merger and mated again. 

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Background made with cardamom pods and beeswax +*+

Dwelling place 

Freedom spills in chasms, before naming— shapeful before shape, is named, spooling silence, in the hollows, behind your weightless, balmed and bathed breath, that sucks on ligaments of life’s lamentation - quest.

Born into thresholds, limbs clumsy with memories // But above, high vault, bare, lidless, never paused or waiting.

Human once stared at its own shadow for three days. When it rose, it whispered,

“Forgiven”, and in an un-Muddled trance, 

 walked into sky, as if sky had known it first. Homed it pre-mortally, and birthed it from its unburdened secrecy. 

Sky, leaks through all locked things.

serenade’s eye before crying, 

And crawls down its cheeks, with elated creeping, as if tears were always timeless, always ether, always cradled by, time’s unmoving and supple linger. 

I once saw a being 

peel its breath like milk skin, skimmed.

saw its eye trace its whisper into the forgotten. 

  • In awe, we breathe into the world. In wonder we dissipate into life’s wake and amble. Let life’s porous, offerings, leak into our mind openings, and display its philtre of wakefulness, its bright, cherishing spirit and cordial of our own making. 

The last Fig 

An old man in the marketplace spoke:

“Freedom is when the price of fruit no longer offends you.”

He was selling nothing.

Only sitting, and chewing on a fig like it was the last figment of his imagination. 

Fruit cake  - Sicko, maniac, nutjob

Having just spoken to the shadow’s self- interest, is it Selfish? to interact with it’s darkness. 

I’m conscious of the guilty. Of the tea-leaf, who steals truth from new-fangled scars, treats

 wounds with vinegar - child killer - in which thieves shudder and the insane have a hunger for

snow – anti-matter, melanosis Is Mesmerised by facades pathology, led the blind, blindedly.

We walked mindlessly through the collective shadow, of silence, breathing death, into lungs

 plunging boulders into boiling water - and basked in. We sunk, soothed like a feather

tickling the armpits of expectation. I’ve been puzzled, by puzzling people, that swarm shadow- 

like draped in projection. I’ve tried to undress them, re-learn their arrangements, decipher

their design constructed by intention, and unpick their tight skin with my knife –

engraved in silence.

 

RE-arranged 

I’m conscious of the guilty.

Of the tealeaf, who steals truth from new-fangled scars,

 treats wounds with vinegar - child killer - in which thieves’ shudder,

the insane have a hunger for snow’s anti-matter, and the safe have an appetite for pleasure.

Melanosis warps death’s lungs, plunges boulders into boiling water - and basked in.

We soothed like a feather, tickling the armpits of expectation.

I’ve been puzzled, by puzzling people that swarm and dazzle mating with shadows - I’ve tried to undress them, arrange them, unpick their tight skins with my knife’s –

sins engraved in silence.

-   But all our knees kick up when you directly hit the soft bit.

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The eye

Flickered opening, raw pupil hush

Swelled shimmer, misted witness

gleamed passage, dazed iris tunneling upwards—

whisper-spun

lightly-lashed grace, glazed spiral hush, calm flicker crown, then circling softer afterglow. 

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YAHWEH 

Your belief is not essential to its existence, nor is your doubt - Yahweh // You carry Yahweh in the silence between your thoughts. In your waking as you wake, and in your sleeping as you sleep.  // Belief is tangled tethering. Belief is a tangled tethering. // Binds the soul, binds self to questioning.  To know Yahweh is to cut ties with past. To let the wrinkled palms fall open into emptiness, into freedom. Unshackled from mental cuffs of mind, constrained and ridden, that bind us into thinking, into knowing - nothing. 

Yahweh is not a wish. Or to be wished upon, but the air that breathes. Reverently, into the unseen river beneath each un-founded faculty. It flows silently, when noise of self is stilled. In the stillness, the stillness of entirety. In moments of disappearance, when eyes dissolve like mist at dawn, born and married to the queer and unqueer, then appears Yahweh. Not vision or voice of sound, but simmering in indigo’s invisibility, crowns of silence’s beckoning and a quaint ballroom dancer’s chivalry. Belief is a shadow cast by ego's infancy. Belief is a child's trembling at life's insurmountability. To know Yahweh is to know no name, no word. Only the air that lies in waiting, beneath and above. When all else fades, when all else is forged and cast by masks that bend broken wrists and shackle ankles to floors - 

Not to believe, not to believe, not to believe, just as prayer lays wasted in the future. And hope smothers tied tongues. Hope is a smothering of tied tongues. It is to be known. It is to know. To know. without scrutinising the fabric of the other. Without succumbing to the dual, of two. Of two. Succumb instead to the heart that opens like poppy, like morning glory unfolding its purple vessels, for us to smell. For us to smell its unborn story.

I AM 

There was a time, 

When life lay 

In the veins of its wrists

And in the bricks of red rocks that stack beneath mountain - 

But - 

 right now I just dwell in the imagination 

A mimick of all that have come before 

  • Puppet 

I am what came before 

Because everything I saw I became 

And everything that I see, I am 

  • I am 

Now I sit in the echo of gestures,

movements: a sentence purloined- rehearsed through pedalled blood—

an inheritance of eyes and posture,

even silence borrowed from older silences.

 to know the self as pattern,

To feel breath follow script

written in the hunger of those still walking - still walking, still - before.  

But in this knowing, there is circuiting permission: to be echo, origin. To be. 

I am. 

Tat Tvam asi - I am THAT.