imaginary scripts in mind conjured ~
of them how many have with love concurred
in defending bastions which are but smoke
we play the game inane of make belief
sacrificial fires continue to stoke
to examine the depths of human grief
presence remains still endlessly waiting
as polarities orbit tranquil heart
compassion quells desires unabating
readying consciousness for a fresh start
limited by space and taunted by time
an illusion which we have so conjured
where freedom lies in creating a rhyme
pulsations of love in heart go unheard
no narrow agendas are now tabled ~
veil thinned, bilocation is enabled
The internet is down so I decide to go “old school”
I have conjured up a notebook and a black pen
Come on, I encourage myself, you used to do this all the time
My fingers are itching to type
We have typed every poem for the past seven years
You can do it! I reassure them
The right hand picks up the pen
What do I do? My left hand queries in a sad way
You get to hold the notebook down, I reply
Tried to sound reassuring and enthusiastic
We both know it’s a mundane creepy job
words 99
face was dissatisfied with her life
she spoke to head about their strife
he wanted something different too
I want to be witty, do not you?
She did not care about being witty
but she wanted to move to a city
They decided in a dream one day
To move to New York far away
I want to be an apartment house she said
“I agree!” instantly said the rest of her head
They detached from their body
And set off on a jet on the dot-ee
They conjured up a base and planted roots
Became an apartment housing for violins and flutes
People tried to move in too
But face and head said “shoo, shoo shoo!”
Nervously I wonder if
I’m better than what’s passed–
Surely thou must think so now,
At least while thou shalt last.
And though my standards be quite high,
(Considering my art not vast),
The tests I’ve conjured–fast and strict–
Save but one–you’ve passed.
With strangers whom thou mingled be,
Doth thou reminisce?
And when thou art holding me,
Yet are they still missed?
Couldst thou be a honey bee,
Which passes with one sting,
Or rather likened shouldst thou be
To resilient wasps on wing?
And even if thou be’st that wasp,
As kindly as thou seem,
Thou sting’st as a naughty knave,
And made those two girls scream.
Passed around you sadly seem
To this girl who’s firm and chaste;
But if thou can prove’st to me
You’re wiser now–steadfast–
I’d look past your transgressions
And look not to the past.
we notice the fan’s noise
though it’s in the background
it intrudes on silence
signalling we are bound
worried about the health
of a near and dear one
the halo of darkness
opaques light of the sun
the dance of delusion
conjured by body-mind
is viewed in good humour
by soul divine aligned
If we be empty,
nothing should be taboo,
whence poised in stillness,
bliss magnetism we woo.
The inner sound current
hums in the background,
being the veil though which
the noumena is found.
The void of no-thingness
or life here manifest,
coordinate any,
our presence is at rest.
Bliss mirrors our heartbeat,
shape shifting as peace,
when our eye is single
and thought forms we release.
Sages of old caution,
save by bilocation,
we would always fall short
of true liberation.
Omnipresence is still,
having nowhere to go,
yet feels each sensation
of every heart’s glow.
Lost in dream worlds conjured,
though there are no chains,
cessation enables
cleansing of heart’s stains.
We are the magician,
who has caged light innate
and now on earth strive,
to walk through heaven’s gate.
A product of regret and shame,
Traveling on broken paths, stained by sin.
Spreading sickness with each conjured flame.
Crimson dust, cobalt cosmic skies,
The endless black prolongs the harvest.
What is a shadow lord without his endless darkness?
Has thou not earned haunting spirits?
Malicious intent lurking over thy shoulders,
Cloaked in a facade, the decaying heart lies.
Not even in slumber will you know peace.
Such power is wasted.
Rituals to fuel this poison,
Undead militia, this pitiful bone brigade.
No matter how many gather together—
Worms are still worms.
Must this always end in violence?
There is nothing left.
Summon your perfect solution.
Alone in darkness, yet you crave a kingdom.
What do you have to say?
Tell me in worm words.
For the contrived inducement
of the fixated being,
an aligned identity personified,
changes in self-devised palette
of metamorphosed color mélange,
while the conjured chameleon,
slyly cocooned,
paints surreptitiously
shape-shifted deception portrait.
In ostensible enactment
of life’s incredible drama,
performance perfected in one-act play
with obsessed passion parodied,
gilds the corollary crafted by alchemy,
an axiomatic designed drive
induces the wily shift
from one actor to another.
Out of the limelight,
the covert colors fade
on virtually made-up visage,
the pallid original face
morphs mystically into
veracity mirror of actuality,
reflects the real identity depiction,
painted in primal persona hues
of distinctive disposition,
epitomized once.
The spasm of pragmatic perception
splits the mirror,
shards of shattered pretence
willfully abandoned as discarded debris.
Transformation creates the eluding entity,
an alien in its own reinvented realm,
completes the illusory pattern,
designed by the paradigm of contrast.
Is this feeling an illusion,
something my mind conjured up
in its confusion,
because
I've longed for so long
to feel love's inclusion
in my life.
Have I developed
a sweet melody with
the strings of my heart
and mistakenly called it 'love'?
For so long,
I've longed to know
an undying love,
a comforting love,
an overpowering love
to live in the very depths
of my soul.
I wonder had my desperation
overtaken what's left of my sanity?
Is this feeling an illusion,
something my mind conjured up
in its confusion,
because my heart
has been longing for the fusion
of harmony and serenity?
I've waited for an eternity
to find someone to love.
But in my desperation
have I created an illusion,
an unreality,
a vision that only exists
in my mind,
and I call it 'love'?
To share an unconditional love,
an imperfect,
yet perfect love for me
is all I ever wanted.
But has my exasperation
overtaken
what's left of my sanity,
and now I'll settle for anything,
even if it's an illusion?
.
“there is nothing dividing, nothing to be divided. I have nothing to know with and nothing to be known. How shall I then speak of coming and going, my child? I am free from disease—my form has been extinguished.”
God is one indivisible being,
resplendent in His light, outside space-time,
wherefrom dreams conjured instantly seeing
journey of souls in their heavenward climb.
All being one, there’s nothing to be done,
since the flame of love shines in every heart,
mirroring lustre of the central sun,
breath by breath sensing bliss ignition start.
The truth always is the eternal now,
the stillness point around which worlds rotate,
as love does anoint all souls that allow,
ego dissolution when heart is chaste.
Oh hermit, have the cake and eat it too,
delighting as bliss beats within renew.
Lure of mirage
on deranged dunes,
dances in
dandelion rhythm
in the oasis of fantasy.
Illusion inscribed
in love-laced entranced eyes
see invented beauty
in shape-shifted ugly face.
Capricious color spectrum
through mesmerizing prism
transiently contours
pretty profile
in radiant reverie.
On contrived canvas,
carapace conjured
for contorted hideous face,
turns in a trance
into baroque fresco.
Flicker of beauty
sparkles sly
in conceived smile…
beholder, the dreamer.
In playfulness, we created a dream,
within which just as an actor on stage,
to feel fully each ripple in our heart,
we chose to enter deep ambedo trance,
whence having forgotten our origin,
blown like a leaf in storms we had conjured,
we were compelled to inquire who we are,
in as that light which does not come and go,
not knowing that in truth there was nothing,
except wisps of smoke dancing in sunlight,
held in embrace by space, taunted by time,
being the womb in which desires are spawned,
which we saw clearly when thought mists lifted,
in the vast, vibrant void of cessation,
where poised at a singularity point,
recognising we were the magician,
knowing that there is nothing to be done,
we woke up in the dream as the dreamer,
employing power of bilocation,
deemed as a madman when we laughed at death.
What if dawn’s amethyst light is just a murmur,
a suggestion we agreed upon while sleeping?
The alarm clock’s persistence, the morning commute~
all figments, conjured by the mind
that forgot it was dreaming.
What if every touch is ephemeral,
watercolors on the canvas of our own choosing and making~
and the body, with its ego and burning desires,
merely a costume we wear
to dance atop the pulse of the unreal?
What if love is the only law in this realm~
gravity dissolves, skin translucent
like the space between stars,
and every wound we stitch ourselves
is just another thread in the tapestry
we wove just for the satisfaction
of unraveling and learning?
What if we wake, and none of this was ever solid?
What if that is the secret?
Within dreams conjured, we assume a role,
deeming ourself separate from the rest
but when eye turns inward towards the soul,
the world disappears in our heart’s bliss nest.
Resting as pure being, beyond space-time,
then knowing ego never existed,
all that that then remains is bliss beat’s chime,
not dream characters we had enlisted.
Knowing this truth, we may pause to reflect,
that abiding in silence as the way,
our formless presence, once by bliss mists flecked,
reveals higher truths since we cease to sway.
Shedding off concepts, one step at a time,
as the Self we have no peaks left to climb.
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