Thought is the cause of creation,
which in staid stillness disappears,
so in restful meditation,
banished are all desires and fears.
All that’s manifest is but thought,
preceded by our heart’s impulse
but if we be not in dreams caught,
all that remains is bliss beat’s pulse.
We’re living light, not body mind.
Truth of Self transcends time and space,
which we know not since desires bind,
anchoring us in life’s rat race.
Whence unshackled from our mind tree,
our soul is instantly set free.
pandemonium preceded Paula Paulson’s painstakingly prissily packed
packsack. Pathetic poetic Parnassian provided paramount particulars,
a peep and a peek into Paula Paulson’s persnickety personality.
Whispers of an enchanted deer wafted through the oaks and the lilies
The exquisite forest came alive with new fantastical creatures
Roses are always doubters, so they disagreed with their thorns
But most of the flowers were open to the rumor, eager to see the deer
A gentle breeze preceded the deer into the thicket of florals
The deer was lovely, with scrolls, and beautiful nearly pastel colors
I love her, the daisies said/
A testament to the truth; daisies love everything.
The deer looked around approvingly, she enjoyed new places.
This forest was exquisitely beautiful; she could be happy here.
A brown stag with fourteen points looked her over pronouncing her queen.
She shyly told him she expected to earn her place like the other creatures.
The weeds were thrilled; a deer with integrity; this was a welcome relief.
like the full moon
seeking fulfillment
there i hung
dangling in space—
half empty—half full…
gradually
the tell-tale linking
of the gibbous moment
of truth’s awareness
came in the still of night…
then i realized
fulfillment is preceded
by life’s crucifixion
fulfilling resurrection:
it’s the emptiness
of life’s cross
that brings fulfillment…
once again i ink crosses
of words and pray
they empty themselves
and become
ascensions to the minds
of blessed children
anointing them with sacred
guidance…
we poets must never be
cocooned in non-metamorphosis
imprisonment of abject silence…
rather we must be evolved
liberated poetic butterflies
soaring life’s skies
pollinating them with divine
shared words of peace and love
and divine wisdom and guidance:
we poets must indeed
be ascended saints
of god’s cistern
sharing cups and saucers
of his shared words
nourishing seeking souls
with awareness
confidence and encouraging
inspirational spiritualization:-
Neon days are preceded by thunder.
Neon days didn’t warn me about success,
neon days are built from the struggle;
Neon days do not show your sacrifice,
neon days attract flies to your light;
Neons days never simply appear,
neon days are the result of grit;
Neon days color heat lighting lime,
neon days hot pink crackles the night;
Neon days no one sees the hard road,
neon days you must fight through the fog;
Neon days attract lazy poachers,
neon days are rudely disrupted;
Neon days tend to show off hard work,
neon days posers want just a piece;
Neon days there are vultures that wait,
neon days you must tend your garden;
Neon days just the strong are standing,
neon days you must fight to keep them;
Thunder is preceded by neon days.
The very first rapper preceded
Ice-T by aeons and eons
Though his rap-a-tap-tap
never earned him lights in neon
Humbly plying his trade in forests far
from billionaire rapper stars
The woodpecker taps out his tune on trees
~ at times nearby, have a look-see
A whispered shhh hung in the air
Tall grass rustled nearby
A slight sniffy, snorty snout sound
Preceded the crinkly crunch of dry grass
Sweat slithered across my brow
A large head appeared
Violently shaking
Hanging jowls jousting
Saliva arcing aimlessly
A growl ruffling the air
We ran
Screams scurrying ahead
Saliva spewing demon behind
Fear fueled our flight
Her hand thinly slipping from mine
She fell
The demon approached
We heard her
Breathlessly shriek
“DAD
….CALL THE DOG”
A sly inflection shifts the paradigm.
Rambling renaissance men without a clue.
Notable declensions; mismanaged time.
Skewing the truth and balance of value.
When paying mind to another's success.
Visibly worn down; a willful chappie
climbs only for eternal convalesce.
One must imagine Sisyphus happy.
No masterpiece ever preceded thought.
Do with that as you like; chase destiny.
Some of what you want. Some of what you ought.
None of what you’re not. Soon the world will see.
Narrative’s control the pen and the page.
After all, isn’t all the world a stage?
Monday blues are preceded by Sunday yellows
And I have always hated these Sunday afternoons
To me, they feel so lazy
I watch as the world turns silent and still
No noise except for the creaking of a fan or a radio in the distance
Listen closely, you might even be able to hear the ticking of the clock
I watch as the people sleep on cots or mats strewn on the floor
Their bellies rising ever so slightly and their mouths open, snoring
They are immersed in a slumber earned after a week's toil
A minute to ease up in the middle of the day, free from travail
For me these afternoons are different though,
As the world rests, I observe time stopping, taking a step back before charging again at the new week
Sundays feel like the warm sun on your skin as you sit by a river in the countryside
You watch the river flow past ever so lazily
Eyes glazed, lost in nostalgia and peace on your mind.
When one is free from drudgery,
Liberated from tiresome toil,
In that little space of time,
Leisure sows its seed in the soil.
A minute to relax,
Preceded by an hour of travail,
A minute to ease up,
Followed by an hour of struggle
When the mind is free of stress,
Time seems too endless to measure,
When the hands are free of work,
Time seems too precious to treasure.
In the words of Aristotle, the master philosopher,
"The end of labour is to gain leisure,"
And I agree,
It really is the greatest form of pleasure.
Some say I'm soulful,
Others the Devils tool,
One minute I might find you doleful,
The other acting quite the fool.
Yet that's patently unfair,
One aspect that I can't abide,
For I'm as pure as the morning air,
A child of the gentle ocean tide.
You may not think I live, but live I do,
Spawned in my cocoon of flames,
I thrive, but then die too,
Often amongst angst and conflicting claims.
My pedigree is strong,
Admired and always wanted,
With me you simply can't go wrong,
At times even something to be flaunted.
Your forebears held me close,
I'm privy to their secrets,
Through me their lifeline flows,
Despite them lying with the crickets.
I'm a chameleon, color is my muse,
I change according to my company,
Treat me well, never abuse,
For at my core a fragile symphony.
Where I came from no one knows,
But the world is my own oyster,
Having neither friends nor foes,
Life itself is what I foster.
Now you ask, who can I be
Someone quite so clearly needed,
Look around and you might see,
Generations that preceded.
an immersion ethereal
full body scan performed
magically and enigmatically
straight down from head to feet
following perfect sacred geometry
in a single sweep preceded by a knock
a distinct tap on the top of head at crown
akin to an energy disc moving through form
remaining parallel at every instant in linear time
is what we can only call as being touched by grace
Being in ignorance of our true being or Self
If we say ‘good’ is what takes us nearer to the truth
And ‘bad’ is what immerses us deeper in delusion or in trance
Then perhaps we may look at thoughts, words and deeds objectively
An action is preceded by thought and thought originates in the heart
If heart is quiescent then there is no thought and hence no ego
The actions then done are in resonance with will of God
Simply because false ego-identity has disappeared
So, what then is karma but action in ignorance
As long as ego-identification exists, karma plays out
However when we wake up in the dream, the life play ends
The dreamer and dreamed now one, all that is, is time dissolved bliss
Stumbling and sometimes falling are part of it
In this walk, the path can be replete with tests
To walk with your head held low would be unfit
Be prudent, fail up and trust the process
So fail up when you fall
Pick yourself up and answer the call
Fail up when you fall
Even if you have to start again with a crawl
Dust off very well
Now walk upright and tell your tale
A testimony is preceded by only a test
Don't hesitate to unfurl what's in your chest
Fail up when you fall
Tidy yourself, square your shoulders, and stand tall
Speak and live from the heart
And inauthenticity, please soon depart
So when you stumble or fall
Straighten up, dust off, and answer the call
a Zen philosophy states
that all form is emptiness
yet it’s not
as all emptiness is form
but in essence not
Plato maintained that
its essence
is in its purpose
the idea of the chair
preceded its existence
the idea of the chair
contains its purpose
while the philosophers are bellyaching
over whether one could and
actually should
fashion a chair out of an imaginary log
we have long ago
carved a rocking chair
out of treasured memories
and apricate at leisure
on the front porch of our own reality
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