the screen of awareness is still
we are that watching ego here
reflex instincts mind calls free will
striving daily shrouded in fear
it does not suffice that we know
watching ebb and flow of life’s tides
in this lucid dream we just flow
where outcomes God alone decides
observed thus ego becomes shy
so chooses to align with source
not a drifting cloud, it’s the sky
the bubble bursts sans use of force
we live this truth by day and night
from cravings of ego unchained
with grace deepening our insight
wisdom in us slowly ingrained
we know not why we don a form
the questioner does not exist
awash in currents cool and warm
there is no one here to resist
soul wants to play in dreams awhile
in mood and mode embrace-release
love the touch never out of style
elixir that makes hearts unfreeze
outside space-time we are complete
just as we are here now on earth
living the truth as God’s heartbeat
exuding joy bubbling with mirth
knowing we’re the eye of the eye
pulse prior to by which we see
the yearning that makes our heart sigh
presence is content to just be
wild messenger
signals true passion
mystery presenter
trickster intelligent
casts light into dark
black questioner
_______________________
The 50’s people are in a diorama
behind a Perspex window,
for the most part they are cheerful,
they cut grass with push mowers,
swim in circles in above ground pools;
by and large they are not serial killers.
The museum is new, colorful and shiny.
The 50’s people wave mechanically
at all on-lookers.
A young questioner asks
why the 50’s people are not all dead?
A reasonable question
which the handler deflects
with a long tale about purple dinosaurs.
The kids are getting bored,
handlers usher them into a cafeteria,
where two 40’s people linger over
a tasteless, sanitized meal.
Youths rib poke each other and sneer.
The two 40’s people have no diorama
they have forgotten how to make one,
worst still, their handler died
the same year Barney went extinct.
A streak of moonlight cuddled by the chair placed in the balcony, outside
The ricocheting time and I, and the solar moonlight, a moonlit foamy, a subtle tide
My daughter beside me, and a diamond stud, her nose knows her black heads, in a way, fortitude
A face and a lit, a solar and a misfit
a questioner, closest, midfielder, lifelong
my quenching oasis, amidst my torn life, vagabond
I saw my brazen Fenugreek, my curry, my grave failure, a Maugham outspoken in mom
My dish said a delicacy long ago, with your perfect soft, melted ambiance
my soul, my Mosul,my Samara , my mina and my minaret
They kept your calendar tales and fruit punch , they never quite gripped
The midnight hymn and the enclosing, merging with the foamy sea, rhythm
I saw a morn, a corn, of the needle in a haystack, where even the arch angel ask.
My daughter, sleeping beside me, my soul within, in the depth of the moonlight!
Who is my neighbour? Asked you, a supposed expert in law
Did he know that testing you is like a Babelian flaw?
Being Christ, you knew well that his faith was like a dry reed.
With a breeze of common man's compassion, you shook his creed.
From Jerusalem to Jericho, a man travelled, you said.
Bandits beat him up, looted his wealth, and left him half-dead
Did the priest, though he witnessed him dying, reach him out? Nay.
The Levite too, though he might have felt pity, went his way.
One who was thought to be, in the social ladder, the least
A Samaritan brought back his life that was almost ceased.
He nursed him as though he was losing his only friend.
Shouldn't, before his love, divisions of caste and creed bend?
This was true love. He's the true neighbour. Go and do the same.
The questioner felt his frail question fail and stood in shame.
Truth be told I don’t have many
Truths…that is
My beliefs have changed
Over the years
Not always for the better
According to some
Who hold their “truths” paramount.
I tell those people
“I am what you made me”
It’s been said that
I have no filters
Will say whatever runs
Screaming through my mind
My parry and thrust
Usually involves subtle
Quixotically imbued ideas
As I bear scars from battling windmills.
I have learned to
Question the question
Question the questioner
Question why they asked
That question
In that way
At that time
I also learned from my dogs
“sniff it, if it stinks
Don’t bother to chew on it”
I haven’t mastered the licking thing
But I do clean up after myself.
Are we feeble form or are we fickle mind
or perhaps neither since both are doomed to die?
To discern the truth, we left concepts behind
and chose to plunge in the void and wingless fly.
In time, our soul’s eternal light we did find,
recognising life’s a dream and death a lie.
Thus when asked, what happens if we don’t exist,
we ask the questioner, what in dreams they missed.
We are pure consciousness, we are living light,
although for the moment, we are caged in form
but having seen the truth by spherical sight,
in the core of our soul, betwixt bliss beats warm,
knowing the truth, why would we now crouch in fright,
when all we need to do, is simply conform,
to whispers of love as impulsed by our heart,
as presence feels therein bliss ignition start?
One with God, inseparable from the whole,
the question then is, of wave versus ocean,
meaning that as we go about our life role,
mistaken we’re form, creating commotion,
which feature of the ocean does heart extol,
when it is the collective whole in motion?
There is in truth no one here, save an ego,
a bubble of illusion, we must forgo.
small dot centred within
a circle of infinite radius
we are both
both are one
the questioner disappears
Oracle
The Wise, Mystical
Blessing, Spellcasting, Foretelling
Black Sorcerer, Divine, Innocent, Questioner
Listening, Ingesting, Participating
Curious, Wonderer
Querent
Tuesday, January 4, 2022
Panic mongers, hate mongers,
traffickers in groupthink.
The key to the universe,
you must never let facts interfere
with all your
obsessive incessant fables.
You must never doubt the veracity of
of the latest tale of terror.
A secret Satanic elite of cannibalistic pedophiles,
All the liberals are in on it, don’t you know?
Soros and Gates in collusion.
Evangelical contagion,
the deep state under every bed,
the boogeyman behind it all.
Any questioner is complicit.
Any true believer will be saved.
Apophenia intoxication,
Donald Trump is your savior.
Your mind is malleable to malignancy,
It metastasizes in your trance.
The putrid contamination percolates
everywhere in deafening silence.
Each taste of QAnon venom,
Each flavor of terror,
seizes and imprisons the masses of minds
And if you listen, you will hear
the percussive funeral dirge
for the death of the civilized world.
‘Who am I’ an unanswerable question
The questioner being in a hypnotic trance
The mind that asks itself requiring negation
Dissolution of identity being our only chance
Clue being ‘what is that that neither comes nor goes’
That that experiences unaffected as formless awareness
Silence & stillness revealing our Self as bliss in repose
Resonating with Ohm in an unceasing flow of blissfulness
If a broth can be spoiled
By too many cooks
That advice can, as well, be applied
To a patient consulting
With too many docs
To determine what problem's inside.
Each one hopes he can help
But conflicting reports
Put the questioner into a tizzy
And the tests and the labs
And the visits combine
To add one more new symptom - that's dizzy.
Frustration and pain, though,
In tandem, demand
A solution that might not be easy.
Still, stepping on somebody's
Toes may result
In discomfort that borders on queasy.
Prince without a lineage
King without a throne
Master without servants
Lover of that unknown
Hearer of what’s unspoken
Seer of things divine
Lord among the jesters
Voice for all the mimes
Reason, when excuses falter
Questioner, when answers fail
Link between the seasons
—first breath a baby wails
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)
Regardless the battlefield,
one fight rages on
Regardless the outcome
—a warriors song
Regardless the politics,
the brave fight and die
Regardless the questioner
—blood telling no lies
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)
Prince without lineage
King without a throne
Master without servants
Lover of that unknown
Hearer of what’s unspoken
Seer of things divine
Lord among the jesters
Voice for all the mimes
Reason, when excuses falter
Questioner, when answers fail
Link between the seasons
—first breath a baby wails
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February,2016)
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