Ways to be: Cycles #3

I read a book on Zen Buddhism

by my favouritest author

and thought,

thinking, so hard

about the way

to get to thoughtless

to peace

to one

that I ran out of steps in my walk

I ran out of numbers in the day

 

I thought

 

Until my limbs turned cold,

I lay down

to rest

my soul in pieces

 

After hours, lying to myself,

alone, time

passing from one ear to another,

trying to lift an arm

or a heart

or searching for a better

way to be

While sipping milk out of a straw.

 

No white light,

Just the fall,

And no need to fight,

The silence.

 

Letting go of motivations,

for recovery

from the pace

of the marathon

To feel the seasons,

summer, autumn,

winter, spring,

 

Finding warmth again

I saw

the lotus flower

opening

The Fear

Bright lights

Late nights

no reason

for former or latter

or the eyes

becoming watched

and unable to see

all in order to alleviate

The Fear.

 

The colour was stolen

by a grey thief,

an ogre under burned bridges

in shadows

 

A vacuum makes

the mind jump up and down,

though the dark nothing knows the body in it’s limpness

and tells why the blue waters turned a stagnant green,

why algae and fungus

rid the lily pads of youth,

becoming the green

on that it depended

 

To fall

or not to fall

 

The itch grows

It knaws slowly under the skin

Sapping at the life blood

 

It’s felt in the flowers and the trees

and the birds and the bees

and the insects

 

 

Once, layed on a soft pillow of green spires

a break to pass

while staring up at the sky,

the time to be filled

is so far away

still

just sleep…

 

Then seeing the original eye

in a cluster of cloud

in the shape of a lotus flower

 

Understanding a sight

A connection

The heart pumped oxygen into the belly of the wilder-beast

 

that Breathing strength through the ascension

of the paths of the mountain

and Listening

With unflinching peace,

beguiled leaves

to fall,

to be reborn.

 

 

-Ben

Things, Eyes, and their Brows: Cycles #1

What a wonderful world.

Bright fields and

Sunlight glazing

The grass and yellow flowers

Like supernovas

Splattered in a nebula.

 

Kids that will

One day turn to

Adults, their parents

Beating the drum,

Under and Over

 

The cycle is the weed and the apple tree.

 

Think

The line of the world

Of time going

Lineward

Into
Where?

 

Travelling anywhere,

Surfing a nervous curve back into itself,

because, because, because

What-ever

Else?

 

As a child I would hold onto

Ideas of heaven and the bestest places

Licking Icecream

With no bottom

Of the Icecream

Or the Cone.

 

Then the Blue Dolphin Swam

Mum and I

Meeting Monty,

Bestest of Friends,

We jumped to the stars on a trampoline

Battling Evil, the night away

 

Then the Morning comes,

Obviously

Ripping me from former worlds

The morning

Same as before

I, different

Others left behind or something…

The world is now greyer than before

Creation deleted and guarded

by others

 

These are the cycles

that keep us us.

 

Many wondering faces,

Smiling Sadness,

from grey into black

into red through to yellow

into green floors and brown trees

Then tables and chairs

and the glare of the top lights.

The Colours always continue

To find us holding our brows like shields

And wonder.

 

We seek the art of the beholder

and his eye

or her eye

or whatever it is

We see now, these

Eyes.

Beholders

and the like.

 

Things, Eyes, and their Brows.

 

Everything is Everything

and I’m letting go now.

 

-Ben