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Light

5 May

I sink into the soft featherbed.
My weight lowers me down and snuggles me close to the soft linen bed sheets.
The feather-light down duvet whispers its warmth over me
And creeps into each and every air pocket it can find
So I am enveloped in a cocoon of lightness and warmth.
As I drift into the hazy dreams of sleep,
I forget my connection to reality,
And here, with no control,
I am surrendered to the protocols of other worlds.

Exactly when and where do I find this point at which I exit my reality
And enter this other world?
Exactly how do I access this dimension?
Exactly which parts of me accompany me into the new state?
It is so intriguing:
Realizing that I have this ability to step from one state to another
Like a magician.

I know only two keys to this locked door:
I have to shut my eyes
And I have to switch off my mind.
Only in darkness and absence of thought comes sleep.
And it is at the instance of achieving a sleep state
That the portal opens and I transform into an ethereal being
In another world.

When I come back to this world,
It is almost always that I become vaguely aware of myself in my bed,
And then I open my eyes.
I may remember the other world or not,
But I have remembered enough times to know that
I have lived in dreams.

So now I wonder.
Is it like a contrary mirror that when I open my eyes to wake here,
I have shut them there.
When I become conscious here
Have I become equally unconscious there?
Maybe the reality is that I never sleep.
Maybe my perceptions of the reality of my dreams are distorted
By the different laws operating in the other dimension.
Perhaps my experience of the oblivion I feel in my deepest sleep
Is merely the cancelling out of two opposing emotional vibrations
Of equal intensity.
Perhaps life on this inner plane
Is similar to life on the outer plane
Where sleep patterns are necessary to keep a body revitalized and replenished
But the spirit is always moving and conscious.

So then, perhaps consciousness is just a wave –
A kind of binary pulse that slips from one dimension to the next
In an irregular pattern.
And each pattern is unique to each individual.
And perhaps this pattern of being here and then there,
A slipping in and out of our own physical form,
Is like a light being switched on and off.
But the light does not disappear.
It just moves from one room to the other through the switch –
Its just that we can’t see it going through to the other side,
And we can’t control anything there.

I like to see where I am and what I am doing.
I like to be aware of what is around me,
And I do not like to be cooped up in a dark, dingy room
Feeling sorry for myself.
Light brings good cheer and understanding in my life,
And I can always feel the worth of a place
By the light that surrounds it.
What is this connection between my mood and light?
Why are the two so intricately entwined?
Why is it that the long nights of winter feel so heavy on my heart?
Is there some connection between the light around me
And my consciousness in this physical world?

Does the darkness around me echo my footsteps
In the corridor between my sleeping and waking worlds?
Does my psyche recognize the shadow of the sleep portal
In the shadows of this world?
Is the grey winter drizzle found in the path
Between one dimension and the next?

Perhaps for us, our real darkness of heart and soul
Is found in the transition from the consciousness
On either side of our existence,
And it is at this node where, for a time, we are lost to ourselves.
And perhaps this loss holds a fear, which is reflected in the physical darkness
Found in our earthworld.
When we sit at this node,
The crossing point from one place to the next,
Perhaps for a split second we cease to exist.
We are interrupted in life,
And we are separated from that which defines our existence:
The consciousness of light!
Perhaps it is the perception of light on all levels
That defines us as living.
Perhaps the secret of life is being able to be aware of light.
Perhaps light is the life force
That burns its way through our eyelids
And reflects itself into the retina of our eyes,
Nudging the mind into movement
And stirring our souls into breath.

Perhaps light is, by definition, life
And the ability to be conscious of it and unconscious of it
The duality of existence.

[Light is energy, a force whose inception cannot be pinpointed or discovered. It is more intrinsic to being than breathing. Our consciousness is an expression of light. Perhaps the more sophisticated our consciousness becomes the more light we are able to perceive. And as we grow in this super conscious ability, the less darkness there is in our direct experience, until at last, everything is light and we become so absorbed in that light that we become that light. And perhaps, it is at that point that we can say we have found and experienced God.]

Grief

20 Oct

I sit here and I do not know where I come from.
I have no idea how or why the world turns,
Only that it does and I too must turn with it.

I have no comprehension of the sense of existence.
It just is, and I am stuck here,
Welded to the passage of time
With no control of the forces that waylay me.

Who can tell the hour of their departure?
Who knows when the train will leave?
Who can plan any day with certainty?

And it is in this state, that I find myself sitting here trying to pretend I am in charge,
Trying to figure the odds of my dice –
But knowing the inevitability of being wrenched from my seat of comfort
And being hurled into the unknown.

I listen to the whispers around me,
I strain my ears to catch the disembodied voices that swirl around me.
I know they know, but they cannot tell.
They cannot flesh out whispers into words.
So I am stuck here with no hope of knowing my fate –
Like a condemned man who sits in his cell awaiting the final turn of the wheel in the works of the judiciary.

I am waiting, that’s the truth!
And who knows? When this wait is over will there just be another ‘wait’ on the other side?
Maybe nothing happens there, maybe that is the end.
And if that is the end, all I have waited for is nothing.

So I am left with three possibilities:
a waiting and an end,
a waiting and some more waiting,
or a waiting and then the objective of all the waiting is reached.

Now that I think about it, for me, only the third scenario has any interest for me.
Why wait just to dissolve as if you have never been?
Why wait just to go on waiting?
Therefore I choose a purpose.
And because I have no hard evidence to base my purpose on, I make one up.

I go through all the possibilities I can find.
I research the libraries of the world.
I eliminate all that that seems inconsequential, stupid and foolhardy.
I eliminate all that wastes my time on empty actions.
I feel my way through dark corners of intellect and logic.
I gather together all that I like, that seems common sense to me,
That gives a reasonable answer to every question I have.
I make sense of my world, and in every area I explore the thoughts of others
Comparing the ideas of ancient voices with those more present.
I look for synchronicities and agreement where it is impossible for one voice to have heard the other.

And after gathering all this information
I form my theory.

As time goes by I hold the theory up to the light for inspection to see if it holds
Knowing that if one uncomfortable thought emerges,
I will be plunged back into the search.
Now I have a plan,
And life becomes meaningful:
I know where I am going,
I know what I am doing and
I know why I am doing it.
And on the surface this seems enough.
I have an answer for everything,
I’m ready for anything and prepared for the best and the worst.
Heart, mind and soul are aligned………

Until
That moment,
When the world goes black.
That moment,
When all the lights go out.
That moment,
When an enormity of catachlysmic proportions tears the sinews from my bones,
Wrenches my heart from my chest and flings my mangled, pulped body against the heartless cliffs of circumstance!

What is the use of intellect?
What use is research?
Who cares about waiting for purpose or not!

It is only in these violent moments of disruption and chaos,
That the mind is swallowed up in the agony and horror of loss and despair.
It is only in these interminable minutes, where time slashes away at our armour of sense
And flings us into an abyss of torture and incessant lament.
It is only in this depth of carnage that hopes and dreams are as incoherent as the languages of the past.

It is here, where only tears and heaving sobs,
Uncontrolled from deep within,
Have any place.
And there is no remedy for this.
Only maybe the passage of time might shroud us
And take us on a journey far from the memory.

It is only here, where the present completely absorbs us.
And in this abscess of dank, dark grief
We touch the chord of who we really are.

Poetry on Poetry

27 Aug

poetry

Craft my words
Into a vessel.
Carrying messages
Across oceans of understanding
Calling in at diverse ports.
Unloading goods for trade
Taking aboard new ideas
And hearing voices
Never known before.

Captain Expression, will order the crew,
Able Seamen Feeling and Emotion,
To man the decks,
As our small craft bobs over the seas
Tossed on stormy waves of passion
Propelled by currents of life
Governed by tides of thoughts
That ebb and swell with the moon.

For rest, seek refuge in a hidden cove.
Anchor there,
Protected from the sentiment of prevailing winds,
Contemplate the heritage of the past
Look to the horizon
And see what fate awaits
When men have no longer use for form.

But then, recklessly, throw aside all maps!
Set sail once more
Seek far distant shores of strange sounds and exotic perfumes.

Watch as the words weave their magic spell and
Borne on the pure joy of rhythm
Watch our little craft seek its own fortune
With no regrets.

Fire

12 Jul

300x200xkruger-park-fire_7031-300x200.jpg.pagespeed.ic.iNooMRurMm

Yellow. Gold. The colour of my heart.
It is not possible to touch me.
It is not possible to reach into my core and pull out the fabric of my being.
It is impossible to touch me.
I have no real substance.
I am reaction in action.
I am myth made visible.
I am, yet I am not.
How is it , that I can be seen and I can be felt, yet I have no substance?
How do I know if I exist if I am not concrete?
How is it that I have consequences but no inception?
How can I be, but can only be known by my effects?
Who could conceive of only allowing a result to be in existence without a cause?

I have never looked at myself this way.
I have been very happy to describe myself by external things, like colour, temperature and radiance.
But now I look at myself and wonder:
Where is my substance?
Have I ever had substance?
Who caused me to not really have a me?
How is it that every other thing I know of has a definite form and takes up a specific space and actually exists?
But me? Who would have thought that my power is based on energies coming together in a certain way, and with a sudden shift of forces, whoosh!
Lights, camera, action,sound effects, smoke, fumes and pyrotechnics!
There are all the blueprints of my existence………
But where am I in all this?
It is like some cosmic joke.
All action built on something with a name, but there is no body for that name.
No real being. Just a consequence with attendant identifying forces.
How can power be based on something that does not exist?
It is like being the reflection in a mirror.
There, but not there.
I am fire and I have my name.
And I have heat and colour and energy
And I can dance before you with hypnotic grace and rhythmic charm.
And I can leap within seconds into a terrifying inferno of voracious force.
And I can bring life into you and I can smother life out of you
And I can be all these things-
Yet I cannot just be.
I am only a description.
That is all. At the end of the day, I am an empty non-entity with only a cloak hanging on an empty frame.

How can power be so much of nothing?
Ask me. I should know for I am fire.

Perhaps this is how it is for us all.
We see the result of ourselves but it is impossible to see on what the result is based.
We see our reflection, but we cannot see ourselves.
Maybe we are not really there at all.
Maybe all that there is left of us is our energy, recorded like history in a history book.
Perhaps the real us has long since departed to somewhere else.
Perhaps we are waiting to once more be attached to our results.
Maybe we have become adrift from ourselves and we are drowning in a sea of unconsciousness waiting to be reconnected to ourselves
So that once more we can feel authentic, real and with substance.
Perhaps one day, our self and our mirror image will merge and we will not have to rely on our consequences to know we exist.

Perhaps one day the fire that we are can draw our outward persona in
And forge us into an identity that is our true self.

Intuition

7 Mar

intuition-bente-hansenDivine Inspiration.

Knowledge that infiltrates your being.

It has a warmth. Continue reading

Mystery

5 Jan

The heart of the matter is hidden deep within.

Like a seed that holds life, so is mystery hidden in a secret place.

I am a secret about a secret, and my heart hidden in that secret can only be heard beating as the echo of a whisper.

I am a veil and an undertone. It is only my nuances that give clues to my whereabouts or nature.

You, who would discover the inner workings of things, can dismantle my outer structure to no avail.

I remain.

There is no I-ness or Is-ness or Thing-ness.

I tease you, and play with you, and like a conjurer reveals not his methods, so I give no inkling of a door or a latch.

I tantalize your mind with fleeting promises of revelation.

I knit your imagination into a furrowed brow.

I tie your shoelace strands of thoughts into frustrated knots.

I lead you along on winding paths into inescapable mazes of endless thoughts.

I lead you to restless nights and endless cups of tea or coffee and conversation deep into the small hours of the mornings.

And I rob you of your tranquillity.

Unexplainable, formless and untouchable.

Like a vapor I cloud your mind and dampen the clarity of your thoughts.

I mock logic and reason and call forth only dreams and imagination.

And I stir deep within you the faint echoes of memories of visions long since forgotten.

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