Rising Hope

How to stay afloat in the place of lesser hope.
When the job is gone and the roof is falling.
And the mind runs nonstop like a leaky faucet.
When the sleep escapes the body entirely.
And the fear arises with the lack of flattery.

When the singing's stopped from the sky above.
And the noise of cars has exceeded control.
When the heart is beating 'spite the wanting to curl.
And the thought keeps digging for the road unknown.

That's when mercy appears in all its beauty.
And the energy rises turning death to purity.
And the body moves freely along a slope.
That's how to stay afloat in the place of rising hope.

Hold Still

I now wish to say a prayer, because this life can be a bear.
The sun comes up if only briefly to bear its witness, yet leaving quickly.
It seems unfair to be the one to share the burden of thousand kinds.
The trip is planned with sails set to take my life beyond regret.
It isn't I who takes the care to guide this ship in open air.
I simply shift to slow gear, close baby blues and say: "Hold still, my dear."

Trash

The ease with which the creative genius of the mind fabricates a story is nothing short of remarkable. That, in of itself, is a fascinating subject. Even more riveting is the paucity of originality in such stories. All chapters are magically shoved into the space of the mind in a specific configuration over a period of a year or less or more. The time may or may not play a leading role in the theatrics. Once the room has been filled, the mind jumps for joy having found an occupation. The occupation being arranging and rearranging these chapters into various patterns and formations, making way for story one, then two, then two hundred. It is rather pathetic to witness the lack of innovation in this process. Even sadder to observe the inability to see reality which happens to be blocked by the incessant preoccupation of recycling the chapters. While entertaining, the playing of the old, scratched up record interferes with experiencing the lack of story that may be sitting directly in front. And the question continues to poke in all the painful places, wanting to know why the past continues to dictate today and the future.

Hungry

And the engine seems to hum to the sound of the divine.
And the birds' song is sublime if our ear is given time.
And the carousel keeps turning in the world that keeps on burning.
While the stillness is the seat that is somehow hard to see.
While the stillness is the kiss to be experienced as bliss.
While the stillness is the key to the life complete and free.
And that is how it exists, this tiny life - most hungry to begin.

Exclusive and Divided

High end and exclusive.
Exclusive love.
Love reserved for very few.
The few that made the cut.
The cut criteria of subjective means.
The means that segregates and judges.
The judgement that divides.
The division is within.
Within the human with unlimited giving.
Giving cut down by the mind's interpretations of reality.
Reality blurs and distorts.
The distortion causes suffering.
When all is needed is a hug of inclusivity.

Turned Around and Upside Down

What if it weren't like this? What if the sky is down and the earth is up, and the mountains are in here? What if the flowers drowned and the thoughts flew? While the guitar continued to cry. And the voice continued to soar. Toward the new skies and the old roots of new beginnings. What if I am not who I think I am, and you are surely not the person I know you to be? What if the chirping is coming from inside rather than from the tops of those green pines? And the newly-found beauty is overwhelming the perception of yesterday's world. And the rest seems to be irrelevant if not invisible. While the guitar continues to cry. And the voice continues to soar. Toward the upside down reality and the new roots of old beginnings.

Why?

Creating this and creating that, or that. No end and the beginning is irrelevant. All colors and hues of the creative process, generating out of the mind and chemicals circulating around the grey and the white matter. The desire has to become something in the outside world or the inside will suffer. No pathway internal is clearly identified. Also inherent, yet rather dusty. Suspending oneself for a dream dressed as real. That's sufficient to keep moving. Even if in circles. The end is the same for all. Today or at-a-much-later tomorrow. Producing, more or less, steadily continuing the manufacturing. Sustains the mind and feeds the body. At least that part of the process is occupied. The eternal sleep is comfortable. Could be better to stay like this. Creating this and creating this, that, and the other. Or the other. Because the why question takes precious seconds to answer. Why waste them? Waste... Is it?