the bored haiku

26 03 2013

rain like the ocean

yet the window remains dry

just static T.V?

 

staticage





sudden and ubiquitous: joy

16 08 2012

“This is love: to fly toward a secret sky, to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment. First to let go of life. Finally, to take a step without feet.”
― Rumi

Image

-Alex Grey, “Ocean of Bliss”

In the moment that I stop looking for the external to grant me validation for the love that I know is within every cell of my being, the unexpected moment of remembering, that it was there all along. I overlook, more often than I would like, the blissful joy that surrounds us all in every moment, awaiting discovery. While you are reading this, breathe in… feel the ionization of particles deep within you. Feel the power that you hold within yourself and know that you are full of beauty and grace and possibility stirring and spiraling; awaiting discovery. That is all… goodnight, many awe inspiring dreams to you all, you beautiful divine creatures.

“Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.”
― Rumi





wandering ant (old poem, forgotten until cleaning files today)

31 07 2012

written morning in the mountains (our old mountain cabin home last spring/summer in Blue Ridge) around May of 2011-

the world of the wandering ant

plateaus and ravines

streamlined architecture
lines upon lines

factory glazed mirage
only potentials impermanent

cacophonic symphony
humdrum motherboards
the spinning labyrinth lament

a pixellated world finds the symbols
characters, keys
remnants of the world
created without hands
nor silicon bonded

the facade that was
once home

Image





pity this busy monster

29 07 2012

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bLtAaIE1o4U

‘pity this busy monster, manunkind’

pity this busy monster, manunkind,

not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim (death and life safely beyond)

plays with the bigness of his littleness
--- electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange; lenses extend
unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish
returns on its unself.
                          A world of made
is not a world of born --- pity poor flesh

and trees, poor stars and stones, but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical

ultraomnipotence. We doctors know

a hopeless case if --- listen: there's a hell
of a good universe next door; let's go

E. E. Cummings

How I managed to adore e.e cummings and own books of his and NOT know about this amazing poem is beyond me.  I think perhaps it is because at no other point in my development as a human being could these words had as much resonance as they do now. Now, the end of Saturn’s dizzy return… the 31 years of reality selection play. Now, the moment that feels like deeper awakening after every tumble into sleep.