Auto-arisen self-appearing hot mess in the empty mirror of wide-awake silence,
the boundless clarity of the glass and the dancing reflection upon it
are precisely the same One.
No choice to be made between stillness and action, consciousness and the world.
The void is a wounded pomegranate bursting with wet crimson seeds,
spilling it's offspring cosmos from abysmal darkness in waves of fire
woven from downy fluctuations in the vacuum, ripples of no-thing,
polynomial transcendental equations trying to balance themselves
within a boundless Zero.
Exasperated delightfully unsolvable broken symmetries of mathematical paradox
gush from emptiness as virtual photons, the universe ever already complete,
finished in a single ancient flash that embodies the clustered galaxies not yet
born.
An explosion soft as the midnight peony blossoming in your garden,
perceived through its fragrance in a dream: what shall you call this flower
full of stars that appeared in the diamond clarity of your own consciousness
several hundred billion years ago?
You call it “God” because you do not remember it; but when you remember,
tongue-tied with wonder, you drown in the fiery silence beyond names.
It cannot be remembered. It is too intimate. It is your Self.
And every distraction that pulls you away from this primordial jewel
is a tremor of it, a facet of its own unfathomable glory.
There is no distraction from God that is not God,
so why not simply rest in chaos, just as it is?
Why make distinctions between seeking and arriving,
the Spiritual Master and the infant newborn in a pile of rubble?
As for those who still insist on joining the resistance, there is nothing to
resist.
There is only the Heart, ceaselessly beaten and broken over fallen shards
in the mirror of its own compassion.
LINK to hear this poem read aloud. NASA photo: cosmic rose, the Rosetta Nebula
No comments:
Post a Comment