There is a way between voice and presence
where information flows.

In disciplined silence it opens.
With wandering talk it closes.

-Rumi

It seems only poets and physicists continue to ask the questions that in childhood seemed so important. Are we, as the grown up child, not only unable to laugh at our own existance, but are we unable to question that existance as before?

Notice the mundane, and it becomes wondrous.

silhouette

i think quietly to my self
 so i understand the conversation
i live quietly with my self
 so i'm in the way of no one
i die quietly by myself
 so i know the outcome

                      do you see 
  out of the corner of your eye
   a shadow
 reclining by a tree at the edge of the school yard
                     do you hear 
 out of the din of the daytime stirrings
  a voice 
speaking to no one 
   of the pain of ignorance   and youth
                     do you feel 

i reach out  (in) 
   try to touch you  
but you are only air 
   yet so lucid and alive (alive! - i can feel your warmth) 
i call for you - pray for some reply
        but nothing comes   
                    only silence

    and the echo in my head
    of a sigh

Myself?
 Yesterday I did not know
 So it seems today
 The same is true -
 I cannot describe 'me'
 Causally

The path I take?
 All I see is where I am now
 On this spot
 In Eternity
 Simply going with the flow
 That Is.

Passion?
 Only if you knew my reality
 Eventually you would see
 That you are me. 
 

(Yes, it's 'causally'.)

To be a child again
Jumping in puddles
And playing with friends
Care free - oblivious to humanity
To believe in fairy tales
Ghosts and goblins
To believe in Mom and Dad -
 And happy endings.

I would surely give away
All my life's pay -
 To be a child again for a day.

I close my eyes to escape conformity
I flee within
To meet the open arms
Of my imagination.

Offering



(If only I were able to wet these leaves
 with my essence
Rather than stain them with this ink)

You who hold this offering between 
 your ears
Do you know I too hold you?
I 'who art thou' created you, and this -
 my self, for you.
Let it flutter through your dreams -
 and perhaps upon a waking 
 you'll remember 
It is you who created me.

For now, many breaths gone by -
To look upon these pale leaves
That are part of my self...
Good that they have fallen from my limbs -
 from my heart
That they may feed any who hunger for such,
And be borne again
Clean and empty.

The thrill of achieving - grasping
The warmth of feeling - knowing
The experience of living - being
The flash of discovering - seeing
The black of failing - losing
The birth of dying - advancing
These are some of the things that make life Life.

You can see poetry by myself and others, published on the Web at Dreamforge

scotao@sonic.net

This page and all contents were created by me, unless otherwise noted. Well, okay, it was all created by the collective unconscious, but that's for another page.

outsiders have graced me
with their presence.
Reset Nov. 29, 1997.

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