Pathos

 

There is a love that does not ask for any returns, a fire that simply warmes and burns.

The quiet desire and sacred art, of loving someone from apart.

To see her laugh and not be heard, and to love her gentle words.

What shallow lovers may call a wasted, is to love the love not tasted.

They do not know the deeper bliss, of love that lives upon a never felt kiss.

Secret admiration is not lack, it is the soul happy with the single track.

It does not ask to fill the void, it writes songs and poetry to be employed.

Finding in this its satisfaction, in the psodomyme of ideal as whole creation.

For when you truly admire in secret, worlds of dreams are the living spirit.

One is not the merchant, trading heart for heart, one is the a witness, set apart.

To watch the garden one did not plant, and find that admiration is the grant.

It explains how joy can be so wide, without ever stepping inside.

It satisfies because it is simply free, one loves without a guarantee.

It needs no future, fears no past, because it never tries to last.

It only is the observer as being, like knowing God and his doing.

To let the world chase loud romance, the illusion in the confined glance.

The master loves this quiet pathos, a cup that never empties, as pure status.

He keeps his admiration sealed, because his heart is healed.

Because some loves are so divine, they spoil it if you say "You are mine."

Some loves are kept in secret, not from fear, but because they are too dear.

To bring that into the noisy day, in soul, they forever stay.

A small eternal satisfaction, to love without a single transaction.

A love thesis

Not every love arrives with fire, not every love will climb higher.

Some love does not seduce or choose, it simply is as it does, not win or lose.

Storge is its name whispered as imagination, a love before words become sensation.

Not with bow and arrow like little Eros, as sentiment of desires.

Not earned like with friends, where trust begins. 

It was not poured down like Agape from above, it grew from the experience of love.

It is the attitude to rise early with compassion, it is in the frame of mind to make loving decision.

It is not performance, it is not proof, it is the unremarkable, undeniable truth.

That holds even when no one says thank you, it is the confines of one's own rendezvous.

Philosophically it is strange and profound, in deepest sense it makes no sound.

To think love must be chosen to be real, but life in health given is the ideal.

Before you need to self-defend, You were already loved, by life as friend.

By the magic in divine intervention, by knowing God is not a invention.

That is why Storge is the root of all other loves, and why he said, "You have to love me first", so it does.

The love that did not need to find you, because it never left you.

The love that was already there before, and will be there hereafter for more.

Conscious love makes you see the world, be awaken to perception very pearled.

The Teacher Without Name

He went looking for a teacher, across the sea, across the land.

He bowed to many masters, calling with offerings from his hand.

"Teach me how to be free," and the yogi said, "I can show you the door, But you must have the key."

"Teach me how to know," and the scholar said, "I can give you words,

But not the light that makes them glow."

"Teach me," he said to the saint, "Teach me how to love."

The saint just laughed, "Love all by your heart as God does from above."

The day arrived, when something spoke from within.

Not in words, it just was there, herein. No claims, no promise, no solution, Just dreams that had its conclusion.

Senses of serenities in revelation, Unity with wisdom, love's declaration.

The Teacher Within does not teach In the way the world expects. It does not add information, Removing all deformation.

For consciousness is not a thing you learn, a prize, or what you earn.

It is the ocean, where thoughts are the wave, it is the boat towards the save.

Consciousness works by love alone, Not just as feeling, it needs to be the throne.

Love is not romance, or just sweet, Love is the gravity that makes the universe meet.

It sees you, for it is the space that lets everything be true.

Love is the conscious language, for all existence to manage.

Awareness without love is just a cold eye, love without awareness is how we die.

The Teacher Within does only this, it teaches you to love what is,

Without pause, without clause, without because.

The teacher and student in union disappear, only Love remains for the Seer.

The World, The Mirror, and The Refuge

Let us not speak of calamities as accidents, but as consequences, dense and antecedent.

For the world does not break, it reveals, what the soul has long tried to conceal.

The stage of geopolitics, so grand, Idiots in suits dividing up the land.

One man's freedom is another's threat, Megalomania is the mental dept.

They speak of peace while sharpening the knife, they trade in fear to profit from life.

Drama queens of media at its site.

No war was ever for the people, my friend, it is power's hunger that will never end.

Maps redrawn by trembling, greedy hands, while young men die for lines in sands.

The same old play, only the costumes change from day to day.

And between the bullet and the blood, the multiplying flood.

Broadcasts spell, turning every truth into something to sell.

Fear in the morning, rage at night, keeping the eyes too tired for sight.

Screen that screams "Look here! Look there!" So you never look inward, where all is where.

For if you looked at the spirit, you would see, that you are not as free as you claim to be. You are managed, measured, softly owned, by opinions that were never Your own.

The greatest calamity is not out there, not in the capital, nor in the air.

It is that we forgot how to be still, and give away our sovereign will.

So where to go when the world burns loud? Where to stand when there is no ground?

Not left, not right, not east, not west, Not in another argument to win the contest.

The solution is not political, It is mystical. It is critical.

The self that is spirit first must recall, that it has a throne that does not fall.

Not in markets, not in nations, not in fleeting validations.

Refugee not from God, but in God, that is the road the ancient sages trod. To take refuge is not to hide,

It is to come home, inside. Is your righteousness for show, or is it the quiet light you truly know?

Let the headlines rage and roam, You keep the spirit lit at home.

For one soul that finds its centre, true, does more for peace than a thousand who is who.

Be serene, for when all things have ends and break, to withhold the self from God is the only fake.

The Confines of Dignity and Beauty

The eye of the beholder and beauty keeps, virtues blessings in its deeps.

A voice, the image held in grace, a distance kept within embrace.

Beauty is not the sale on display, that throws itself to all the day.

It is the flower that will not spill, the scent at every careless will.

It holds its flame against the sky, with every wind that passes by.

It lights the night to wonderous spell, it is the day dreamed wishing well.

The freedom without any noise, as beauty has its own poise.

Poetic observation without bound, where rational thoughts are drowned.

Early morning clouds to become the sea, that ceases what it claims to be.

In the chamber's of the heart, love paints the dignity of any art.

Veiled touches in serene bold and true, so that what enters, enters through and through.

The doors one chose to open with one's own hand, not everyone can see what needs to be found.

Echoes of reflections to be confined, living treasures that hold the bind.

Being the instrument to this chain, values that appreciate the quiet gain.

True beauty walks as if in prayer, it knows to capture love in subtle layer.

True dignity outlives all history, human capacities in divinity.

To keep this magic of love as sacred sphere, confines that keep you dear.

Rescued by this precious immense, loving life very intense.

The learning love

 

When love, as they say, is knowing, how you know the other in reflected bowing,

A cabinet of mirrors that learn to see, how to hold its own hand, just to be.

Knowing is never enough, to simply know, it's what one does with the _how_ that makes it grow.

To know the self in perpetual truth, maintains the soul in youth.

What do you know as a lover, without the ego, or is identity still the defense you know.

When dreams speak your thoughts aloud, will you recognize their image in the cloud?

When the hand touches, and heart gives meaning, and words are not lost in dealing,

Declare to know who you are when you observe, that is how love preserve.

Then there is knowing in the task, when duality is the unmask.

Loving and intelligence are not the same, when seasons change the game.

Nuances of sensation in serenity, knowing when wisdom touches reality.

A listening silence that hears the magnitude unfold, true lovers know when to be bold.

To know the task is not to half-bake bread, it is the baker's shop of tradition instead.

Conditioned knowing, the wisest of all, proprioception knowing where is the ball.

Because if you can't explain it right there, living the moment is where.

In the intimate self-portrait is the solution,  how do I love the magic conclusion?

But knowledge without action is just nostalgia, the poetic romance needs the becoming of utopia.

The book of individuality has a pause, sensing the meaning of the cause.

The foreplay of the mind, to understand the tender touch, or time is wasted in the much.

To observe the self, all tender, is memory in surrender.

Attending is the varsity of one world, where love plays in parables very old.

This is the heart in echoes, to stay awake inside learning, all the way.

The romantic part — reflection in glow, texture in exchange of flow.

Cognition and learning to love in reciprocity, when the student loves the teacher in own necessity.

When the beloved is ready, for the one who watches over the beloved study.

LIAR, LIAR, PANTS ON FIRE

Every president, prime minister, potentate, has learned the ancient playground fate.

If you lie loud enough, you get the floor, if you lie bigger, they beg for more.

We say it like children, and it is true, for what is a superpower is the only glue.

Who learned that truth is boring, slow, and flat, while lies are fireworks, imagine that

The Economy of the Lie, for truth is inexpensive and does not get you high.

In world of politics, the market rewards the cheap, one tweet can bury ten years deep.

Putin lies about history, Xi lies about harmony, Netanyahu lies about security.

Trump lies about magnitude, the ANC lies about aptitude.

Brussels lies about unity,  we lie about our immunity.

We think we are informed, we are upon performed.

Once a joke for the yard, now it's foreign policy, avant-garde.

Claiming you won when have lost, the sea is yours at all cost.

Because the middle does not trend, the nuance does not get you in the end.

Here is the dilemma, profound and pathetic, if you tell the truth, it is not enough erratic.

If you lie, everyone looks and you are establish the hooks.

The politician is trapped like the Mooncalf before, he needs his inferiors to need him more.

So he sets his own pants alight, just to be the brightest in the night.

We watch, we click, we share, we jeer. Liar, liar, we shout, to draw near.

Our mockery is his oxygen, our fact-check is his campaign again.

To call him liar is to give him what he craves, a chorus, an audience, a nation of slaves.

To the spectacle of his burning trousers, while the serious burns behind the houses.

World politics is no longer about governing, it is about hovering.

Above reality, in a permanent live, where pants are on fire is how you survive.

We taught our children not to lie, fire catches them day by day, oh wonder why?

Now children rule the world, and we find, they took the rhyme to heart, in kind.

Liar, liar, pants on fire, hang a nation on a wire, while the world watches the deadly fire.

Martyrdom

There are two kinds of not giving in, there is the one that is holy and the other of being stubborn within.

One will not betray for what he knows is true, the other will not lose to choose.

Enduring pain without needing to protest, making the master of pain the willing test. 

The living pain and therefore I am, in my command to my monogram.

 to change, even when proof iis hammering hard upon the roof.

Is it principle, or is it pride, afraid to say, I was wrong inside?

Here martyrdom becomes myth, because history loves a death with pith.

We forget: for every glorious last stand, a thousand died for a stupid command.

A love so pure it needs no compromise, for his suffering buys his heaven as exercise.

It does not ask if the cause is just, suffering itself becomes the must.

To endure is to be morally above, to bleed is to prove my love.

Martyrdom is beautiful when principle costs, die hard is tragic when the principle is lost.

One dies to keep the soul intact, the other dies to keep up the act.

The question aroused, does suffering is well, or who profits from this hell?

The better question would be, how to  surrendered and let divinity be the fee. 

No one dies for knowing to be true, one dies for what one wants to be true.

One need to realize that martyrs create faith, but faith is asking for grace. 

The vain conclusion in the painful art is naive, the master smiles by choice in a lighter serene belief. 

Sophism

The ego stimulates the art of being almost right, just wrong enough to win the moment for the night.

It wears a suit, with tie, convinced, its logic never lies, unflinching, winced.

Inferior errors have attitude to spare, to substitute meaning with a flair.

The Sophist teaches illusions trade, to seek approval where conclusions are made.

They charge to make the weaker seem the stronger, and teach the lie to live a little longer.

Half-baked knowledge holds some truth, naive conclusions have meaning too, in youth.

People don't want subtleties realized, they're happy with pink perception tenderized.

They want to win, they want applause, truth can hurt — it's deep and slow, with pause.

Here is its recipe, funny and profound: Take a truth, trim it round. Add a maybe, disguised as must, with a lot of "therefore" and a pinch of "trust."

Check your phone, your feed, your news, your politics, your favorite views:

Everyone agrees, so it must be true, if you question that, what's wrong with you?

They are famous and rich, so they must be right, advertising needed egos' light.

Sugar-coated logic with hidden bricks, attention-seeking gimmicks, clever tricks.

Eristic is not to seek, but to score, sophistry is not to open, but to close the door.

Sophism works because of our desire, reaching for presumption, thinking dire.

Not truth, but comfort; not light, but heat, we want to be told we are complete.

The liar needs your wish to conspire, You must want the lie to climb higher.

Truth is naked, clumsy, slow, in the simplicity of "I don't know."

Sophism is dressed, and speaks so fast, "I know for sure" — until the last.

In the end, funny, profound and cold, Sophism cannot be beaten by being told.

Only by that old, boring, joint-knowing art, where wisdom is the knowledge of the heart.

Humanity's measure is to see things as they are, clear, and see things as they are not — to prevent the measure of fear.

The master of illusion glazes evil as being of service, only to establish some greedy purpose.

Trusting only the divine love, supreme, instantly, defies all manipulated sophistry.

Ekphrasis

To make the silent image talk, and give the painting some legs to walk.

Words are the shading color, making imagination more fuller.

For here is the witty, surreal impression, that pulls the mind into the literal session.

The image ask for more nuances, a closer look provides alliances.

The word so often misunderstood and old liar, that can set the canvas on fire.

Painting they often say very little or nothing, words takes images into depth of something.

How to describe the color red and why, the bleeding woman not always has a reason to cry.

The painting is perfectly content, until the poet came, with good intent.

"Her eyes hold centuries of sorrow," there will be another dress for tomorrow.

What the inner eye can see is profound, and where words shape it loud.

This is the profound heist of ekphrasis,  the eye sees, but the tongue makes the basis.

The image is and the word means, the image stops you for a moment, whereas the word convenes.

We cannot look without telling a tale, we cannot see a ship without setting sail.

A vase on a table is never just a vase, it's loneliness, it's mother, it's grace.

Ekphrasis is translation without permission, a trespass of other dimensions.

The painter froze a moment to make it last, the writer thaws it very fast.

And in that thaw, surreal and deep, who is dreaming, who is asleep?

Does the painting dream it is being read, or does the poem dream it painted instead?

In the end, ekphrasis proves this glitch,  to see is to speak, to speak is to stitch.

A second world upon the first, and the quench of images for word-thirst.

To speak or write very vivid, paints experienced images to the story visited.

Otrovert

When validation is an empty art, and identity cannot hold the heart.

No nation can claim, no flag can hold, he follows inner law, spiritually bold.

He walks with ease, and with no need, he speaks, he smiles, he does the deed.

Not shy, not loud, not bound to crowd, present, but never too avowed.

He stands among them, yet apart, an observer in chaos — with separate heart.

The introvert tires, retreats to mend, the extrovert borrows light from friend to friend.

The otrovert does not drain, nor feed, he is his own compass, his own creed.

He does not rebel, he does not fight, he simply knows belonging is not right.

A guest in a living sphere, he claims nothing while he is here.

He is not cold, he is not alone, his love just plays in a different tone.

A deep, clear melody, quiet and true, where souls recognize when to see through.

For crowds are loud and truth is thin, and meaning rarely lives within.

But the whispering voice of the One in him is clear, and sensitive souls recognize he is near.

When the mind shifts to be of service, the voice finds its functional purpose.

When eyes of soul meet and light loses its dim, union is sensed therein.

He knows he is not other, and finally free, the world in the world, as it is, clearly to see.

Multiverses and their chain reaction, consciousness holds its observation in pure traction.

Precise

Not too much and not too little, just right, being in a world of perfect light.

Not too far away and not too close, on track, not from excess, nor from lack.

No need to fill the cup to overflow, or let the fire dim and go.

Fools carry more than they can handle, greed takes all it can, to the point of scandal.

The right amount is the feast, to be enough, and yet completely free, at least.

Not grinding till you burn and break, but pausing for the moment all should take.

Not cluttered shelves and closets bursting at the seams, but empty spaces and quiet dreams.

A simple dress, a well-made chair, enough to use, enough to care.

Some laughter shared, some time alone, a quality of time that's truly own.

Not taking all the earth can give, but taking just enough to live.

Mindful choices and nothing to waste, gratefully, a simple taste.

The sweet spot where harmony belongs, not too much, just a little, precise — one can't be wrong.

Quantity for the handicapped mind, quality of content, sober kind.

Inferiors covered by too much of a pathetic mask, never reaching the desired task.

No sense in trying to be precise, when one does not even realize.

The lack of precision is very dangerous, when the margin of error is narrow, looking fabulous.

The answer to the right question is worth a great deal, more than a precise answer to the wrong feel.

Precision in thought is true decision in life, one accurate measurement is worth a thousand experts in strife.

Impossible worlds' existence proves infinite laws, it is the maths in its precision and divine cause.

Happiness in a sustainable sense is not about extremes, it is the art of the creme in schemes.

Making meaningful moments last,  memories that stretch the forecast.

 

Occhiolism

 

Some think they know the world and its form for sure, which is cute, the truth still in wondering dispute.

The newsfeed, timeline and little eye, a reference to the infinite sky.

All senses in working order and still half-blind, when the mind is fixed and only guesses and rewinds.

The unrepeatable anecdote under the sun, yet lecturing on culture and man. As if the cul-de-sac is the master plan, perspectives held by being a patriotic fan.

A universe inside one's head, still arguing about what someone said.

The naive and their belief is humbling in a funny way, the biggest drama is so small today.

The epic failure and grand mistake, the universe keeps spinning, for goodness sake.

Many little eyes and all squinting, most of all certain and hinting, that the individual window is the only view that's true, while you look at me, and I look at you.

Realizing all the impossibilities in life too, and understanding we have no clue.

Worlds in worlds to see as they are, individual perception only goes so far.

The truth not known by opinions, perspectives in dominions.

To change the way how to look at things, awareness takes on another mental air of wings.

Depends on how to look at things and circumstances, to color the attraction of chances.

With gratitude every outlook shifts the horizon of blue, giving sense to the appreciated clue.

So here's my wisdom, small and sincere, I see almost nothing from here.

But what a relief, to be so small and to have such a mind of peace.

Hineni

Here I am is the translation, behold to see the living true realization. I am to be, for to be! 

The meaning more than just stating a physical being, it conveys complete emotional and spiritual seeing.

It ask for surrender to express a willingness to act, before knowing all and to trust God in fact.

To behold and look to be attentive, when the divine will takes course to be relative.

The burning bush or land in request, for the mind to take a rest. One cannot own land and only tend it to it's best.

When His active presence is written in symbolic attentiveness, is to respond in moral serenities.

The holy land for all to maintain, like the limitation of God in his name.

The seperated vision, calls for union in peaceful decision.

Humanity in interlect of retrospect, living harmony towards the holy perfect. 

The Cloud Walker

 

Walking along the hills in the Karoo, becoming some imaginary clue.

Artistic thoughts are living creatures, feeding the pleroma of the soul with surreal features.

Away from this world, I walk in clouds to kingdoms of shape-shifting, furled in shrouds.

Realities of internal vision are the unconventional conclusion, thinking principles that shift society in generational revolution.

Forms of ideas and formless intuition, taken to manifested transition.

To see beyond and write between the lines, images and shades that refine.

Dreams that call for dreams to realize, so easy for the creative eyes.

To see what others cannot see, freedom in the simplicity to be.

The time of relativity operates in mentality, for every creature to see things differently.

Music is vision by daydreaming received, the source of infinite dreams to be conceived.

Sanity needs a vision to be claimed, or reality will capture all in squares, framed.

The dream in the dream to share and share, for happiness to be the real fare.

Visions of purpose walk in the clouds, making tomorrows become loud for another generation.

Philautia

 

They show how love must look to be true, Love for God, for riches, for the world, but never for you.

The first love, and all they half-knew, leaves you flying empty, through and through.

There are two kinds of loving one's own name, one builds a shrine to vanity, the other tends the heart's flame.

The first is hunger that demands a crowd, that shouts "look at me" too loud.

The second is quiet and whole, It says, "I am" — and that completes the soul.

Philautia does not boast, nor chase inferior fame, it offers gentle compassion without a name.

To love life first, in sense of the divine, is where all hymns combine.

Not two halves searching to be complete, but wandering souls, sparking hearts, that meet somewhere in the street.

Self-love is ground for seeds to bloom, how one learns love — like a flower, opening, precious and soon.

To love life is a journey and a choice, and the liberation of fears, where virtue and beauty finally speak through tears.

To embrace vulnerability in love is the only solution, removing all obstacles in conclusion.

Philautia is the language of pure consciousness, to rise above this world of obnoxiousness.

Theurgy

Theurgy is not theology nor spiritual art, one does not speak of God, one does His part.

The action makes it profoundly clear, not talking, not manipulating, but God-work crafted here.

It is not prayer that begs and bows and borrows, "Please fix my sorrows for tomorrows."

Theurgy does not knock to ask for favor, it cleans the house, cooks dinner, to host the divine flavor.

People speak of God as distant, themselves as small, Theurgy says, "Come closer in my house and all."

With rite and ritual, purification, the soul becomes a willing station.

Its goal is not mere superficial intervention, but the end of separation.

Not hallelujah to lift a fleeting fire, but soul alight, that shall not expire.

Society is lost in cushioned pews, claiming righteousness in holy news, where words claim empty spaces, and masks are falling off the faces.

The Godly act is living Love to be whole, to live and feel the Soul.

Thinking is not knowing, nor applying art, adoration is to set oneself alight with heart.

The experience in the doing has results, ancient images and sculptures show this divine cult.

Instead of talking and claiming, let action do the holy framing.

Happenings in love at first sight, is virtue for another league to be right.

The humble man still shares his belonging, not thinking twice in doing.

Coincidence is God's and kindled souls' way, of anonymous to stay.

Those who pray in providing love, resume the law — Below from Above

The Autarkic Home Keeper

There are those who are a home, it does not matter where they roam.

One enters their life as visitor, when grace intervenes and provides an unclaimed minister.

This soul has been a stranger in this place, and yet the animals are drawn to its pace.

Some familiarity in this gesture, for sure, as if he had been here all along, in procedure pure.

There are hearts as wide as the heavens, where one senses life's weight lessens.

They do not offer instruction or advice, knowing things are fixed by presence of the wise.

A Home so empty, so still in all-Oneness, where the magic love of "I AM" is the soundness.

The subtle Self, in feeling safe, where conscious memory recalls the place.

Serenity of love finds the one in whom to settle, to share precious time, and a kettle.

To sit near for a while, just Being,

without the longing for freeing.

There are those who are a home, take off your shoes and name, for nothing will be anymore the same.

An Epiphany

To see or not to see — that is the answer to all questions, or simply an intuitive suggestion.

Every day one learns something new, that finally allowed itself to be seen by you.

And the distinction in that is everything, some more wind underneath the wing.

When the eye grows tired of being clever, and chooses, modest and profound, to be honest however.

Then comes that feeling — looking at life, as one looks at wallpaper, in resigned strife, and asking, what is this hesitation?

Then the penny drops, by understanding, Life's meaning is not merely demanding, not just jolly good participation, presumed, but the underlying current that will resume.

Church and politics have an excellent sense of theatre, whereas the divine in nature was always there, patiently, while one was elsewhere, being profoundly,  but plainly.

The true scandal, psychologically speaking, sincerely, a epiphany rearranges the mental furniture of reality.

The desperate hold of a neighbour's point of view,  does not give you the key to be free — it's true.

Fear, which had lived rent-free for years, is suddenly evicted, replaced by inexplicable peace.

The knowledge that everything is connected,  puts the cosmos as God's body — defined, selected.

Which is why most people prefer confusion, having free will in a handicapped conclusion.

So if one day, while tying your shoe or betraying your principles, just try to maintain some clarity.

Rise in love like the Sun does, for perfect reason, regardless of which or where is season.

Continue to walk in the grace of living, knowing now that the street is also walking with you — all giving.

For life in its great expectations is a succession of small epiphanies, it's nature's growth, where worlds within worlds are the realities.

Where He Dwells

There is a dwelling no map can hold,

no pilgrim's foot can claim,

Not in the temple's weathered stone, or in a whispered name.

For years one sought it high and low, in mountain, book, and prayer.

In incense smoke that climbs and thins, in still and solemn air.

One thinks it lives beyond the world, behind some hidden door.

That one must fast and leave the self to merit something more.

And then one day not being in devout, not thinking wise or being pure.

Love touched the heart as morning touches day for sure.

She did not speak of sacred things, she laughed about the rain, and in that ordinary laugh,  one felt the touch that changed the mind again.

For suddenly the room was holy, not changed, but as precious seen. To make sense in the ordinary solely to advance in keen. 

To understand then where He dwells, not far or mighty high and not apart. He dwells in the moment when love touched the human heart.

He does not wait in heaven's height for us to climb alone. He waits in every gentle touch that makes the world a home.

And when love touches, truly touches, without a reason why, the dwelling place reveals itself, in the here and now to the open sky. 

The dwelling is the recognition to honour the behold. That this kingship exists to endure, eternal love that can't get old. 

Metanoia

The change beyond the mind, is evolution of another kind.

We think the mind a window to see the world, a twisted thought, in convenience curled.

Metanoia is the shift of point of view, when the heart of soul creates the new.

As long as mind divides to understand, true union finds little reverence in this land.

This is good, this bad, this is mine, this is God — and He is far away,  the handicapped mind's design.

At times when love fails and the self within grows thin, hope reaches for a new begin.

Time will stretch the mind to agony, where is the wisdom in this tragedy?

In this sacred moment, the paradigm will challenge the wit,  where you mistook yourself for it.

The mind, a temple, a holy place, need not remain a maze.

Here Metanoia speaks not just as repentance, but draws open the heavy curtains.

It was no good, I must do better, the heart confesses, no longer debtor.

Not a change of heart in place, but a change of true refrase, where good things do themselves through me, by grace.

It is not moral, it is ontological action, like one weeps at a film's tragic satisfaction.

To see clearly, it was never the story of the film, it was the light that made the realm.

We search for Love in the world, not seen, not enough agape, though we thought we were keen.

Some try to reach God by climbing, still joining, and after all these years, still groaning.

A change of mind is not subtle enough, when the thinker's heart remains tough.

The mask must fall by compassion, the Eye through which God sees is ever in fashion.

One does not acquire it, it is inherited, to return to it. 

One does not become enlightened, one remembers the light, and lets the world to be brightened.

The Absolute, hiding in plain sight, waiting for to think beyond the mind, too behold itself remind.

To open the big window bright, to see the Kingdom as promised kind.

Receptivity

We speak as though we own the day, as though Life begs, and we obey.

Dear fool, it is the other way, we are the glass, and Life's the wine.

We think we are the player's hand, we strut, we plot, we reprimand.

Yet some unseen, unplanned command, breathes air through this flawed demand. 

To live and cry with such a fuss, so sure the world revolves for us.

But hush, the truth more dangerous, it turns the ego into some vaporous.

We are not landlords, we are lent, a moment's lodging, heaven-sent.

Life tries our shape to know what's meant, by sorrow, kisses, time well spent.

It borrows eyes to see the blue, it borrows lips to whisper "you."

Do not ask who lives the who, the vessel of body and the life are two.

The world exists in God's creation, images for mankind's declaration.

Be humbly of service to be grand, You are the instrument, not the hand.

Act as His living representative, to display his attributes, such love and mercy, to become a part of the absolute.

All perspectives are worthless, be assured, when the heart by the ego is obscured.

Where The Wave Bows

The Sea was calling the mighty One, the wise elephant God under the Sun.

Sitting still at the temple door —

"Come, learn another kind of stillness, and know more."

For there is a stillness that sits, and a stillness that moves and fits.

Ganesha spoke, "Teach me," to the divided, pliable Sea.

The Sea, being the first-born lover, did not answer as a fixed cover,

but placed him on a board where the wave bows, where balance is love in breaking rows.

This is how love teaches —

not by stilling the waves, but by riding them, making you worthy of its rising.

Be still, little self, and be in touch. You were never meant to own as such.

You were meant to be carried, in all waters of life not shy, where trust is the metaphor we live by.

Ganesha saw then, enlightenment is not a mountain to conquer.

It is a wave that comes, takes you, and throws one back on the sand to ponder.

And then, if you are blessed, it comes again, when courage asks for the same.

Keep the mind soft enough to float, heavy enough to stay on board, 

humble enough to know —you are not the rider, you are the riding itself, in a bow.

The board, the body, the breath, all one brief flow between elements, not to test, but to trust.

Another piece of freedom to liberate, when the tide is high, to go again.

And now when he is not sitting still, at the temple, you can see him, in heavy grace, riding the coaster, to get his fill.

The Hierophant

They called him Master, Guru or Priest, he did not life in the temple as some insist.

A meager house drenched with incense, and a kettle that whistled at 4 am times intense. 

The Hierophant wise counselor and holy man, speaks in parallels because he can.

He explains, people want a God, but not his laws, they want love, but not the ritual. They want truth, but not the scripture, everyone has its own picture. 

He would say, " You are confusing the cage for the bird."

Or wondering are steps to wisdom, while ignorance is the fall being blurred. 

He speaks of 5 fingers at the hand for reasons, easy count to face all treason.

Your thumb is for the book you never opened, the pointing finger is for the vow that keeps you broken.

The middle finger is for the teacher you mocked, not accepted and blocked.

The ring finger is for your knees, never learned to bend them to please.

The pinky is for nothing, then silence and stillness is all in genuine nothing.

He speaks about methods to hold the bridge, as both side are the same ridge.

He does want to be holy, or pure, he wants to be understood for sure.

In the morning he sweeps the temple steps at the entry, not because they were dirty.

But because sweeping is a prayer that has no words, and therefore cannot lie conferred. 

Consideration for him is expressed in the countenance, wisdoms established natural romance.

Proprioception (God within)

There is a secret Cartographer in each and everyone, to navigate the world under the sun.

Once upon a time a man who lost his map, not of the world, but of his mental lap.

His eyes were fine, his ears were keen, but somewhere in between unseen.

A quiet clerk inside went on a retreat, the one who knows where are your feet.

The one who lives in tendon, muscle and bone, to make the hand your own.

That was the time one morning, where the man reached for tea, but his hand missed, how could that be?

He saw the cup right there, but his fingers grabbed at empty air.

He went to walk, and walked askew, his legs forgot what legs should do.

I am thinking, therefore I am, he remembers as he hit the jam.

My thoughts are clear and my mind is bright,  why can't I turn left from right.

Without the aid of open eyes, who tells the body where it lies?

An old Seer laughed and said, there's a small God inside your head.

Not in the chapel where you pray, but in the mind that works each day.

He is the one when the body speaks and begs,  simply sits inside your legs.

Measuring stretch, strain and swing, librarian and scorer of everything.

The mysterious autopilot of sense, and most discreet intelligence.

No vision in paints, no ear that hears, yet it held you for all these years.

You thought your 'self' was in your brain, a king upon a thinking throne of sane.

But you are more like murmured lease, between your joints and a state of peace.

That clerk, that god, that quiet friend, who tells you where you start and end. 

Giving you to feel complete not as a thought, but a body very finely wrought.

Not quite in his body to presume, more like a flow of bloom.

A messenger too fast for speech, that keeps you within own reach.

The proprioceptive Clerk back on duty, things take on in simple beauty.

From that day, he walked less proud, no more to please the crowd.

For he had met, beneath the skin, the one who'd always held him in.

The art of understanding the force of space, is to know that the divine liberates the place. 

Senses reveal the hidden realms for sure, to make it a holy procedure.