"Empty-handed I entered the world, barefoot I leave it.  My coming, my going, two simple happenings that got entangled."

~ Kozan Ichikyo

leave them as trees



Another turning of the years, another chapter in the book       

A thousand years and a thousand more and a thousand yet to come

Shifting from this place to that, with its history and its dreams

Let us put it all aside now and enjoy the coffee and the crackling fire

Mysteries and miracles, love, hate, or indifference do not originate elsewhere

Like some letter from afar delivered to the mailbox of our lives

Rather they are the warp and weft of the fabric of experience

Which knows neither hither nor yon, without nor within

The apple from the Tree of Knowledge introduced scale and measure

Carving I-dentity out of Wholeness, creating darkness from the Light

Footfalls on a path endlessly in search of a soul that was never truly lost

Driven by a longing for home, now hidden by the shadows of our own imagination

Commandments, prophecy, and other fruitless concoctions offered by the score

Only to find it to be just another bright shiny object

Like the glint of sunlight on the dancing waves

Only for a moment, then the moment’s gone

The brain, encased in darkness, is blind and the eyes are deaf and dumb

But it matters not, as those who see can’t say and those who say can’t see

Better to leave paper as trees and quills on the wing

Than to keep trying to spin straw into gold

Still, we yearn to know, self-reflective alone among all others

A box is fashioned according to the skills of the carpenter

Stepping back to admire our work, we see nothing but blemishes

Better used to keep us warm by committing it to the fire

All music comes from a handful of notes, every written word from a single alphabet

Everything has a cause, tracing origins back to Uncaused Source, or Spirit

Logical nonsense, to be sure, but the Heart is free to make no sense at all  

At last, with nothing ever broken, there is nothing left to fix

Its not answers that we need but an end to the asking of questions

Not to remain in the darkness of ignorance in some sort of false bliss

But to realize that piecemeal feeding will never end the hunger

And the village that it takes bears a single familiar face

Birth to death and back again, send the tour guide packing

Lock the door, slip out the back when those in robes come knocking

The kind of wares they mean to sell are for those with eyes closed tightly

Its only when all speech abates that the mighty voice of Silence rings forth

A life of chasing empty leads, a closet full of gaudy costumes, pointy shoes and hats

Seems like so many lifetimes ago, its hard to imagine we ever ran so hard

And that now at last, at long, long last

When the owl asks who, who, we finally know the answer

About bmf:

Having looked at and listened to lifestuff from an early age, the author finds that more has been unlearned than learned.  Socrates says to know thyself but what if there is nobody home?  Even so, occasionally thoughts arise that seem to illuminate the personal landscape in an inexplicable but somehow worthwhile way.  Sometimes they even make their way into print, disguised as either verse or prose, and, in the odd circumstance, someone other than the author actually reads them.  The alphabet does not convey the sunset, but so it goes.  



This story is an excerpt from our new ebook, SPARKS of INSPIRATION Kindle Edition #2.

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