Dear Readers,

This current site, Feeling To Infinity, has become rather unwieldy, with over 600 posts. Consequently, I am leaving it as an archive, but will no longer post here. Instead, I have divided the existing posts into 6 separate blog sites, based on their thematic content, and future posts will appear at one of these new sites, or else at one of the other pre-existing blog locations.

The new sites are as follows:

Writing On Water

Verses, rants, and ramblings on life as it is — personal observations, visions, meditations:


The Mind That Never Was

Verses, Visions, and Verbal Variations on the Investigation of Mind Nature:


Only Dreaming

Verses and rambles on the Play of Consciousness:


The Mysterious Expanse

Poetic Fiction, Fable, Far-fetched Fantabulation:


Snowy Path to Nowhere

Poems of the Mountain Hermit:


The Book of Yes

Love Poems to the Beloved:


The following pre-existing sites will remain the same:


Photo Gallery:


Essays on the Conscious Process of Recognition and Liberation:


Autobiographical Fragments, Memories, Stories, and Tall Tales:


Ancient and modern spiritual texts, creatively refreshed:


Writings from selected Western Mystics, Classic and Modern:


Wisdom of a Spirit Guide:


Thank you for your interest and support!


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Solitary vigil on a windless night
winter moon rising, bitter cold
smoke-like thoughts drift through the dark
phantom creatures with no place to land
fire’s burnt out, not an ember remains
now I know what I really am:
everything, nothing


moon in snow

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Free Flowing

Even the smallest thing has its own special glow —
why speak of enlightenment when everything shines?
Light flowing into light, into more and more light still,
each one of our senses is a portal — open, open at will!
Every day is a festival of ten thousand changing things,
at night we float by thought through translucent scenes.
I can be a small boat cast far adrift on a shoreless sea,
or mount a white steed of clouds and gallop the skies
of eternity — my play is my work, my work my play,
the secret, my Friends, is a heart that roams free.
Stay wild like the breeze that lingers nowhere,
that caresses the world and then disappears!



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Mountain Hermit’s Lullaby

Another season of rain and mists
leaves more blurry footprints in the mud.
Too damp for making fire, and beneath
grey skies a cold cloak has wrapped itself
around my shoulders, fits just right.

Whatever it was I sought — it’s all vague
memories now, distant spectral shadows,
private pantomimes, need I spell it out:
the inescapable futility of ambition?

I don’t remember when this mountain cave
became my home. My hands are empty still,
just as I began — only cramps and hard callouses
to show for it all, and perhaps some brief stories
to ward off the chill when night falls again,
when searching creatures curl and huddle
in the dark, when all my fleeting images
blend together, shimmer, then dissolve.

Not far away, the mesmerizing rhythms
of surging mountain stream sounds combine
to form a single voice — my own. All along,
I’ve only been talking to myself, only narrating
a story to myself about some fictional character
I’ve taken myself to be, one I’ve blithely pretended
to be in this ongoing theatrical production.

Night and day, I listened to that smooth-talking
salesman with an eager, gullible fool for a customer,
a naive one who kept falling for the same sales pitch
time and again. At last, I stopped investing in tall tales,
alluring promises, those slick persuasive come-ons.
I finally silenced that glib silver-tongued devil.
I’m just not inclined to believe him anymore.

Maybe now I’m beginning to see: whether positive,
negative, or neutral, no view I could hold is true.
There is nothing which I can conceive or grasp
that has any inherent or enduring substance.
This lovely snow which has started to fall
is but another prop in an endless dream.
I just want to lay down and sleep like a child —
for a night and a day, for a thousand lifetimes.

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Last Page

Winter again, and all I have is one clean page left
in my writing notebook. The rest were scribbled on,
torn out, crumpled up, and tossed into the trash.

The ghosts who drift around me may grow wistful —
it’s lonely to be forgotten, once the seasons change.
Whatever seemed like wisdom — where is it now?

Old poems blur in memory, mind itself crumples a little
with each successive heartbeat. Soon enough winter
has arrived again, and there’s one page left to fill.

If this were really the last page, if this were really winter,
if all the ghosts stopped in their ghostly tracks, turning
their gaze towards me, what would I have to say?

A boy once sat here dreaming, an old man sits here now.

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After All (2)

I was born near a foggy shore,
and grew to love the ocean moods.

Valleys are rich with orchards and vineyards —
who could resist their enticing charms?

I’ve traveled through lonely deserts, stayed a while
in many cities too — each has their own special
quality, even if it’s to be bereft of any quality.

At last, the drumbeat of my heartbeat led me
to these mountains. It’s where I’ve pitched my tent.

How fortunate — to witness another brilliant sunrise
here in this wild forest of oaks and tall pines!

The birds are busy with their morning rituals,
the green trees bathe in the dawning light.

Seasons with their varied changing props are like
painted scenes upon a stage. So many characters
appear and disappear — who can say how many?

Although my eyes are open, my gaze is turned within.
The world of men and women, the world of being
and becoming — all that gradually fades away.

Breathing in, breathing out — after all my efforts,
hopes, and schemes, what will still remain?

Far off in the distance, a barking dog, and now
the wind has found me, the trees begin to sway.

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Swept Away

In my mind I’m returning to the river.
It’s all right there, everything is clear.
The concise scripture, the revelation —
I will read that book with my whole body.

Still, I’m not really going anywhere at all.
Everyone and everything is going with me.
We’re traveling without moving, it’s the way
of this world, this liquid flowing mirage.

I plunge my face into the ice cold stream.
I will seem to be awake now, but I am here,
warm and dry. I’m dreaming by the quiet fire.
Rain today — every drop falls perfectly in place.

The river is a bunch of rain, a whole generation
of rain falling into this dream I’m drenched in now,
and I am shivering, but I am happy, happy to be taken
by the river at last, happy to be swiftly swept away.



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