nothing makes a difference.

Blown along cold coasts of reason,
the wordless breeze is winding down now
to a softer part of the feeling, is warm
on the tip of the eye I am keeping
like a lover on this moon.

This moon!

Her naked radiance,
blatant and unashamed,
blasts the billion tiny mirrors
studded diamond-like within my cells,
ablaze with urgent white-light moonshine.

While some wisps of stray grey fog
slyly wrap themselves around us,
we are tempted to the old debate:

“Destiny, or free will?”

Talking breeds its own dilemmas –
streams of concepts chasing mirages –
so we assume no fixed positions, nodding
to each other in that sweet redundancy
ancient loving brings.

We know that anything other than
the most impeccable humor in the face
of delusion merely postpones true serenity.

For no particular reason, or
for every reason there ever could be,
we smile — we’re in no hurry.

That’s true serenity, which is never
anything like the idea of itself.

Neither are you and I, we’re like
nothing conceivable or even perceivable.

We indulge no secret motive to have anything
be other than what it is – a passing phantom
flash of itself, reflected like moonshine
on the shiny black lacquer of itself.

The sheer intensity of this love
can shine so strong that our hands
open up and something invisible
flies outs to blend with infinity!

Then I move closer to you, though
between us no distance exists.

The subtle movements we make with our eyes
stir visions for beings still waiting for birth,
euphorically anticipating our next breath.

We will not disappoint them.

In the bosom of this fog of forgetfulness,
something seems to persist, impaled
by shafts of intermittent moonshine
on the exquisite tip of attention.

Grasping at nothing, turning nothing away,
we pause here, poised at the outermost reach
of vision’s lighthouse light beam, transfixed
at the nexus of darkness and light.

All effort has led us here.
All efforts dissolves here.

From this time on, there will be
no landmarks, no buoys.

Somewhere, in the measureless
distance, a fog horn sounds:

I feel you . . .

breathing . . .


Mazie Moon 3


About Bob OHearn

My name is Bob O'Hearn, and I live with my Beloved Mate, Mazie, and our lazy dog, Amos, in a lovely little mountain town called Paradise, situated on the ridge of the Little Grand Canyon, in the Northern California Sierra Nevadas. I have several other sites you may enjoy: Photo Gallery: Essays on the Conscious Process: Poetry and Prosetry: Writings from selected Western Mystics, Classic and Modern: Free Transliterations of Spiritual Texts: Wisdom of a Spirit Guide: Thank You!
This entry was posted in Mystic Poetry, Nonduality and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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