Waiting

From out of the haze of the red dust towns
I crawled towards this mountain in a stupor,
an amnesia, urged on by some faint impulse
sprung from nowhere, pushing ever forward
in a dream of motion, as if these words
themselves were my forgotten feet.

Every direction is an experiment,
as is living, loving, or even
appearing here at all.

Whatever is known, felt, seen,
or remembered isn’t going to last,
so why count on any of it?

Knowing
merely obscures,
feeling mostly complicates,
seeing is deceiving, memory
just gives fantasy a place
to park and reminisce.

I put no faith in the conscious.

Today my mouth is in ruins;
my will, a delicate floating feather.

Persisting in a personal catastrophe,
confounded yet by beliefs and expectations

(even those that tend to rule me
without my knowledge or consent),

I stagger, dazed, heart vibration pulsing,
waiting here beyond hope and fear
for whatever else this emptiness
can materialize to show me.

Just one touch shy of coming to life,
everyone is waiting like verdigris statues
in crumbling mossy temples of mind, frozen
in hopeful poses, once gleaming marble, now
corroded with the flaking particles of inevitable
compromises made to achieve what never mattered.

And yet, neither time nor frailty can ever eliminate
the heart’s deepest desire, an impossible yearning
identical with my own soul’s breathing song –
the relentless motive to fully lose oneself
in the pure mystery of all that manifests,
thrives, and ultimately disappears
in this conspiring transience
of form and emptiness.

With tender regard
for each small murmur rising
from innocent green garden shoots –

how could I not be enamored of this dream
of life, and its every poignant weakness?

Regardless,
as long as I try to grasp
or futilely cling to any of it,
it will all continue to evade me.

Alternately,
if I let it take me,
it will naturally become me —
my heart’s deepest yearning fulfilled.

I’ve come to care for the things of this world
by submitting to the very same touch
that impersonally animates them –

the same touch that grants the universe
the miraculous power of life itself.

My birth did not increase nature,
my death will not diminish it.

That’s merely the ineffable display
of a dream flashing within a larger dream.

Truly, I could die right now,
vanish as if I was never born,
yet everything will still be waiting,
waiting for that touch.

 

buddha-head-statues-angkor-wat-temple-carson-ganci

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About Bob OHearn

My name is Bob O'Hearn, and I live with my Beloved Mate, Mazie, in the foothills of the Northern California Sierra Nevada Mountains. I have several other sites you may enjoy: Photo Gallery: http://www.pbase.com/1heart Essays on the Conscious Process: http://theconsciousprocess.wordpress.com/ Poetry and Prosetry: https://feelingtoinfinity.wordpress.com/ Writings from selected Western Mystics, Classic and Modern: https://westernmystics.wordpress.com/ https://freetransliterations.wordpress.com/ Wisdom of a Spirit Guide: https://spiritguidesparrow.wordpress.com/ Thank You!
This entry was posted in Mystic Poetry, Nonduality and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Waiting

  1. Christopher says:

    Beautiful, Bob.

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