White-silence neg

You dwell among the causes of death
like a butter lamp standing in a strong breeze.

I’ve heard it said that, while we live
we’re busy making mind, but that mind
we made while we were living becomes
the one that, after death, makes us.

That may be cause for apprehension,
and yet perhaps it is not death
we fear the most, but life —

life that seems to contradict the dream
of any victorious resolution once imagined
in the eagerness of youthful idealism,
in its innocent willingness to believe
without question or doubt;

life forever isolated from the rest of life
by the self-imposed barrier of trust
in the reality of a dusty bag of flesh,
a mealy meat suit fashioned out of dirt;

life that might even seem to amount to zero
in a futility of form and motion, speedily racing
from nowhere to nothing, paradoxically
feeling trapped in a tight closed loop
of the known yet fearing the unknown —

deteriorating daily, yearly,
diminishing inexorably, until
all that is left is the stale dry air
of second-hand concepts which by now
have far exceeded their fraudulent warranty,
yielding only cynicism and disdain;

life that moves regardless, teased by the rumor
of a beautiful desire — the End of Wanting –
so far out of reach for still-suffering hearts
left pining for that balm of sweet oblivion.

For such wounded souls, death itself
may be welcomed, sought, and always found,
only to be usurped by yet another life of confusion,
disastrous fixation, and outrageous insult —

where boredom and doubt vie with a stubborn hope;
where relationship equates with deals and dilemma,
and love becomes a promise sadly despaired of,
perhaps to be regarded as just another lie,
a fool’s fantasy laced with hype;

where freedom seems a cruel fiction –
deceptive stories sold to themselves
by hopeful day-dream believers.

Yet in the shadowed corners of the night,
the steady flow of frustration’s tears,
and perhaps some secret prayers,
some bargaining, or a poignant plea
to the one believed to be behind
this seemingly endless calamity.

Strung back on the spinning wheel
once more, embodiment resumes again,
and here is birth and death again,
a cycle that seems to never end,
till the futility hones to a keen red edge,
and the flash of its blade removes the head.

Mind now falls into its own black night,
rests at last on a bed of cooled ashes,
all light blown out into a silence
beyond any comprehension –

all let go, all let go, all strife
and struggle surrendered,

until, until . . .

from the stillness of that deep dark,
with a true love unconditional,
a spark may rise, become a blaze,
illuminating limitless space, liberating
both sinner and saint, a torch in vast immensity,
beyond both sides of certainty, alive as the shine
of awareness itself, its deathless open essence:

Home at last, Home at last, Home at last!



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 a number of blog sites you may enjoy: Photo Gallery: Essays on the Conscious Process: Compiled Poetry and Prosetry: Verses and ramblings on life as it is: Verses and Variations on the Investigation of Mind Nature: Verses on the Play of Consciousness: Poetic Fiction, Fable, Fantabulation: Poems of the Mountain Hermit: Love Poems from The Book of Yes: 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!
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One Response to Deathless

  1. Bob OHearn says:

    “Think of your death now. It is at arm’s length. It may tap you any moment, so really you have no time for crappy thoughts and moods. None of us have time for that. The only thing that counts is action, acting instead of talking. When a man decides to do something he must go all the way, but he must take responsibility for what he does. No matter what he does, he must know first why he is doing it, and then he must proceed with his actions without having doubts or remorse about them. Look at me, I have no doubts or remorse. Everything I do is my decision and my responsibility. The simplest thing I do, to take you for a walk in the desert for instance, may very well mean my death. Death is stalking me. Therefore, I have no room for doubts or remorse. If I have to die as a result of taking you for a walk, then I must die.
    You on the other hand, feel that you are immortal, and the decisions of an immortal man can be cancelled or regretted or doubted. In a world where death is the hunter, my friend, there is not time for regrets or doubts. There is only time for decisions. When you get angry you always feel righteous. You have been complaining all your life because you don’t assume responsibility for your decisions. To assume the responsibility of one’s decisions means that one is ready to die for them. It doesn’t matter what the decision is. Nothing could be more or less serious than anything else. In a world where death is the hunter there are no small or big decisions. There are only decisions that we make in the face of our inevitable death.”

    Carlos Castaneda

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