Hot Rocks and Stream Stones


pine trees

A long hot hike through the woods –
bending down between two boulders
to drink from this cool stream,
aching feet are forgotten.
Glancing up, these towering trees –
so many million pine needles!
Fused in the steamy heat of this scene,
I become a dark-sheened calligraphic stroke,
a man-mirage in soggy summer shimmer,
a shadow scorched onto gray rock canvas.
In some future life perhaps I’ll chance upon myself,
the one who melted into this rock mountain here,
relinquishing the satin stain of self, a charred
testament to all crispy vanishing things.
Nothing will have changed by then,
yet nothing shall remain the same.
Ah, these summer days fly by as swiftly
as a sudden shower of welcome rain –
nothing really to surrender,
no form to grasp, no name to claim.




Every stream stone is spun light spiraled down,
suspended in a cool shell of seeming forgetfulness,
submitted to the dream weave of watery motion,
only to be worn down, watered down by time
to its quintessential light, the sweet love light
which leaves no stone unlit in the blinding
flash of its singular luminous emanation.
The source of itself is darkness,
which is only this impersonal bliss
cutting a gash in the diaphanous fabric
of dreaminess with a blade of condensed light.
I’m lying in wait in water, now surrendered
to that limitless fluidity of supernal light
from which I has never been divided,
but only so very tenderly caressed.
This fullness breaking open
and freely expanding in all directions
is the supreme pleasure and natural satisfaction
of Mr. Gone, the one who travels without moving
through successive layers of our endless dreaming
to finally swallow us whole — no ripple left to mark
our sudden disappearance from the rows of patient stones,
each waiting in sublime repose for their number to come up.

Rock Me


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!
This entry was posted in Mystic Poetry, Nonduality and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

5 Responses to Hot Rocks and Stream Stones

  1. marcelvuijst says:

    Love the metaphor, thank you for sharing Brother!

    “Mr Gone” lol I’ll send you a custom sweater one day, just made one for my (blood) Brother “Tight George” (which tells his poker game as well as his mental status) I have a “The Fist” one for myself, Mr Gone is cool, not for poker or darts perhaps, but it can be appreciated in other circles.

  2. marcelvuijst says:

    Thanks for leaving those toys in the attic behind, they’re made to good use, chips, chokers and clowns. Now there’s nothing lacking or in need of cultivation I can appreciate the so called owner burns, yet the toys aren’t taken to the grave so the kids can play with or without recognition of this jeweled emptiness. Jai to You!

  3. marcelvuijst says:

    Perfect thanks! Can’t find the Ansel Adams entree from p1base but just imagine it. 🙂

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