The Note

If you glanced out your front window and saw me walking towards your door, you might imagine that you know me, that I have a familiar look, a friendly face when you least expect to see or know one — no one really, just someone who would not really mind if you ignored the knock, the knock I made upon your door, someone who would understand that you only wished to hear the song of the beautiful lone canary, someone who would, in deference to that beauteous song bird, refrain from stirring up a ruckus at your door, some one who, instead, would leave a certain note by your doorbell, the same one that has been out of order for years, and when you got this note, maybe in an hour, maybe by this time next week, you would open it and read:

I was here. I heard the beautiful canary singing.
With my hand made of flesh and bone,
with my hand made of blood and sinew,
with this hand composed of thought,
with my every thought made of mind,
with this mind I raised a lonely hand.

I knocked upon your door, the door
made of wood, the door made of metal,
metal made of mind, a mind door
appearing in the midst of pristine space,
this space made of emptiness, gloriously
transparent, this emptiness not a thing,
not an object of mind, not really a door,
not even a mind, and I was knocking,
I was knocking on your door.

It was in all beauty itself that I walked
to your door. There was beauty before me,
beauty behind me, and all there is, this
beauty, it surrounds me. It leads me
to this door, leads me to your door.

I was knocking on your door. With my heart
floating on a foam of ecstasy, of beauty,
with my hand composed of every beauty,
and my mind, my mind made of beauty,
beauty this emptiness, beauty this fullness,
beauty this very heart-essence, the essence
of you and me, of all of us, of everything
with any rudimentary sense of beauty —
beauty our rest and beauty our motion,
the motion raising itself in beauty —
that same beauty was knocking at your door.

There is beauty in the dark cloud as much as
in the sunshine, beauty in the mist and rain,
beauty in the leaves and twigs, the stones
lying in the path, the path filled with beauty,
beauty returning once again to beauty,
leading up to your front door.

I came unto your door, I thereupon intuited
your beauty — it is a hidden treasure, it is
a secret sort of subtle beauty, I sensed it,
a wordless beauty, unspeakable beauty,
I had no words, no beautiful words
to coax you from your silence,
to coax you to the door.

Please understand, there is flowing water
which has no end or any beginning.
It is the beauty I came to offer you,
should you open your front door.

I am water, I am beauty, I am rising
to your door. I will rise and fall, yes,
I will show you the beauty of the water,
I will come with lightning flashing,
the zigzag lightning lit with beauty,
electric with our beauty, flashing
brightly at your door.

Yes, I have made the sacrifice,
I have left the dark cloud,
I have left the empty sky,
I have renounced the old beauty
to walk on water to your door.

When I leave here now I will be
laughing, when I leave here now
I am glad, glad to walk in beauty,
glad to leave the beauty behind.

Before me there is only beauty.
Behind me beauty shines.
I am leaving you this note here.
I am leaving it behind.


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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