Love to write of love,
to pen on absentia
proxy more than poetry
falls as cloud of feathers.
Words all pointing to being
from which they grew
and together somehow
plucked to fall and scatter.
Rapture or heartbreak
healing or celebration
conscious love is willing,
the core of music, who knew?
Before this aboding ends
some anathema arises
in fact two intervals occur
to divert or detour the love.
Self centered love ends
turning around sadness of loss
our one sacred gift, the sacrafice
an eternal scar remains for us.
(Writing for love is not
what is higher, pure feelt.
Standards and all rules
surround token in logic.)
As such, the copy feelt
usually defies the common,
negating understanding,
moving not but stranding.
The pain involved finds us
intrinsically absentia by proxy
the rise of human spirit
tests precisely one persistence.
When failing to make the turn
learning to expect future abyss
forgetting and calculating comfort
limitations and finite time to come.
Darkness grows ever more just then
If there is persistent opposing
painful proof of the old adage
shakes as dark, being worse when last.
We love and fail to communicate
while communicating is essential
and despite our understanding
we discover a bizarre incompetence.
Born of habituated need to judge
based on the edifice built by self
our capacity to love remains pain
until we end self-love's knowing reign.
The prick of this imprisoned existence
comes at the moment we forget not
that such higher states are given
to surrender, not achieved by plot.
This remembering of one's self
supported by separating knowing
from what is purely feelt
passes as space in a needle-eye.
To forget this and one's self
and to never quit accepting help
designed to wake one to not sleep
paradoxically succeeds just as well.
There are paths and ways to evolve
despite this poem's chaotic revelation
one cannot deny in closing with verse
ending as just adoring beautiful source.
If beauty takes a beholding eye, then
ugly basically is what passes us by
such that any notice recognizes justly
the consequence of our weak existence.
In truth, ugliness seen is beyond notice
like perceiving astrophysicist's black holes,
what in fact isn't seen is beyond seeing
and will never be seen, it's beauty no more.
Thus to write about love has equal footing
while love no more would spell our demise
our particular defect of sleep is mechanical
mental, emotional, physical, and instinctual.
Freedom from that known requires an edge
sharp enough, to cut through Gordian's knot
and a place to start as mentioned above
the sacred sorrow and death to self-edifice.
Realized as a possibility, the real work begins
for that moment of grace when gift is made
the glory for all those awake to accept it,
we prepare by increasing consciousness.
So it goes... this much I remember at least.
It helps not to judge anything, recognizing
role of logic in sustaining a safe beingness.
Uncorrupted, reason isn't feeling, as thought.
Ethically, proper reason is mediated by theory
the boundary between known and unknown
where limits express orders of chaos
the sine qua non encapsulated in roll of dice
which begs the most important spiritual issue,
being the work involved in reducing our evolution
based on luck, when lucky enough is not.
So, this is neither balanced composition
or in any rigorous measure, poetry.
Here are merely the ramblings of mine
looking even less prose for the stumbling.
Question remains of value about nature,
to suffice on extract and to cohere
into a concise statement for elucidation?
Or, like more useful bandages in general
ought the receptacle for these words
likewise be the same, including its hazards?
-rjd, 2007
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