To the ant who questioned my Being while circling my foot in play:
I’m a Möbius strip, an Escher curve, a vast topologic ocean
© Chagall ∞
Tag Archive: non-duality
Perhaps we are all
Afloat in this universe
Pending gestation
© Chagall ∞
A thin line separates
thought from written word.
© Chagall ∞
(Inspired by a comments exchange with Celestine @ Reading Pleasure)
People on the planet? A quick search reveals there are seven
point five billion. My handy calculator powered by the sun
tells me this is two to the thirty-second people (give or take a power)
I record my voice, I hum an A, 440 Hz pure tone
that I bounce to a second track, so now there’s two of me
I repeat – four – again and there’s eight, for thirty two times
(give or take a power) until I achieve a chorus of me
of seven point five billion
I sit there under headphones
in perfect surround, the volume way up
I am all that there is
© Chagall ∞
Dear Reader: this is a rewrite of a 2013 post of the same name.
The stars will guide me home one day,
I’ll follow their path until the edge
where the furtive eyes of seers peer
from beyond the eddies of time that spiral
amid the shallows of predawn, in waters
formed succeeding the impetus, immediately and
forever, I’ll be awash in the brine,
soaking, absorbing, adsorbing, and engorging,
until I burgeon and explode
into nebula-cum-universe.
© Chagall ∞
I expected to wake to cold and sorrow, but instead I rise to nothing but desire
to perform spectacular acts of radical kindness.
© Chagall ∞
From atop the altar, a humming sound,
the sweet scent of imminent grace,
morning light imbues stained glass
with timeless palpitation, what is old
is new once, ancient olive wood
balustrades provide steady ascent.
What’s that hovering o’er the assembled?
My soul resonates with the dissonant voicing
of the towering pipe-organ.
Chant, all you chanters.
Mais oui, absolument, chanté!
The good news is that
good news is
Truth.
From here atop the land-mound
I sing to the sun gods,
I reflect light back
To The Others on the land-mounds
Below Me, and They to Those
Below Them and on
We are One upon rich green rope,
buttery young olives.
© Chagall ∞
I did not think I would write today,
living life had more allure until
I reached too far, I felt too
deeply, I fell ever so gently
from such a short height,
that’s all it took
to be here.
© Chagall ∞
Lately I’ve insight into the timeless,
so subtle, perception of beauty of light,
of truth, of love, needing not yesterday
nor tomorrow to be, the clearest field
of space for mind to dwell, to frolic –
indeed to play and touch, weightless.
Light engenders objects with the characteristics
of the timeless, yet I’m certain the blind
sense forever, they can stop their day
as you and I can.
I shall not believe that those with five senses
are nearer to God than those of us with just one.
I believe sight is possible without eyes,
as music is sans ears, a sigh without a heart.
We are immersion-in-sensuality regardless
of the state of our senses.
It is night, only she by the ocean
where moonlight bathes in her hair,
the luster of shadow along sand
invites her to lie and rest.
In morning sunlight she arises
refreshed and timeless.
© Chagall ∞
My drafts hold nothing of interest, some nonsense I scribbled
in a vain attempt to infer Sara from the existence of stars,
some ambiguous mumbo (tiny, not jumbo) plus
a line about life in the canopy over
fields at the apex of gloaming.
Nothing of value to work with here
so I turn to birdsong to quell
my ache for expression.
© Chagall ∞
Alphabet City 