Aphorisms watching rain fall – 18th May 2017

Aphorisms written in a cafe, watching rain fall, waiting for a Buddha burger, dreaming in the day:

Everything you wished for you have, everything you need is here.

Life may be a sick show, but wisdom and love is the cure.

Hate is just love on a bad day.

Be at ease, accept yourself.

Peace is like a flower, let it grow, let it see the sun. Don’t cut it, own it, remove it from it’s roots.

Give, we’ve nothing to lose.

Every mistake is precious. Make more!

Breathe well, live with grace, ease the mind, heart opens.

Each moment is raw potential. Who do we want to be?

We can choose to live deep and rich or shallow and poor.

We are here to learn and grow, believe in an end to fear.

Where is your mind? Really! It is everywhere.

Live the mystery.

Life happens now. The present is all there is. Live there.

Loving relationships are the basis for a happy, successful life.

In a relationship explore your unity, don’t dwell on differences.

Wealth comes from a wise heart, not a fat wallet.

Enrichment, liberation, peace and inspiration, only comes in silence.

If you pray, pray for love.

Love grows where no one knows.

Without beauty, we are bricks.

Living without expectations means you’re never disappointed.

Everything matters, the tiniest details.

The more subtle we become, the more we feel.

The lighter we are, the more we see.

Be fluid like a wild river.

Fragrance is a memory.

Feel the electricity between us.

Forget yourself and remember bliss. The art of being,

There is no light without dark, or dark without light and someone keeps playing with the switch.

Learn in the dark, live in the light.

To be there for someone, just listen.

Between thoughts, disappear.

A moment of love reveals everything

Forget comparisons to others. There is only one you. That’s enough, that’s perfect!

Approach negativity with positivity.

Laughter is a sacred song,

Seasons are wheel, our life is a wheel, beyond that, bigger wheels.

On your tiptoes, see over the fence, glimpse the beyond.

In conflict, put a foot on both sides of the fence. See yourself in everyone. You’re there!

Each breath is a doorway, where do you want to go?

Everyone is an island until they taste the ocean.

The body is just a boat delivering us to another shore.

When you look at the stars, they know you’re watching.

Be an open hand, not a fist.

The ‘nightmare’ is our greatest teacher.

Try something new. Stay fresh.

Opinions are like a noose, choking free thought and free living.

We are all in prison. We are the prison!

Love has not boundaries, hate can only rise in ignorance.

Anger hurts both ways.

Our story is not written; you’re the dancer, the director, the set designer, the tea maker, the narrator, the star actor.

To believe in fate, is fatal.

Believe you can and will always change.

There is no ‘easy life’.

Our blood contains the salt of great oceans, our flesh, the dust of many stars, our mind, the infinite dreaming.

What comes, comes.

Don’t fight, don’t buy, don’t push, don’t think too much, don’t try.

What comes, comes. Then goes.

Nothing lasts, nothing is gained.

Only freedom matters.

Whatever your beliefs, leave room for love.

Words can be weapons or an embrace.  They cannot be taken back.  Choose them wisely.

Conflict is the spark of existence, the creator. Embrace it.

Everything we do is ego based. Without ego, we are not. Joy!

The ego is right in front, all the time. Face it.

Go deeper, then we know what is to be done.

We make our living by living.

Secrets are the fun part, leave them to enchant, let them work their magic.

No one really knows, if they say they do, they don’t.

The heart draws us from the mind to meditation.

Enlightenment is a ridiculous goal!

You cannot be bored. Nothing is missing.

Less talk, more listen.

The failure in life is wiser.

Know death, know life.

Life is perfectly simple and infinitely complex.

See the beauty in the ordinary and plain.

We only ever grieve for ourselves.

Our true nature is love.

Life is not here to be take seriously.  Howl at the moon.

This game is freedom, exploration, questioning, laughter, compassion, wisdom, contentment, health, dancing, sharing, meditation, teas, chocolate, trust, mischief.

Get out of your mind.

Dance on the edge, don’t fade away.

Be love, not fear.

Sometimes, the hardest advice to take is our own.

The burger is here.

With love, Lx

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Drfiting

The mechanical heart, welded from extinct locomotives
Purges fiery wings from its valves and arteries.

All this in memories like tar and softened, footloose windowsills of time.
Where was I? Black rocks in my boots,
The bed of ancient lake and the dust of downed meteorites,
Now a suburban sprawl like greedy steel hand.

Skimming like a smooth button of trousers unnameable.
Stacks of linens, just well-pressed affairs, soiled ambitions
And truant cares. Balls of lint and electricity deep in the
Cave of my navel and some gypsy cleave.

A stowaway, desperate for a snapped crowbar, a break from the
Production line.
A job in a bean tin warehouse, ‘frijoles!’ Jazz release at night and quarts of
Cheap whiskey and sometimes takeaway
Downtown and steaming far from New Orleans.
Casual.

Just another poisoned paper cup chalice in the industrial labyrinth
Of cogs and meaningless maniac machinery,
Chewed up by the decaying teeth of cheap addictions.

(When Hank on a stool met the stare of Daisy holding a jug of coffee in the Fat Cat Diner, like two star crossed guppies, sad fish with sagging skin, something lecherous was born above the stained apron and name badges. Retiring to a cave in the fish tank, they made mechanical non-love on the passion devoid, the non-bed creaking like a toothless Cajun’s rocking chair and non-hope was shared in the non-light of day. Cigarettes. Salty silver light dilutes, car horns and sirens peeling off into the non-scape mingle with crackled sax and skiffles. Hank reflects that skyscrapers are gangs of loveless digits stretching into the limitless greed and folly born of the non-Men. Something had been poisoned but the thought of charcoal purity was too intoxicating. The ether awash with despairing glitches. Hangover grips, bone weary, deep and nauseous tyrant, hot pokers for eyes. Phones tapped. Tap drips. Cigarette drunk. Watery vomit. Kiss. Lets hit the highway, see where we can’t go in the Nontagon Infinitum.)

“Cuba Libre!” the landlord cried
With eye bags like a communists punch bag.
Our heroes left before dawn in the back
Of a farmers pick up heading to Venus, Illinois
And a single brush sweeps past the cat, clouds of red dust jump the porch onto the bed of that ancient lake which hides the fragments of meteors beneath the hills that some locals still call the sleeping woman.

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Moonchild with the Sunny Eyes

Watching the night pass by the bus window,
A reminder of how bleak things can grow,
Under each lightbulb hangs a theatre of memories
And chaotic visions,
In the day we create, in the night we are created.

Here, where not one has fully let the light in,
We may believe that love saves but
Our many shades of love leave us wondering.

The distant piano drifts down from the dark and still house,
In it the lonely shiver of not knowing.
I saw the half gold moon fall past the crumbling concrete
And sleeping crows,
Felt the nervous stirring of the dreamers and the lost souls
Wrapped in blankets within their family of shadows.

Sins inflamed at the dead of night and yet
Somewhere, tucked away, we know there is singing
And dancing.

Innocence, we surrender beneath the arc of stars,
As the universe cycles through the spiralling fingers of trees,
Strength comes from knowing the lost and wandering,
Just another moonchild with the sun in their eyes.

So much of this becomes overgrown
As we all return to nature, rubbing ash over our bodies.
But looking into the night, the light inside tickles
And here I am, growing closer to dawn.

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Silver – Walter de la Mare

Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon;
This way, and that, she peers, and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog;
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in silver feathered sleep
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws, and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam,
By silver reeds in a silver stream.

Dedicated to Arna, the wonderful Silver Poet, who’s first poetry book is available.  Arna is a beautiful poet and superb artist.  I feel very lucky to have Arna in this blogsphere and multi-dimesional mystery –

“I deeply love and believe we are not a multitude at all, but one massive beast of pure conscious awareness.” The Silver Poet

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The Child

This process in which we are transfixed
By the lacy mirage of happiness,
Finds us constantly befuddled by a pressing,
Yet distant engagement.

Like wine poured from a clay jug
We are falling crimson sweetness,
One day to wash away the grieving, sticky
Shroud and see things clearly, as they are.

I was not born a wanderer in these
Industrial fields, a marginalised rage
In the gutters of mechanised truths,
We alone are here to tell our story,
We alone will rise or fall.

We may lay back and view the synaptic
Firework show, the arabesque commotion
Of the dreamers eye, freed now a child
In creations infinite arms.

The echoes of imagination are the conduit for joy,
For love, for finer twists of life,
To bring our souls down here and
Tuck it in at night, then study the many
Faces we hide.

There are new ways of living, new ways
Of loving, and as time wears us down,
Whittles us away, we are born anew
In the darkness we gave away.

The child, returns to nature
In the timeless language of laughter.

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We Come To

I had fallen from the skies but refused to land,
I was lodged in the green canopy of wilderness you see,
I had dropped through the patterned grains of a dreaming tree,
Just following the passage of water, drifted down
Murky rivers, drawing me out of the jungle,
The salt in my blood and tears craved the ocean.

I was 121 species of ants and unfathomable
Species of nocturnal butterflies. I was the crocodiles eyes
Slipping just beneath the surface.
I awoke in a hut.

I realise that nature fears me and rightly so,
I am rarely consumed by her.
But I can’t get in line either, can’t wolf down,
Can’t call for Mother when she seems feint.
It’s as if our hands were not living and our hearts
Never beat and we cared too little to look up
Or kick out and scream.

To another’s snake-like dream tryst I’m wed,
Eyes closed and grooving, feeling the forgotten acoustics
Of exploding histories, a poke square in the instincts.

Sometimes it’s easier that way
Y’know. To bubble.

The Amazon is a gateway, each tree a message, the birds,
Our punctuation to assimilate with natures rhythm section.
The howler howls,
The shaman’s feather drums,
The ether,
We raise our sail.

But what is illusion?
To avoid the banquet of vine soul humming, not to
Stifle the fire flies of pent up mayhem, flickering; I reach down in, then out,
Chest expands, deflates, unassisted.
“Is this my heart?”
Each time my vessel is emptied, it refills with purer moonshine.

A human sacrifice. Experience, just vibration.
Crude ripples escaping without source, rhyme nor reason.
Without destination, meaning or hooks,
But maybe a melody or a jam,
Maybe the sound of a distant flute echoing within
A beat drunkards haiku.

Why not now?
Rip our hearts out, the black eyed priest
With fangs and deformed jaguar thumbs.
Life has always been the greatest offering
Beneath the blinking star maps.
Why not now?

But who lives the game? We are all gamblers in
Tormented ignorance of the stakes.
There is death beneath our life and only nothing to win.
No risks. No dealer.

Warm blood, airbags, radiohead.
Small huts and feathers shed, blown sour smoke,
Naked games in the steaming hysteria of polyphonic insect symphony.
The pinnacle of beauty, our forms, the depravity of our being.

We must hum together to cleanse this space.
We must hold hands to form new beings, new shapes.
We must take our clothes off
And pray for heightened states of gibberish, feel our way through
The shifting symbols of language and flesh,
Melt these villages with the power of volcanic insight
And mist.
Then, with the white hot ash, cauterize our wounds.
The destroyed, freed by the destroyer,
As we dance in circles, holding hands,
To the tune of silent laughter.

The sweat is pouring down my wax mask.
The river is bursting it’s banks and tears flow across
The horizon.
I look down to my nails, have I clawed at the red earth?
Everything is gossamer pulsation and nothing is missed.
The poison arrow frogs come in slick numbers,
Reality so densely humid, we are breathing in brackish fluid
With lungs the texture of plastic shopping bags.

On palm stilts, above the murky wash and tumble,
A height where we believe we are safe. But for how long?
And what’s the cost? And who’s counting?
Our foundations seem to fade,
“We don’t even know you!”
Then something and twists, down near the heart
And into the wash we scatter jacks.

Before dawn, we come to.
The plants blew mystic clouds into the
Conch shell and we heard her quietly weeping.
Then a voice from the back row booming; “It’s Tuesday.”

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Mother’s Fire

She risks her life to give us life
She cannot know the depths we cry,

We tear our flesh to prove ourselves
When all she wants is a lighter spell,

When killing is a memory
Where we may sit in symmetry

And smoke ourselves into a dream
Of natures patterns and singing streams,

We cast shadows on her light
For the sake of broken love,

Painting ourselves into her womb,
To bury our hopes in a fearful tomb.

She gave her heart to him for life,
With faith she fell into the fire.

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