Feeling To Infinity

Eventually, without our noticing, even
the daunting puzzle was at last forgotten,
and all became quietly suffused with light.

Something incomprehensible to the mind
fell silently through itself, like a luminous leaf
on a breath of a breeze, falling with no place to land.

I say “falling”, but nothing is moving, even though
nothing stays the same. Nor does it matter how
this could be – only love really matters.

Now we sit together here, emptiness within
emptiness, knowing nothing, wanting nothing,
only ever falling deeper and deeper in this love.

As children we gazed into the great night sky
and felt the whole universe looking back
until all sense of separation dissolved.

When we look into each other’s eyes
and disappear in that looking,
not even a ripple remains.

Here we sit with everything everywhere,
not waiting for anything to happen
nor regretting what has passed.

Although we may sometimes seem to be two,
only one being sits serenely in the midst
of itself — radiant, smiling, happy.

all we have ever had to do
was just show up, and see, my Love,
we already have, so let it snow, let it snow,
let it all come down in silent harmony, in pure
snow-motion simplicity, each perfect snowflake
descending down the transparent sides of sky
to a welcoming realm of pristine white –

no silver bells, nor any atmospheric resistance
to this pale immaculate presence, nothing greater
or lesser, larger or smaller, sooner or later
than this immortal moment now!

Heaven snows down upon itself,
miraculously alive as this crystalline swirl
of blinding white, the white of our pure death
found in the beauty of this falling, of gladly dying
into you without the weight of any frozen past
nor fluid melting future — just a steady drip
down a leaf, a fine fiction falling through
an infinite space of make-believe.

When I hear the hum of the universe
swirling in your snowy sighs,
I hold up my hands.

These hands are incapable
of any disappointment.

They work softly with that sighing, swaying
sensuously over our body, that very body
we become when we blend back
into each other once again.

Even now we make this sound,
the sound of these falling words snowing
softly through our senses, silence snowing down
through itself, covering us with the sheltering sky
of no regrets, no other wishes but to be that
sigh, that purity of falling snow, of only
God, of grace, and nothing else.

In my mind, it seemed so unfair. I pondered
who or what was responsible for the agony
and suffering appearing all around me.

When it finally became too much to bear,
I went out and climbed a mountain, where
I raised a long loud cry to the sky above.

For some while all was quiet, then I saw
the sky itself become an enormous mirror,
within which I recognized myself reflected.

There I was, wielding many deadly weapons
and making war across the land, century
after century, in every kind of guise.

I witnessed myself alone — lying, stealing,
perpetrating every kind of cruelty and
selfish act, and feeling no remorse.

I fell down on my knees in bitter shame.
As I did, the great sky mirror vanished,
leaving only a rainbow in its wake.

The truth which I was kindly shown
had been right here, from the very start:

the only way to heal the world is first to heal
the open wound we carry with us at the heart.

By day we went out looking for food,
by night we made more babies.

Then the storms came, and the floods.
We went off on our separate ways.

Many new tribes were formed, with new
explanations for how things came to be.

In the new dream, we slept in separate beds,
and our waking sleep was often restless.

Some tribes fought with each other, some
learned how to get along over time.

Only when our bodies died did we return
to the same house. Maybe we are there now.

Every tribe has a room in the spirit house, which we
leave and return to, again and again, like dreamers.

Together we move from dream to dream, sometimes
remembering where we’re from, sometimes forgetting.

When we meet in this part of the dream, we might
recognize each other, maybe we’ll fall in love.

By day we will go out looking for food,
by night we will make babies.

I am not here to ask you what you’re going to do
about it — I admire you for just showing up.

A little dog licks my hand. She doesn’t care about
the news, she just likes the salty taste on my skin.

Two Hummingbirds battle over access to the feeders,
even though there are three of them in the garden.

As a result, neither of the two contestants are able
to relax and enjoy the nectar waiting for them.

Men and women fall in love online, but never actually
meet in person. Texting is less messy, and more safe.

If people from the earlier times could visit and observe
this world as it is today, how would they react?

Would they be in awe of the progress we’ve made,
or think they’re witnessing the prophesied “Last Days”?

A week after I clean the fish tank, I need to do it again.
It would be easier without fish, but what fun is that?

Whatever we think about this world, it often turns out
to be something else. Depending on how we see it,
that’s invariably how it will be for us.

Beneath the snow and ice, small green shoots
began to sprout up, and when the spring came,
the snow melted, and they grew tall and fragrant.

A passing animal spotted the shoots and nibbled
on them for a snack. Later, an eagle swooped down
and snatched the animal, and carried it back to its nest.

Young eagles fed on the animal carcass, grew strong,
and eventually matured until they would leave
their nest at last and fly off on their own.

Along a rural stretch of highway, a youthful squirrel
was caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.
It’s pointless asking “why” such things happen.

One of the eagles who had earlier left the nest
spotted the squirrel carcass laying along the side
of the highway, and flew down to investigate.

While it inspected the dead animal for a possible meal,
the killer happened along that same stretch of road.
Distracted by the sight, he swerved over a cliff.

His car crashed down not far from where he had
buried the body. Then the snows came and covered
the wreck. We know by now it’s pointless asking “why”.

When we awaken in the morning, we apparently
forget all the other worlds, believing this is the only
real one, and that the character we are currently
occupying is the only one we’ve ever been.

Some claim that the difference between our dreams
and waking life is merely a matter of duration,
but perhaps it is not even that.

Maybe we go nowhere at all, but remain motionless
as our dream scenes pass before us, like movies
on a screen, regardless if it’s night or day.

In that sense, we write the screenplays, perform
in all of the productions, acting in all the roles, and also
sit as the audience — it seems we’re versatile that way.

Does it matter if our creative melodramas, tragedies
and comedies, turn out to be real or not?
What does “real” mean anyway?

Mind projects a festival of engaging scenarios
and then serves popcorn for the play!

We can barely tolerate a movie which extends
beyond an hour and a half, much less a life
which just continues on indefinitely.

We count the bodies from the latest disaster.
Wars are cause for national celebrations, we like
to stand in the cemetery, pondering what comes after.

What troubles the family is when the relative
just lingers on and on, instead of simply discarding
their body like a good actor and hurrying off the stage.

We assign expiration dates to our food so we’ll know
when they are no longer viable. Perhaps someday
we’ll get stamped at birth with similar codes.

That would clear up any confusion — when it’s time
to go, we need not puzzle about our fate; after all,
it’s clear enough, we’d already know the date.

A hunter tries to catch a rabbit, but the heavy iron trap
springs prematurely and clamps down on his hand.
Deep within the bushes, a wary hare looks on.

In Lisbon, on All Saints’ Day, the faithful gathered
in the city cathedral, ringing bells and lighting candles
when the earthquake and tsunami struck, then a firestorm.

Decades before the lovers finally met, she saw him
in a supermarket checkout line, but he was gazing
at a magazine, and never turned to look back.

The stealthy bombers flew in low and fast, dropped
their deadly cargo and then turned to flee, unaware
they’d bombed their own troops, and not the enemy.

Some will say that fate is fickle, that things are often
not exactly what they seem, while the wise may claim
that whatever appears is no different than a dream.

In this luminous world of make believe, both faith and logic
are futile, and it’s useless to speculate. We tend to hear
what we want to hear, till we pass through heaven’s gate.