Find the focus point
within the pooling called self,
behind where curiosity and attention
have "no-mind" dialogues
and beyond where senses
are shown mercy
for being experiential snitches.
Find that place where
the senses are shaken
past their roots,
past their point of reporting,
behind where the songs of memory
and the flash of novel distraction
pace each other around
in their self-moat passing of time.
Find where they search for a float,
as a buoyant balance point
called conscious fulfillment
yet beneath where
beginning or ending frames
have meaning
but beyond where
arrival or departure boundaries
have edges to our sensory ports.
Find that there,
right exactly there,
where that pooling stares up,
as our face of recognition
with the softest bleed of wonder.
That there, right there,
where that pooling stares out,
clamoring for an echo,
a mirror, a response.
And yet all that that there is,
is a self-fashioned megaphone
that is over-gripped
with our hot breath
thermally rolling back up the tube,
back into our questioning faces
after the sound revives
with no significant returns.
There, right there,
when this pooling strikes out,
yet exuberantly is spilling
with an abundance of energy
that that there then has no time
for excuses or apologies
but just pours out with radiance,
unabridged, undaunted,
unrealized ever before from within.
This there, for then,
is both a blessing of innocence
and a curse of experience,
as an unbounded joy
brought into this realm
of human’s comparative truth,
to be looked at
and lived through.
It is introduced to desire and control
as they make pacts for their futures,
to have it for themselves,
as anytime indulgence occupancies.
Internally, it is heard as,
“spread the word”.
It is now a mind-game quest
to fill our days with this pursuit.
There are times when this pooling
of unbounded-ness
sneaks up on us,
like a stealth of warm body
standing unsuspectedly too close,
before the invasion
of touch and embrace are greeted
as saviors for the moment.
But generally those times
feature no one else, just ourselves
fully present in silent blossom,
shedding the obviousness
of common sense answers,
to have fullness out of nothing.
We are then
finding ourselves wadding
within the grace of our beings,
nursing our transfixed reality warriors,
singing a soul drum rhythm song,
pounding tracks for our spirit dance.
There are these times
when this pooling stalks us,
calling out to us
with immediacy for response,
beckoning us along,
driving us out of contentment,
out of our lackluster comfort zones,
drawing us towards the haunting
of a deeper sense
then even fulfillment.
This is a kind of haunting
that reaches spontaneously
through our lockdown reality
from time to time.
This is a kind of haunting
that both compels and impales us.
We are then companions,
leaders or captives by these,
our self-admitting deeds.
There are times
when this pooling serves us
as steadied and non-blinking,
undaunted by internal conversation,
unmoved by alternate sensation,
even though other vagrant thoughts
scurry along to surface as us.
For we are then impregnable
from a lesser conscious state.
We are absorbing questions
and doubts and answers with ease.
We are supremely simplified,
and ponderously profound.
This is the illusion
of what we all are searching for.
For it lights our inner path,
while it allows us full denial
that it even exists.
It allows us to continue to dismiss
that part of us that demands love,
while it continues to embrace us.
It even attempts
to shut all of this out
until it is completely undeniable
beyond all our resistance to it,
that this pooling has come to serve.
This focus,
now feeding on
an apparently empty tray,
is veiled with simplicity,
yet imploring and exploring,
cryptic and enigmatic
as spiritual self
manifest in deeds . . .
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