This is not
grief or joy.
Not a judging state,
or an elation,
or sadness.
Those come and go.
This is the presence that doesn’t.
Similar Posts
You who are not kept anxiously awake for love’s sake, sleep on.
you whose heart such anxiety has not disturbed, sleep on.Love’s place is out beyond the many separate sects;since you love choosing and excluding, sleep on.Love’s dawn cup is our sunrise, his dusk our supper;you whose longing is for sweets and whose passion is for supper, sleep on.In search of the philosopher’s stone, we are melting…
Weary Not Of Us, For We Are Very Beautiful
Weary not of us, for we are very beautiful; it is out of very jealousy and proper pride that we entered the veil.On the day when we cast of the body’s veil from the soul, you will see that we are the envy of despair of man and the Polestars.Wash your face and become clean…
Love Is Reckless
Love is reckless; not reason.Reason seeks a profit.Love comes on strong,consuming herself, unabashed. Yet, in the midst of suffering,Love proceeds like a millstone,hard surfaced and straightforward. Having died of self-interest,she risks everything and asks for nothing.Love gambles away every gift God bestows. Without cause God gave us Being;without cause, give it back again.
Thirst is angry with water. Hunger bitter
The cave wants nothing to do with the sun.This is dumb, the self- defeating waywe’ve been.A gold mine is calling us into its temple.Instead, we bend and keep picking up rocksfrom the ground.Every thing has a shine like gold,but we should turn to the source!The origin is what we truly are. I add a littlevinegar…
Reason says, “ I will beguile him with the tongue.”; Love says,
The soul says to the heart, “Go, do not laugh at me and yourself.What is there that is not his, that I may beguile himthereby?”He is not sorrowful and anxious and seeking oblivion that Imay beguile him with wine and a heavy measure.The arrow of his glance needs not a bow that I should beguilethe…
Time bringeth swift to end
Death’s wolf is nigh to rendThese silly sheep.See, how in pride they goWith lifted head,Till Fate with a sudden blowSmiteth them dead.2.Thou who lovest, life a crow,Winter’s chill and winter’s snow,Ever exiled from the vale’sRoses red, and nightingales:Take this moment to thy heart!When the moment shall depart,Long thou ‘lt seek it as it fliesWith a…
This we have now
is not imagination.
This is not
grief or joy.
Not a judging state,
or an elation,
or sadness.
Those come and go.
This is the presence that doesn’t.
Similar Posts
On a Tree Fallen Across the Road – Poem by Robert Frost
(To hear us talk) The tree the tempest with a crash of woodThrows down in front of us is not barOur passage to our journey’s end for good,But just to ask us who we think we are Insisting always on our own way so.She likes to halt us in our runner tracks,And make us get…
Sonnet 24: Mine Eye Hath Played The Painter And Hath Stelled by William Shakespeare
Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled,Thy beauty’s form in table of my heart,My body is the frame wherein ’tis held,And perspective it is best painter’s art.For through the painter must you see his skill,To find where your true image pictured lies,Which in my bosom’s shop is hanging still,That hath his windows glazed…
Sonnet 140: Be Wise As Thou Art Cruel; Do Not Press by William Shakespeare
Be wise as thou art cruel; do not pressMy tongue-tied patience with too much disdain,Lest sorrow lend me words and words expressThe manner of my pity-wanting pain.If I might teach thee wit, better it were,Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so,As testy sick men, when their deaths be near,No news but health…
Home Burial – Poem by Robert Frost
He saw her from the bottom of the stairsBefore she saw him. She was starting down,Looking back over her shoulder at some fear.She took a doubtful step and then undid itTo raise herself and look again. He spokeAdvancing toward her: “What is it you seeFrom up there always? — for I want to know.”She turned…
There Is A Way
There is a way between voice and presencewhere information flows.In disciplined silence it opens.With wandering talk it closes.
Sonnet Cxxxv by William Shakespeare
Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy ‘Will,’And ‘Will’ to boot, and ‘Will’ in overplus;More than enough am I that vex thee still,To thy sweet will making addition thus.Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?Shall will in others seem right gracious,And in my will no fair…