I Think I Have Found

I think I have found

the me that is left

after the endless,

countless abrasions

of the suffering and

mirth of this life

is a smoothened

out old piece of what

was brought here

in the first place.

The ashes and the
cinders have not
flown away.

It is the me that loves

as much to walk

and read and write

and cook and make love

and sit and sit and sit

as had been here all along.

It is the one

by the fountain reading

the classics, it is

the one with head hung

backward over the rocks

listening into the cavity

of the roaring stream.

He has been here

but is now all the

better for having learned

that these simple likes

are more than that;

these ambling attractions and

desires of the human heart

I hold and nurture

deep in this chest

are laconic and lapidary

koans of existence carved

out in the aeons of my

days. They are more than whim

and fancy; they sing out

as implacable standards of

my me. Sing this song,

my soul, sing that

reaching in and finding

a gem of delight can

proffer more riches than

caravans of cash.  Sing, my

heart, that glee and bliss

have found more wealth in you

than all could imagine. What is

left at the end of the day

of sadness is a sense a little

more keen, a heart a little

more refined toward its true wont

and wealth beyond measure –

joy. Simple glinting charm comes

only after we see the depths of

its lack. Grand elongations of

hospitality and grace are only

shadows left in their own

sensed absence. Sing, that when

a man sees it all carried away

he finds then a stillness that

betrays its true worth.

For this, for all this,

I sing at what I think

I have found, a place

among myself

a seat within my me.

Here resides in each souls’

center a mountain pass

of freedom and a canyon

of wonder and grand design.

For, everything belongs;

even that which we only speak

of in absence by abrasion.

Shadows on the river

walls of constant change

and removal.

That which is no longer here

sits stalwart beside all we

still behold.

Everything belongs and leaves

its smoothening wear and gives us

to know that it is all in there –

quarks eternally nestled

by the quasars of empty mind.

In it all,

I think I have found

my me.

Hubble's Quasar PKS 2349

The True Test

Could it be

the true test

of the clarity

and worth of

a soul is

the suffering it

has survived.

Its ability

to stand

while broken.

It arrives in

whatever space

it inhabits

with no fanfare

or finger pointing.

It does not

seek to rise above

on the backs of

innuendo and

accusation.

Facing into the

horror, it braces

as if its eyes were

closed and pointed

to the winds of

severe change and

relocation. It

shall not

be moved.

Feeling the

blasts of what

is named

across its cheeks

and edges

of its ears.

It finds no need

for justifying

explanation

or a trivial

varnishing of

a thing.

A gargoyle

resting its

head in its

hands.

The wave has no

need of discourse,

the sun no need

of banter.

A stone is unmoved

by insults.

Resting in

the ever-present

idleness of being,

it does not

move to grow.

Its nourishment is

in the stillness

of self.  In its

perch and

point of vantage

viewing-absorption

it is abraded by

the ripples of

suffering and woe

that have coursed

over its

“itness” and self.

An alchemy of

a solid affirmation

that everything belongs.

The dis-ingenuous-ness

of a rosy painted outcome

stands against the rawness

of reality that is true;

Job’s friends

unable to stare into

the vacuous-ness of

the universe of pain.

Perhaps it means

this; or maybe it requires

that. Reaching out for

form where formlessness

rules the day.

Suchness is crafted

from the gathered

nuclei of tears

that have run along

the dirty face of agony

and abandoned hope.

We reach these places

in the chaos of

form.

Lean into these

undoings with

acknowledged wordlessness

and rampant indefinability.

The circumscribable

is uncircumscribed.

The heavy snow

sits months on end

above the ginseng seeds

and crocus bulbs

longing to find day.

The tearing away

of melting snow

washes the soil

with the gift of growth,

carrying winter

away in rivulets

of supple freshness

and the morning song

of birds.

Only for a Season

Across the
surface of the
frozen dirt

the snow blows
all night -

back and forth.

I am surprised
it does not
wear away

the earth-skin.

With that much
abrasion in my heart
or in my mind

I would have been
worn thin -

frazzled away from
myself - my center.

Perhaps the lesson
is to freeze over
and become cold
when the season turns
to wearing you down.

A little distance
and hardening
can preserve
your surface

when harshness
and the winds of
change settle in.

But,
only for a season.

Ciao!

tjm+

Snow Moon from Vladstudio