Wandering in a Imaginative Forest
As in a random-walk of intentions,
Sporadic actions, or the lack thereof,
All following the flow of an uncharted river.
What to do, where to go, what T-shirt to buy...
Do I really need to know?
Seemingly oblivious to ambition,
As if resting in the tranquillity of an aftermath;
Bone cold outside,
(And perhaps bone weary on the inside);
Maybe it's all about “letting go”,
Following the meandering paths of Celtic spirals,
Or eleven-fold labyrinths,
The world of my choice, my selected reality,
Is strangely muted.
Realizing just this thought,
My heart does a joyous back flip;
A feeling of inexplicable delight floods the internal landscape,
Leaving no slight nook or cranny to harbor a shadow.
Another blank page beckons --
Not as a repository or intended end result --
But as a process of letting stray thoughts
Take the path less traveled,
Go where no dreamer has dreamt before,
Self-discover a new feeling of mindfulness.
Being alone, relishing the solitude,
Provides the eyes and ears to see and hear
The subtle, faint waves of pure joy.
It’s not quieting the mind that counts;
It’s allowing the mind free rein in its flickering pursuits.
It’s instant flexibility, willingness to drift, floatability,
Until home is glimpsed, in all its glories, in its Nexus form.
Alone in a deserted dining room,
Weaving thoughts in geometric solid forms;
A lone piano lights up chord after chord,
Never ending, the motif always repeating...
Only then to flit into variations.
The universe is no longer the same.
Love in yet another form creates itself.
For the variations are indeed endless.
A kiss on the cheek, from the self-same lips,
A contortionist’s challenge, or simply a choice.
So loving to oneself, that the me,
Of me, myself, and I,
Shows hints of jealousy.
And it’s so simple:
Be alone, and discover the love of multitudes --
Love without limit instantly there.
For the universe contrives to love one in the same manner
As chosen by that same one to love themselves.
But what of tomorrow, when the gentle moon fades
In the glare of the sun, when the ‘rules’ resurface?
Maybe I’ll remember that it is all illusion,
That the movies of the week, are too weak to hold me.
Or I may choose to participate for a time.
But always the choice is there:
To play the game,
Or rest in the Goddess’ arms.
Right now, she’s stroking my brow.
It must be time to dance!
2003© Copyright Dan Sewell Ward, All Rights Reserved [Feedback]