SLAM

Closing the door or chapter: the irony!
What is yearned for quickly rejected out of hand,
a cicada fighting to hold onto popping skin,
the unexpected folded twenty stuck absentmindedly
into deep wool of winter pockets, only to reveal itself a miracle
upon rediscovery the following fall;

Right Here. Right Now.
In the eleventh hour, perhaps, loneliness begets community.
Isolation flowers into fullness. Mind manufacturing excuses,
justifications, retrospective backstory, sliding doors, past
to present and over again, kaleidoscopically exchanging one
for the other, pulling up tent stakes and moving on
like Bedouins traveling over tides or shifting desert dunes;
Mimics of motion focused into cavernous wilderness
of intention, never domesticated, never satisfied,
and why should we yield to boredom?

What appears real, if not all of it, is none. Anything birthed
in imagination bursts forth into animation, a genesis story unfolding,
secret lives like insects in long grasses crushed underfoot
through sheer ignorance, or nurtured through recognition, examination,
cultivation.

10 comments on “SLAM”

  1. life is a wonder, fine words, the whole of a moment?

    • Aloha, and thanks for your comment πŸ™‚ I wrote this poem some 10 years ago, and even now I wonder where it came from. But what I find redemptive about it as a piece of work is its ability to convey the chaos of an untrained mind. Or how the poem demonstrates (I hope) how form follows thought or intention. In other words, what seems real depends on our collusion in that particular ‘reality.’ Which seems to shift as our awareness shifts and deepen with mindfulness.

      What I truly find fascinating are these concepts taken to a collective level.

      • it’s the rhythm thing, once you let go it sort of flows, as when your honest in your perspective, thanks for the comment, amen

  2. THE HALLS OF WISDOM

    Truth or conjecture?
    Knowledge or supposition?
    Let’s investigate.

  3. “What appears real, if not all of it, is none.” – A marvellous and mysterious work Bela, and I was particularly struck by that line. We have this constantly running notion that life is divided into what is real, and what is not, what exists, and what does not, what is alive, and what dead. And yet when we ask what is not real, we cannot come up with an answer, as the very percept of the imagined unreal phenomenon is itself real in its own sense – we can never be removed from what is real, and hence the concept of Reality is somewhat meaningless I believe.

    And what does it mean to exist? The more we think about it, the harder it becomes to define, and we reduce the matter to seeing any phenomenon as ultimately conceptual in our understanding of it, never to ascertain what exists beyond the concept itself. And what does it mean to be alive? This very day, 70,000,000,000,000 cells will die within your body, within all bodies, until eventually being scavenged away by white blood cells. Without those 70 billion dead entities, we cannot be alive; so to be alive is to be dead too.

    Aloha Bela! ❀

  4. Hariod, I love it! Yes! Your insightful comments, as always, affirm and resonate. My particular affinity is an openness to the flow of concepts and cleverly arranging them into verse. Yours is in the unraveling, the teasing out and clarification of meaning, which is so valuable. Many thanks, and blessings to you, dear one! ❀

  5. Our minds create our own reality, they say…and everything we see around us are our own projections….makes a lot of sense sometimes….the value we ascribe to objects, feelings relationships ..everything ….are our own, isn’t it and as you say constantly changing,”like Bedouins traveling over tides or shifting desert dunes;”. Loved the poem.

    • Thanks for adding your voice to this comment section – much appreciated. It is abundantly clear to me just how we do, indeed, ‘create our own reality.’ Always choices, and many of them. And even I who know better find myself clicking into the same groove, over and over again – doing no harm, but still these choices restrict. And restriction, perhaps to most, feels like safety. What a fascinating life! Peace.


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