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Alan Oct 2020
Trees teem with leaves
of hues of amber and green
shaded in a shimmering light
eclipsed by this September night.
Falling leaves beget bare beginnings
as all must cease to be truly living.

This is the tree’s blessing
for you to follow its calling
to turn helplessly like the seasons
without intention or reason.
Think what you may, say what you think—
the trees are perched above you like kings!

Let things flow without a word
to pass along on their own accord.
There is an infinite beyond your ken
into which you must go again.
Alan Jul 2020
The stillness after motion,
looking over the balcony
under a foggy gunmetal sky,
damp hair blown by westerly wind.

The rush of traffic,
returning from drudgery or joy
or something in between,
but always a sense of rush.

No rush.
Alan Jul 2020
Hot rubber, kissing
perilously paved roads
in spaces that stretch on,
spaces that fall away —
into the distance.

A to B, directing
indirectly circular paths
within spaces that color about,
spaces that are peripheral — 
Alan Jun 2020
Stuck in silence,
the oil of the moment,
threads fire, voices shout,
about and about.

dusting, squinting,
and gasping for air —
it’s fallen, crestfallen.

In our seeing,
we stir to make soluble,
knives out, shards fly,
but spirits sing!

Oh what will we find
tracing burnt threads
a splintering sea change —
pregnant with potential.

A potent hope,
a being becoming,
pouring out,
pouring out,

the oil of the moment.
Alan Jun 2020
Impaled by a hunger
of apparent becoming
dead minds seek
success in the charade
the callous conquest
the greedy game.

An innocent credulity
conditionally conditioned
and without a vision
that which is doing
that which is done
dulled and desensitized.

Wholly ******
totally unholy
denuded of content
denuded of style.
A pebble smoothed over
by the waves of the world.

“Oh, see the disquiet
into that infinite quiet!
The same **** space.”

Listen to the birds
spontaneous and sprightly
gliding through tonic silence
in to seek shelter
out to seek freedom.

An innocent credulity
in the bones of being
expansive, attentive
resisting nothing.
The transfigured
fount of moral vision.

To be sensitive
is to “see the unself”
out of the me
out of the mine
into the real
into the world.
Alan Jun 2020
Isn’t it obvious how ostentatious it is
to be so awesomely austere,
and then to assume its necessity
with such audacious authority?

Austerity is the righteous heirloom,
a father’s rebuke of his son
into the guise of maturity,
water on the dying embers of curiosity.

A pretense that shatters the dance
into glassy imitation grounded in fear.
Suppressing expression,
the spurning is non-dual.

Valor lies in the contemplation—
the chipping-away of that austere veneer,
in the play and the pliability
in the beauty and the riches below.

— The End —