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Neelam 4d
Attuned to voice rising 
from the living heart,
Heart, the vast expanse of 
sublime realm,

The silent abode,
Core of streamlined frequencies,
Vibrating as One,
reverberating, fluctuations 
of surrealism,

Intersection on the paths,
deviation on the filtered 
A possibility for stillness 
to reign in the murky clouds 
of uncertainties. 

The rightful contemplation
leads to the depths 
of the Heart.
Inspired by a track titled "Expanse" composed by Steven Gutheinz.
An undercurrent of coolness
Murmurs in the distance,
As the night shadows
Over a language of a thousand tongues.
A bite of indifference
bitterly breaks the silence.
The transformation looms.
A darting melody shoots across the sky,
As the pure light of my mind
Seeks a dance of flavour.
A Labour of gratitude
Lays abandoned on the riverbank.
I seek no mercy,
Just the stillness of the night.
And when will the golden sky appear?
The ignition of the fire inside
permeates the soul,
As the blend of existence
Bursts into life.
The shape of romance
plays into my hands,
As the inner mirror reflects innocence.
The autumnal ether switches sides,
As the world appropriates Timeflow.
The syllables and parables
crack the taste of forgiveness,
And when we finally deliver remembrance,
life will be ours.
Marla Dantes Aug 2019
time and numbers are attempts
to decipher a universe whose nature
defies what we understand.
stop thinking about data,
consider the truth instead.
observe everything
until it absorbs you
and then leave,
seek not an answer,
but a response,
and it will find you
Brett May 20
As a man, I contemplate my thoughts just beyond the boundary of breaking waves on the shore. An endless symmetry stands before me. The ocean with its crash and calm takes any and all forms. Yet though it morphs its shape, its nature always remains. To be life and to contemplate life. A mere thought that has enchained the minds of greater men. In the grand symphony of time, we find ourselves in the 21st Century. Where there are those who postulate the Theory of Illusion. Each of our own odysseys reduced to the hallucinatory will of my brain. Tell me then, how does one illusion contemplate its own existence from within? My gaze refocuses out to the endless blue horizon, and I imagine the shape of it all. Though we take many forms, our nature prevails. Social animals some would say. I prefer a different metaphor, shepherds of knowledge. Though our collective knowledge flaunts many costumes, our true nature perseveres unfettered. Through the ages we carry all human ingenuity, meanings, and purpose inside some unspoken tome. It does not erode against the battering winds of time. It can not be sunken to the depths. It endures in this very contemplation. My wandering inquisitive mind cannot help but wonder what abstract thought will be captured in this very spot a thousand years from now. For some this conjures a mysterious existential dread, but I can only stand and smile. My mind lets me step outside the binding flow of time and watch the world unfold. Campfires under the crescent moon to villages etched out on verdant ground, and here now to the grand gusto of modern cities. Endless forms and shapes pushing towards our ultimate nature. To understand that purpose in the universe if left by our boot impressions on the mud. The cosmos is our endless ocean. Out there; waiting, for our contemplative minds to shape it.
Leone Lamp May 11
I like to sit and think and stare
At that spot, on the wall over there
As I listen to the pitter-patter
And wonder if anything really matters?
Fancy a game of shoots and ladders?
Up and at them, let's get at 'er.
When the going gets slow, the slow turns into prose. Up and at them!

Summer May 2
The dragonfly
that perches on your finger,
on the wall, at the doorstep,
like still life human history,
on the page, close to the vines,
balancing atop that blue teacup,
fanning steam

as time slips, whistles, rips
like stitches twisted, which
unravelled, like a wish
you made last summer
when horses snickered, reined by
steel knights sweating and kissing
gloved hands, ladies laughing
over earl grey tea and shipped silk,
the dragonfly danced upon
melancholic waters

what is skulking in the moist darkness
must come forth and answer
how one equates infinite and none,
vain, like history, snow, and gold,
before sung poetry from the old —
to live one’s life for something, you say,
is to live one’s life alone for something

what is repeated,
wars and manipulation,
mutual destruction, human reproduction,
drilling and penetrating,
with rhythm and with force,
Is intrinsically obscene,
the mechanics ancient and ******,
beastly brutal and brutally simple –
the human wheel of time

dawn broke
over churning waters, a cycle of
chalky, foamed flowers grew and died,
quivering is the white fish washed ashore
twitching, pulsating, then stilled

the dragonfly, sensing death,
skitters away
toleomato Apr 22
Having been given much to contemplate,
I struggle to dissociate myself from desire.
The interactions I treasure
stem from a perpetual longing for more.
Such thoughts are dangerous
for we are as pockets of air
floating to the water's surface.
We are only together briefly
before dispersed by fate.

What then will become of me
when I long for that which
has already passed?
A great deal of weakness
goes into the man I am now
indecision and a flurry of doubts
that make ways cloudy

But it’s fertile ground below,
this lack of surety
this endeavour to truly know

and if more would live here
how much better we would be
Sat before a cake, I ponder
What life has stored me yet:
Trains delayed;
A mortgage repaid;
Perhaps a holiday, or two.

Entrapped by colourful balloons,
But certainly not grounded,
I look forward,
Though seldom back.

I look forward,
In pleasure;
In fear;
Nonetheless in hope.

Hope that we all emerge
From behind closed doors,
Safe as the houses in which we have stayed;

Hope that there's a role for me
In a company,
In my society,
In our world;

Hope that love embraces me
And shows the way
To a better love,
A better life;

That this cake actually
Tastes rather nice.

I should probably start on the cake.
It looks scrummy.
Wait... I'm 21 now? ****.
In theory reductionsim,
I would say that what is central to contemplation is mystery.
Does it have to be called zen if I never officially learned it?
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