Sunlight slants
on pale pink
cherry blossoms;

for exactly an instant,

I really See.

~mce

Once his eyes adjusted
to the light,
he realized
he was blind
and colors
gushed forth
from his heart:
never before
had he seen
so vividly.

  - mce

The world worships nascence; only the young are seen as truly alive. The old become transparent and obsolete as ghosts. It is not the event of death we fear so much as the slow fading away that proceeds it. To be old in a world where the young no longer see you: that is one definition of loneliness.
~ mce

When I consider how my days are spent,
with work that leads to work, with little time for meditation
except for a few moments, now and then
on trains, or planes, or in the car,
at times I feel our Western civilization,
may not have taken us so very far.

Not that I am ungrateful for electric light:
it eases one of our deepest fears -
of nights that cast a dazzling darkness on creation
until another sun returns it to our appreciation.

Yet I do wonder if our brilliant sight
derived from deftly harnessed natural powers
makes us indeed see more of that strange world of ours
than saw an old man's dimming vision under candlelight.

Pupils contract, in protection, from the onslaught of light
which peels off colours out of the abyss,
shedding sight, on blackness,
the contours of the dream
are beautiful
and falling.

I, a curious position in space, attempt to relate here,
whilst all is being swallowed, and swirled,
in the belly of the Goddess,
whom engineers
faultlessly,
as we
fall.

Monkeys driven by meaning, are strangling reality,
effulgent as she is, near, unctuous and yielding,
a shame, that vision is not seeing,
and seeing is believing,
and god is dead,
and science
is a net
holding
frailty.

Behind the mist of morning, at the waters edge,
in the brimming beams of sunlight,
the percolating mountains,
the stretch of land,
the capsule of
atmosphere,
here:

Is the unknown, and unknowable, the black truth,
we tremble before, afraid of the death
it pours over our living ******.

Yet what is enlightenment, but the ability
to see in the dark, and what is the dark
but the absolute liberating force,
the annihilating edge,
obliterative.

And what is nothing,
but everything.

She was the river
sweeping flow, caressing
the banks of his life
a run down town
inhabitants had deserted
      one by one
citing various reasons,
sounding perfectly legitimate,
gifting him a blue gown of fog,
magical, written loneliness
in pastel colors all over it.
She was the flow
he wanted to immerse himself
bit by bit, on her he wanted
to float as debris, left over
the current that electrified him
with her surge, gave solace
with gifts from the mountain
of her origin and the planes
she visited.

             "Ḧere is a word" she said
on a sad day of his,
when  sun scarcely smiled
which in retrospect he realizes
the day he was redeemed,
elevated to the planes of immortals
words surely are!
He was bathing in her
bubbly waters scented with
mountain herbs, wild orchids and
faecund earth
"Ä word that would have
all answers, spoken in silence
a word, ultimate that tells you
  who you are"
a lark sang that one word,
from the limits of her flight,
a star wrote it with it's light
under moon's watchful eyes,
wind boomed the word's high notes,
stringing it's sonorous lyre
He kept the river's word
as a treasure wrapped by his soul
he still lives in that living word
his true abode.