Some days hang in the sky like gems
Or encase me inside, quite still.
Above, the light is crystalline
And on the horizon, filtered soft
I sit, like Scheherazade and gaze
At the oscillating leaves
And wandering clouds,
Letting them create a hum inside me.
Senses turn to water and slide down
Beneath my skull, draining tension
And even careful thought,
Until all that’s left is the mind,
The vibrating Paradis,
The enclosed garden of antiquity,
Yet boundless tending of awareness
That is unaware,
And the long, slow drift of Life.
I could stop there
But near-****** sensations
Through all my nerves and skin
Lead me on,
As if sinking down into a pool,
Inside a liquid chalice of energy.
As the being relaxes.
Limbs flex and let energy flow
Until there is no barrier
Between myself and the earth.
Like Prufrock, I come to rest,
Not ragged claws but a thoughtless droplet
Or ancient sea lily that waves
And, we have seen, walks daintily
On tip-toes across the sea floor!
In the currents I send out tendrils
Of light and vague curiosity,
The only human thing left,
As it once was, before consciousness
Trespassed, before anything was named,
Before judgment was passed.
It is mind without thought:
The brilliant void that changes not
From sunrise to sunset.
I could remain like this forever,
All is a luxury of torpor,
Serenity and certainty.
And if one psyche plaintively asked,
If this is all,
I should reply that for these
“This is just what I mean,
this is all.”
I was challenged to write a poem about laziness, but then I kept coming back to its real feat: conquering boredom. This then leads to a Zen-like state, a sort of hypnosis--my favorite drug.