Oak wine of old age  .  .  .
Sun behind clotted morning,
  .  .  .  Drone of bask cello.

.
Hiking in a musty wood,
A path is laid in mulch and fern,
Dark and canopied, rung evergreen
And deciduously rooted.  My one goal
Set to plateau, reach of hilltop meadow,
Others had told me, lay a pond in the sky,
Was there to experience a peek, where tall
Grasses and dry luster of flowers wild, sang
In highland clearings of golden lace and tarn,
Set with sun to fly and by sharing the long ocean
Straights, beyond the wildest, white horned mountains
Of the moody pacific and with eyes casted once more of
Youth, after sanded sleep and then to steep in wandering
Cloud, as eagles, robed in light and gleems of night, drift,
Careening wistful and free as running dream or simply roam
A foot as the wise, bearded, mountain goats sure and snowy
As they ruminate and forage.  
                                                 At elevated breaking point,
Of storied, pristine clearing, a smoking, lone marmot knotted                          
His voice in plead and alarm as I was about to breach,
As brigand, the sun clad forbidden, citadel unbidden,
Home of pious souls, of cerulean still waters, intact
Peace, untrampled sanctuary.  As made, that day,
Unwashed interloper, I gazed through threshold
Ends of trees and respectfully circled,
Reverent in spectacle and joy,
Back, down, earthwards.

"To dismiss as 'Dark' is to eclipse what complementary Light?"

You know that excruciatingly horrible frustration
when you visualize quite exactly how to go about phrasing a very complex and nuanced thing in such an eloquent way
that it may just spur a tidal wave of understanding
in a direction that happens to favor your mental well-being,
but then there's that one **** thing that snags you
and distracts you from the potential of the rest
and it takes so very much tact, time maybe even talent to navigate,
moreover to attempt to make sense of and try to map out for yourself,
let alone, others?

Hiking in a musty wood,
A path is laid in mulch and fern,
Dark and canopied, rung evergreen
And deciduously rooted.  My one goal
Set to plateau, reach of hilltop meadow,
Others had told me, lay a pond in the sky,
Was there to experience a peek, where tall
Grasses and dry luster of flowers wild, sang
In highland clearings of golden lace and tarn,
Set with sun to fly and by sharing the long ocean
Straights, beyond the wildest, white horned mountains
Of the moody pacific and with eyes casted once more of
Youth, after sanded sleep and then to steep in wandering
Cloud, as eagles, robed in light and gleems of night, drift,
Careening wistful and free as running dream or simply roam
A foot as the wise, bearded, mountain goats sure and snowy
As they ruminate and forage.  
                                                 At elevated breaking point,
Of storied, pristine clearing, a smoking, lone marmot knotted
His voice in plead and alarm as I was about to breach,
As brigand, the sun clad forbidden, citadel unbidden,
Home of pious souls, of cerulean still waters, intact
Peace, untrampled sanctuary.  As made, that day,
Unwashed interloper, I gazed through threshold
Ends of trees and respectfully circled,
Reverent in spectacle and joy,
Back, down, earthwards.

The more you know, the less you do,
That's the paradox, you see.
Don't stray too far to either side,
But find a place between.

Object when objectionable,
This can be clearly seen.
But when subjecting the subjectable,
Stay somewhere near the mean.

These are the rules of life,
And the rules that all should live by.
Follow them with discipline,
And you'll find you never die.

Asleep we're dreaming  .  .  .
In our days we are sleeping,
  .  .  .  Dreaming we're asleep.

Dark forest of Tao  .  .  .
Black boughs under evergreen,
  .  .  .  Raven wings in wood.