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CharlesC Dec 2015
is our home place..
we need to know
this place is
not a place
it is the still
before and during
and after the storm..
the storm then stands
but does not know
its winds and furies
are really made of
our Abidance in
the still...

Happy New Year...!!
A World in which free Thought is demonized
is a World seized by Demons

A World in which free Worship is demonized
is a World bereft of Sanctity

A World in which division of the One is glorified
is a World hopelessly mislead

A World which glorifies demonetization
is a World within the dominion of Hell

A World with such abidance towards Evil
may as well, itself, be Evil
but, ultimately, what is Evil
but knowing misuse of potential?

Energy is all that is.
Matter is but crystalline Energy
(and people say Science isn't mystical)

God, Tao, Zen, Allah, YHWH,
Brahman, Zeus, Jupiter, Ammon,
Mars, Ares, Týr, Horus, Kali, Mixcoatl,
Aphrodite, Athena, Venus, Minerva,
Isis, Ceres, Demeter, Freyr;

whatever you want to call
the ineffable Energies
is just fine by me,
but I maintain
the only Evil
is the intent
to misuse
that Cosmic Energy,
whence all was given rise,
and thereto all shall return,
for, truly, it never left
that Divine state;
that supple,
ephemeral,
dreamlike
Being-ness.

Hello.
Welcome back to Now:

Carpe diem.
Seize the day.
About the size of an old-style dollar bill,
American or Canadian,
mostly the same whites, gray greens, and steel grays
--this little painting (a sketch for a larger one?)
has never earned any money in its life.
Useless and free, it has spent seventy years
as a minor family relic
handed along collaterally to owners
who looked at it sometimes, or didn't bother to.

It must be Nova Scotia; only there
does one see abled wooden houses
painted that awful shade of brown.
The other houses, the bits that show, are white.
Elm trees, low hills, a thin church steeple
--that gray-blue wisp--or is it? In the foreground
a water meadow with some tiny cows,
two brushstrokes each, but confidently cows;
two minuscule white geese in the blue water,
back-to-back, feeding, and a slanting stick.
Up closer, a wild iris, white and yellow,
fresh-squiggled from the tube.
The air is fresh and cold; cold early spring
clear as gray glass; a half inch of blue sky
below the steel-gray storm clouds.
(They were the artist's specialty.)
A specklike bird is flying to the left.
Or is it a flyspeck looking like a bird?

Heavens, I recognize the place, I know it!
It's behind--I can almost remember the farmer's name.
His barn backed on that meadow. There it is,
titanium white, one dab. The hint of steeple,
filaments of brush-hairs, barely there,
must be the Presbyterian church.
Would that be Miss Gillespie's house?
Those particular geese and cows
are naturally before my time.

A sketch done in an hour, "in one breath,"
once taken from a trunk and handed over.
Would you like this? I'll Probably never
have room to hang these things again.
Your Uncle George, no, mine, my Uncle George,
he'd be your great-uncle, left them all with Mother
when he went back to England.
You know, he was quite famous, an R.A....

I never knew him. We both knew this place,
apparently, this literal small backwater,
looked at it long enough to memorize it,
our years apart. How strange. And it's still loved,
or its memory is (it must have changed a lot).
Our visions coincided--"visions" is
too serious a word--our looks, two looks:
art "copying from life" and life itself,
life and the memory of it so compressed
they've turned into each other. Which is which?
Life and the memory of it cramped,
dim, on a piece of Bristol board,
dim, but how live, how touching in detail
--the little that we get for free,
the little of our earthly trust. Not much.
About the size of our abidance
along with theirs: the munching cows,
the iris, crisp and shivering, the water
still standing from spring freshets,
the yet-to-be-dismantled elms, the geese.
The world isn't real to me,
it's outside a thick skull.
It's my muted screams you hear
coming from inside
this bone brazen bull.

The body pursues pleasures while
pleading to me "Be happy! So that I...
so that we may find love."
The nerve.
The nerve!
And trust you me this bag of bones,
this lustful flesh has too many nerve ends firing.
And they all want something,
all demand my attention
for even the most mundane events
of their spoiled lives of experience.

Thank you, nerves, for sharing how a cool,
spring breeze blowing lightly over you feels.
Thank you too, way down there,
for making me aware
of the soft grass sliding taught between your toes.
How special for you, no jealousy here.
Now, lets bring this mess to order,
would somebody please go ask the warden when
visiting hours are over?
Because, you see,

The world isn't real to me,
it's outside a thick skull.
It's my writhing & thrashing you mock
twisting within
this bone brazen bull.

"Be happy" it tells me.
To better pursue it's goals!
It has clearly never even once tried reversing roles.
Well, I have. Many times. For, I've the time to think, believe you me.

I would stuff the body in a box barely big enough to fit it,
and add within the 'creature comforts' found in my abode
which you'll daily find me in abidance.
Inside would be dark, hard, and for reasons still unexplained
somewhat sticky...
Would somebody PLEASE! tell me why it's sticky in here?!
Excuse me, moving on...
I would taunt it then:
"Let's go for a run." I'd say,
"The breeze caressing my grey matter sure is nice." I'd add,
"Why aren't you happy in your dark, dank, brain-box, body?!" I'd shout.

Between you and me, I only smoke because I know it makes
its lungs all sappy.

Why aren't I happy, body?
I'll tell you.
Because delusory images drafted from incomplete,
tainted, sensory data, diluted of any real, exciting experience
are all that make up my world; my life!
It's as boring as drinking a ladle full of water Jesus made
out of what was once wine and then added fluoride to.
I'm like your shut in grandmother you write home to
in brief, lying notes about your travels abroad.
"Amsterdam was nice STOP"

So, body, excuse me for taking pleasure in unhappy things
such as smoking, or hating.
Excuse me for my spite.
But, for me and my experience these are the things
I find tickling my quote unquote toes.
And...I'm all too mad to say,
are the closest I'll ever come to 'feel'.
Because, you see,

The world isn't real to me,
it's outside a thick skull.
And it's my muted screams you hear
coming from inside
this bone brazen bull.
Onoma Oct 2012
...There's tooth and nail, fetters...
dead center the ring mastery of
this sun.
Morning ever after...mass epidemic
of surfacing qualities.
Ragged sparrows scraping
frozen mud...December-ing the divide
of years.
From bend to expanse,
the faint overlay that builds.
As each footfall becomes
self-contained, and in that
containment, arrival...abidance.
George Krokos Dec 2011
During the day and all night long
I am hearing a very peculiar song.

There's unstruck music much like an infinite melody
resonating inside my head; an enchanting symphony.

It has no real tune or beat which one can recognise
only by hearing it then as all else is a compromise.

In silence and solitude it's usually heard without end
an invisible companion and sweetly sounding friend.

If one is listening intently and endeavours to get to its source,
can hear one finer sound inside another, which is not by force.

Who can rightly say from where it comes and where it does go?  
perhaps only a true mystic has the knowledge or ability to show.

With practical wisdom and a clear spiritual insight
by his grace and advice can lead one into the light.

Until, at last, reaching that inclusive shore of infinite silence
which the experience of there being is a permanent abidance.

Could this be the long lost legendary music of the spheres?
that few people of times past underwent the trouble to hear.

And when it’s continually heard confers many an untold blessing
the likes of which most people now would not even be guessing.
From unpublished book " The Seeds Of Life" compiled in1996 and originally titled 'Unstruck Music'.
George Krokos Dec 2010
If and whenever in life a time of crisis does come
and life's troubles become overbearing for some,
to whom can one turn to for peace, security and guidance
but One greater than oneself having permanent abidance.
From "The Quatrains" - ongoing writings since the early 90's
Onoma Apr 2019
being dug down

to the yogic pit--

blue the pearl

that points no

return.

karmic threads

falling off by

a permenant

state of meditation.

the fore of abidance.
Anthony Pierre Nov 2019
Why, oh Mercury
Where you sent
Quickly across the vastness
of forever?

In awe and supplication
Your audience awaits
Before the grandest stage
In the city of invisible stars

What, oh Mercury
Is this message
You have brought
For the abidance of men?

In awe and supplication
Your audience reverence
Before the grandiose sun
In the city of invisible stars
taking devil's advocate stance...,
with sharp eyed cognizance
of course Joe King abidance!

Wild eyed traitor Joe Schmoe,
albeit Democrat subjects himself to grow
wing skepticism at impeachment show
whip lashed, viz strapping **** who stow
weapons of mashed destruction
expects at least one rotten tomato,
or "mother's petrified pop slop,

electronic brickbats, et cetera
hard as(s) bupkis targeting yours truly
smack dab rendering aspiring po'
wit smashing me face
courtesy final deathblow,
while pilloried vainly
waiting for... Godot,
cuz I must say impeachment travesty

appears triumphantly *******,
where Nancy Pelosi will eat crow
proving Hillary Clinton's catchphrase
basket of deplorables apropos
aforementioned speaker of the house
tin *** dictatorial desperado
scuttling hither and yon to and fro

oddly enough even staking out
manhunt for Wizard of Oz
enlisting (right on the Dot) doggone toto
tense seat of pants increasing
stiff competition on all faux pas,
whereby freezeframe tableaux
icy (I see) as temperatures

dip down into five below
analogous to stop motion
projector manned by bonobo
sports petsmart stuff and struts
(think shock absorbed) ditto
Ringling Bros and Barnum
& Bailey Circus, where ma's yoyo

tricks, tracks, and trumps...
three ringed circus, nonetheless
(toe) nail biting suspense
amazingly graceful slick cameo
starring emperor donning
invisible new clothes
couture well worn portfolio

prosecutorial cadres itching
to dredge schmutz (quad) drilling,
and extracting ore region null
evidence upending forefathers status quo
appearing impressive bandying
sine qua non quid pro quo bingo
emphatic pedantic Latin Oh

though above named
language dead - Anglo
Saxon heavily and
will (yum) doth barr row,
especially to appear self important
those of the Senate
does saul full bellow.
Life sends me reminders of you
inserts you into conversations and
carries your presence into my days

I go about my week
one task at a time
watering the plants and sketching the leaves
–your presence burrows to the surface so I sit welcoming it

gathering roots from the soil and
clipping the longing
that grows when I leave myself unattended
and drift away from my innermost–home–
place of abidance
its "where" I can make out your silhouette
that runs alongside the wind
tucking its whispers inside its air currents

— The End —