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Alyson Lie Jun 2015
She sits—left leg upon right,
right hand resting in left,

eyes closed, watching joy drift
among sorrows; up one minute,

down the next; a Ferris wheel
of fear and loneliness, then

moments of letting go;
the brows furrowed and then

a smile on her lips—the way a
cellist emotes herself through Bach.

Others have said to her that she is
lucky to be so groundless, to be

free of any misapprehension that
life is perfect or that it will be easy.

She knows better than that.
And because she does, she can take

the crests and the troughs as they come—
a part of the ocean and not the wave.
Michael Hoffman Jan 2012
ALL THE IMPORTANT POETS

One day I found all the important poets -
Shakespeare, Bukowski, Dickinson and Rilke
partying in the park drinking Coronas,
feeding pigeons on the green.

Astonished I queried,
"You are all my thought heroes, and yet you laze about.
"Shouldn’t you be writing something famous?"
And they erupted in a literate cacophony of guffaws,
their eyes tearing,
their cheeks shining red with mirth.

Shakespeare turned to me and said,
"Forget it kid !
Meter, metaphor, rhythm and rhyme -
it’s all just groundlessness.
All the adjectives in the world divined just so
only lead to a place in your heart
you’ll never really understand anyway.
It’s simply a mystery, ineffable."

Bukowski tried to ask Rilke about the letters
he'd written to that frustrated young poet,
but he was so drunk on cooking sherry
he could only mumble, gesticulate and grin.

And then sweet Emily said,
"Yes. William is right.
Rainer Marie tried to explain it.
Charles tried to drink into it,
yet it remains the glass bead game -
ungraspable by dearest turn of phrase.
So we have decided to put down our pens
and take a breather."

She quietly handed me the bag of crumbs,
suggesting I toss a few here and there
for the pigeon's lollygagging by.......
"They're hungry, the simple little dears," she said.
mori walts Jun 2016
i am that
empty space provided
to people when
sitting, tense
and anxious
cant come to conclusions
this place is
dense
not stopping to wonder
reasons
a wicked past tense
keeps lingering on
despite the present

laying awake last evening
sleepless jittering
attacked by images
of sole responsibility
deep holograms
of reasoning
when groundlessness
distracts  
from getting your needs met        

ab/stra/cted
big/pic/ture
up/close/and
far/too/vi/vid
just/loose/threads
in/stan/ces
con/stant/drea/ming/di/stra/ctions:

"what are you doing?"
"im writing a poem"
"what are you doing?"
"im building a home"
"what are you doing?"
"im being alone"

(to make some sense some times is lucky)
(some way to survive is coming.)
probably from 2013. found 6/15/16
Robert Cayne Jun 2018
The sky is clear
Then it grows opaque
As the moon shields itself
In the mist
The horizon beckons
This horizon
Of deceit and wonder
Of groundlessness itself.
Naomi Firestone Feb 2019
I stand
at the water's edge
in deep thought
Recognizing
the disappearance
of what was once
solid ground

Voices
that I thought
were my own
echo their warnings

The undertow tugs
at my ambivalence,
waves of thoughts
not to stray
from what I know

How little confidence
this voice has in me
How powerfully
It has influenced
my life

But no more!
Groundlessness
will set me free
corbin sweeny Aug 2018
When I was 23, upstairs in the house
on the busy street
I went to bed and had a dream.

I was in my own bed, in my dream
and a man came into the room
older than me, but not by much
he was nice looking, and had a brown beard
and hair-

get up- he said-
I am a projection here and it
takes too much energy for me to stay long

I got out of bed, amazed.

you must learn to put your problems
into your dream state
and work them out there, he told me
and then they will resolve in waking life

and he was gone.

I stripped and remade the bed, repeating
his instructions to myself, out loud
and telling myself that I could do this, I really could

it was known to me too, that if he was a projection
in my world, then very likely
I was a projection too, of one sort or another.

this is the most clearly overt the dream people
have ever been
though they are rarely out of touch-

they come to take me on the Endless Journey
night after night and show me things
that riddle like poetry
and fill up all the following days
as I try to see through the vastness
of the weaving that is this life
this 3-d printout of the spiritual song
and find my place in it.

I try, in part, because it is that which I must do
and I try, in part, to counter the gnawing
groundlessness that eats me alive every morning
when I awake, in sadness and fear

what a funny tact to use
to try to find grounding in the most
groundless and limitless space there is
the eternal world of dreams
from which everything flows.

it’s all that I know
it is the tool set given to me-
along with the urge to ask questions
to talk to trees and animals
to feel the lift and fall of the wind at night
and to stand calling, with no sound
when the moon shows her face

in that moment that the world calls back
you will never hear from me again
there won’t be a need
I’ll be everywhere, with the dream people
making the rounds
and taking the likely culprits
on a journey that never ends

— The End —