the sound rings true. 
humor guides the earthy mind
through a light spectrum.

from guards to guides,

the next word opens
a circular door.
the next world opens,
a circular one.

One.

but before one
can build a bridge to one
zero must open,
a circular door.
a circular one.

the sound Rings true.

{credits to David Sylvian for the photo}

A shining miracle,
green,
a center
filled with free space,

bodies of light
and air,

rooted,
in waking life
breathing the Source,
simply put,

a happy tree.

someday we'll meet in a tree..
you may not be you, and i may not be me...
birds, maybe.

or,
on another green world
where love is the first word,
and we look forward,
in sun and starlight
by day and night,
a golden, or blue moon
shining at noon...
maybe soon,

we'll meet in a very happy tree.
though you may not be you, and i may not be me,
as a child knows his mother,
we will know one another.

Never mind darkness.
This is beyond airborn night
where the stars shimmer,
filtering through eons
and across lightyears,
gracing your eye,
also filled with night.

Never mind fear,
when your illusion
is shattered.

It's a good thing.

Never mind time
when devotion
becomes pointless.

It's a good thing.

Those closest,
as near as your own
beating heart
and indrawn breath
break
down,
break you
down

down down down

down.

In injury
insult,
hideous,
insidious,

love
like
light
and insight
is no escape.

Never mind darkness.
This is gravity,
when there is no win
and no way out.
It's all in

a moment;
a glimpse,
a glance
becomes so long-drawn
as you watch it fall.

A clear-light fragile thing
crystal,
frozen,
brittle,
embittered
shatters
in hopeless conflict
on a stone tile floor.

It's a good thing
you don't need it anymore.

It is a home I tried to make for myself.  But I know practically nothing about making a home.  What have I learned about home?  What do I know about playing house?  But as she said, "This is no game!" 

I'll bet I know.  I'll bet I believe... I'll bet.

Hearts ride on a gamble.  But there's no time to ask my Self, what would it mean if they were lost in the wager?  "I'll bet hearts," I say, sure that I cannot lose.  How could I lose with so much at stake?  How could The Goddess let me lose with so much at stake, other hearts at stake???

Stupidity and blindness ensue, not only my own.

Needless to say.... I lose.  Even with Everything at stake, I lose.  I lose, everything.  I lose Love.  I lose, and lose and lose and lose, over and over and over.

And in this defeat, I hope to find victory.

How can it be???  Yes, I am a fool; but am I only a Fool?!!!

In this defeat I hope to find victory because I have wagered and lost myself, as well.  I have lost myself.  And in this defeat i HOPE to find victory, to find my Self.

...

The Earth is clamoring for victims.  They throw themselves into Her mouth.  Her mouth waters with bloodlust.  It gushes with  human blood.  Their entrails hang lifeless from Her lips, hanging out of her mouth.  She eats.  She devours all, eagerly, greedily.  As she smiles, their blood-red guts are stuck like green spinach to Her teeth, Her huge incisors and canines.  Her ferocious teeth drip with my beloved's flesh and blood, thick and ruby red.

And what else could I have expected?  What else did I have a right to?  What else could I have belived in???

What will happen now?

My beloved's teeth
now gleem in morning sunlight.

Like the diamonds,
that shine in the dew,
gracing the fringe
of an angel-shaped leaf,
who is looking in my eyes' window.

A moment ago
my Beloved's teeth were covered
by the night-black blood
of my beloved,
Welsh-rabbit-blood-black-pudding.

Now she smiles, anew
nothing to fight for,
at last,
a lasting illusion,

a last
and lasting illusion.

Then, the new Moon is a sky smile
as Venus, that shining diamond star
accompanies her
to a new sundown.

Welcome, night.
Welcome, rest
and healing.

Welcome dawn
and early, waking love.

Welcome, Beloved,
my beloved anew.

MEMO:
Forgive all
wrong.
Forget all
wrong.

Write wrong

one thousand times,

wrong.

...wrong,
wrong, wrong....

I lose
the memo,
forgetting,

not forgiven.

Here I sit
by a monitor blue-lit,
computer-literate,

loving,
no thing,
all in all
but one blue ball.

And why,
in this blue sky
am I

so blue?

I'd be proud
to be a cloud

in Her sky,

but
you own owl now.
You own low owl...

burn,
barn
burn.

Senses
non
sense.

Tree me.
Free me.

Simple.

I would be mySelf... by mySelf, of mySelf, for mySelf... truly, deeply and madly in love with mySelf. At that point, my eyes would well up because I would know that I had shed my last illusion.

And as my loving friend carrie would advise, I would breathe, breathe the air of One Love.

Then, I would move, finally... toward the center of the wheel of birth and death, to the center where there is empty space, the empty space that makes a wheel useful, where it acccepts the axel and converts all circular motion to forward motion. After all, that is the purpose of a wheel.

I would fall out, off of the wheel, at which point I would look back and realise the wheel was actually a flower, and I would laugh to mySelf.

Then, I would start all over again, for the sake of One Love. Maybe it goes without saying that it would be a new Universe.

I don't know, entirely... and that's part of my relationship.  I don't know Her entirely, or myself entirely.

I will say this, though. I don't see that many robins around here, one or two, or a few. But on this morning, when I had thought I would prefer to stay in bed, I decided not. I found a  broken robin's egg in my yard. The pre-hatchling had carefully made its way around in a circle, pecking, pecking to be free of the confines she had outgrown. She knew she was ready, but ready for what??? She didn't know, and I don't know... never mind, the adult took the remnants from the nest and discarded them as unneeded, unwanted garbage in my yard. Whatever! I find it, and it speaks of a miracle. whatever...

As birds will, in order to free themselves, she pecked around in a circle to break the top off of the egg shell, not unlike a human who has a soft-boiled one sitting before her at an English breakfast. Having a ceramic egg-cup, which was formed and fired in the kiln with skill and dexterity, she sits to morning tea and toast with a soft-boiled egg in a cup. She breaks the top off and eats the unfertilized ovum, most likely that of a chicken. The pattern is the same, a clean, straight line. The difference is: the breakfast-eating human breaks into the egg, but the robin breaks out.

I carefully cleaned the egg shell and placed it on my altar. Coincidentally (??? yeah, right!!!) it fit precisely, in a very humorous way, on the head of an incarnation of the Buddha (I forget his name, but what matter?) who, though enlightend, goes into the market place with gifts for children and a radiant smile on his face...

b.t.w., I didn't have, and I won't have breakfast this morning...

The robin's egg is blue, the sky is blue, Krisna is blue, I am blue... but not literally blue.

so what is my relationship with the Earth???

love,
sarva

I know you don't have much time.
So, I won't take much.
See if you can hold your breath for as long as it takes to read this.

Go!

The Universe is infinitely large, and small.
The Earth is within it.
A man waits in the car.
There's the lightest drizzle.
Trees grow, so many trees would be here.
But they're mowed down or uprooted.
The motor runs, smoke from fire.
He doesn't deserve to be forgiven.
Dark gray exhaust builds in the car.
CO2 builds.
Blood turns blue.

Is this suicide?
No.
It's just a metaphor.

Green turns brown.
Soot chars everything.
We're suffocating Her.

Is this suicide?

Yes.
We're suffocating.

CO2 builds, so much bad blood.
Green turns brown.
White turns gray.
Soot chars everything.

This blue topaz is shining with the light of life.
He doesn't deserve to be forgiven.
He now knows this.
So, he might be.

Where is She?
Why doesn't She "do something about it?!"
Does She not have control?!
Bad blood builds, turns us blue.

Now, breathe.