I put in place
All that you’ve strewn
All over the floor.
I fix the things
That you innocently
Broke, tore or damaged.
I shut the door
So that I can work in solitude
But you must enter…
I sigh… I wonder…
There must be a design
To daily disturbances and infiltration.
Let’s not go by the mere appearances
Of your transgressions
And my consequent upset.
It is the play of love
To demand attention and then,
To be fulfilled in giving it.
Before I become the truth
Must I be the lie?
Living it day in and day out
With tedious self-consciousness
So many facades to keep up
So many consistencies to maintain
What if the point of keeping appearances
Is only to exhaust me to the point of death…?
…And ‘I’ no longer exist?
Who then, will be?
Who will continue?
And what will continue?
If ‘I’ die
Who will live?
And how will truth live
Without lying?
To have something to do
Gives you a sense of worth
It gives you purpose
And continuity and
Therefore, an existence.
Time and movement
Are very important
For my sense of self-
And all that ‘I’ embrace…
I must be other than where I am at 5o’clock.
New places, new people, new projects
All of these make my life
So meaningful, so interesting, so glamorous.
Photographed memories of my day
Leave me with an entertaining sense of accomplishment.
Now’s the time to ask:
Is life the story of one person?
Can life remain imprisoned within a personality?
Without memory and pattern
Who am I? Who are you?
What new patterns are you forming?
What new memories are being created?
What new plans are being made?
As life awaits your homecoming
What are you busy with?
Things remain clean
When we persist
With the act of cleaning.
The action then,
Is more important
Than the state.
A state is indefinite
It can change or disappear
But the action must be consistent.
Persistence and perseverance
Are the only ways
To deal with entropy.
Action is the essence of life
To live , is to be
In an eternal relationship with perfection.
While you persistently act
To keep things in a state of perfection
Allow Perfection to act on you.
Life after all,
Is infinitely intelligent
And inherently perfect.
Disorder, disruption, chaos
Are surface disturbances…
Look deeper. Perfection is at work.
Are these testing times,
Or is this an Act of Providence?
We know what our losses are;
Will we be able to see our gains?
Or, will all questions
Of loss and gain lose relevance?
With the discovery of new values
Will old denominations vanish?
Will our houses now become homes;
Will our hearths now warm our hearts?
Will social distancing
Re-acquaint us with each other?
Will we learn in isolation
What good company is all about?
Will we remember over time
This spring that renewed us all?
Allow time
To take you on a walk
To give your thoughts
A duration.
See yourself
Let go of ideas
And stand free of
Their certainties.
Definitions too
Are not permanent
Love has revealed to me
Other meanings.
The future
Becomes less important;
Plans and designs get replaced
By responses.
Today’s importance
Is self-evident…intrinsic;
Small matters that suggest
Little matters.
Say a prayer
Wash your hands and stay in
Apparently, that’s a good way to end
A pandemic.
And what does today say?
…the unfolding of light
….the repetition of rituals
….the memory of yesterday
Moments left behind
Moments arrived at…
All indicate two points in a continuum.
Let me pause.
Watch change happen…
Let me see time
Work its artistry
How will things be today?
What will lose its charm for me?
What will I begin to wonder?
Men of free will
They think they know
But true intelligence
Stands on the fine edge
Between light and shadow.
A man is not easily made.
To sink in pleasures
To be drunk with excess
Is like standing
In the midst of sobriety
In a vulgar dress.
A man is not easily made.
His possessions may give him
An air so select
But value is not
A measure of expenditure
It’s the arc of a discerning intellect.
A man is not easily made.
Has he learnt the art
Of keeping centred his private mind?
Towards his friends
And towards his foes
Is he equally kind?
A man is not easily made.
For a man to become
He must know how to be
Measured in appearance
But immeasurable
In depth and potentiality.
A man is not easily made.
.
To make,
To fashion is
To give appearance
To that which had existence
But not a life.
To make or fashion
A thing,
Is to simultaneously
Make or fashion
The maker.
The made
Is like the born
It will live amongst us
And alter our lives
In some or the other way.
The made
And the maker
Are of value
Not for the profits they supply
But for the stories they create.
Because when the made
And their makers are gone
All that is left behind
Is the memory
Of how things were.
When we walked
Down Memory Lane
We travelled back in time…
We relived in our minds
Those moments
That we had left behind.
Memories fill you up…
The present, vis-à-vis
Stands before you
As an emptiness
Your time was shared
And in that sharing love grew…
But remembering
Is a solitary thing…
Your ‘now’ challenges
Who you claim to be
It reminds you about
All that you’ve lost to time…
Your temporariness
Is hard to deal with
The weight of the present
Displaces your past…
You’ve left behind all
That promised to belong to you.
Yet you continue
To hold on to-
The sounds, the smells, the voices,
The laughter, the events, the sentiment…
All that was; none that is
Except in the echoes down Memory Lane.
.
Wit. Wisdom. Wonder... 