Posted on by solangesuri2015

Pretence, Purpose and Poetry

The moments that exist

Between those islands of forgetfulness

When you live like you are somebody

With something to do-

Is the ocean of eternity that surrounds you.

 

You are part of its immensity

But prefer to be more relatable

As a name…an entity…a person

Who will surrender readily to a little love

And the promise of an elusive bliss.

 

Our pretensions of personality,

Our cultivation of purpose

And the poetic expressions of our angst-

Keep us forever entangled

In the question of, ‘who we essentially are…’

 

Perhaps that question is pointless

When addressed to an existence that just is

A oneness with no exception.

Your poetry is a monologue…

Who you’re not is speaking with who you are.

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Life’s True Calling

Life, that is ever free

Becomes imprisoned within

The walls of the human mind.

Ego, attachment, desire and fear

Do not allow it to move freely…

To come and go-

Without being subject to

Ownership, design, desire…

And moral confusion.

We trap life.

We want it to serve

Our limited sense of self.

But life that is creative and ever new

Will have nothing to do with our staleness.

Itself, free of the past

And open to the future;

Without memory and desire,

It uses time and the illusion of persistence

To create the conditions

By which we come to desire

Our own end.

Can we learn

To meet life with pure presence?

Can we come to see

That the treadmill of the mind

Is not life?

That it has no name,

No designation, no agenda

No attachments, no conditions

That your wish

May be its command,

But not its true calling.

 

Posted on by solangesuri2015

No Leftovers

That which I need most

Is unavailable to me

Not because of someone else’s

Carelessness or lack of love

But ironically,

Because of my own.

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Innate

Happiness

Wealth and

Power

 

Are innate

 

They cannot be acquired from the world.

They are hidden in three capacities

Within you:

 

Dedication

Sacrifice and

Service.

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Read Between The Lines

Read between the lines

To know that every story

Is a tale of love or loss or achievement;

And like with everything

That is told or expressed

There is feeling…hope…intention

And a desire to be heard

And understood.

Sustenance for the individual

Depends on validation

And a pronouncement of self

In a world that can be cruel

In its ignorance of that

Which can’t be seen, heard or felt

Even if it occupies the same vastness

In which love and loss

Hope and despair

Everything and nothing

Coexist.

The story you must remember,

Is only that which you can at present-

Understand.

 

 

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Be Discreet

Be discreet

About your feelings

Not everyone is connected with you.

 

Be discreet

About your opinions

They may belittle someone’s cherished values.

 

Be discreet

About sharing your joys

Not everyone has the heart-space to accommodate them.

 

Be discreet

About your wins

They may make someone feel like a loser.

 

Be discreet

About your losses.

They may allow someone to exploit your vulnerabilities.

 

Be discreet

About your power

Its potency is lost on exposure.

 

Be discreet

About your world…

Because you don’t live in it; it lives within you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted on by solangesuri2015

#Ten Year Challenge

It’s never too late…

Nor too early

To review your actions

And set them on a course

Of a meaningful life

Meaningfulness…

Is conscious and purposeful living

Where your actions

Are a Systematic Investment Plan

That will yield a freedom

That is whole, independent

Fearless and courageous

Full of faith and confident

Cheerful and kind.

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It’s a Zero-sum Game

Celebrate gain if you must

But remember that

It’s but a shadow…

An indication

Of a loss coming.

 

Partiality is man’s hope from cleverness

But existence is always whole

Intelligence will get you what you want

But your wisdom will reveal

That it was never your need.

 

What an amazing thing to learn from life…

That neither gain nor loss

Can be a measure of your worth

Because they are two sides

Of the same coin.

 

They don’t add up

They don’t take away…

Their fifty-fifty chances

Are nothing more than

A zero-sum game.

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The Ritual

Our everyday has become

A joyous never-ceasing

Repetition of the same pattern.

 

We wake up

At different timings

Me before you

 

And in the strange assurance of that

I’ve noticed

You sleep even more soundly.

 

That makes me smile

I tread over the cold floors of our room

Softly, so as not to disturb your snooze.

 

You sleep through

My repeated opening and shutting of doors

Of packing my bags…

 

And then sleepily

Grip my hand

And give me your cheek

 

For that seal of a kiss

Knowing well that even as I’m leaving the house

I’m not leaving us…

 

That’s the great thing about patterns

They work in sync, symphony

And revel in simple predictability.

 

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Irony

Life is a mystery…

And that is the cliché

I use to describe

My confounding experience of it.

 

That’s the irony

Of life

That I depend on the dead

To help me understand the living…

 

What if I gave up this strife…?

Would my not-knowing

Be any less

Than it is now?

 

I’m beginning to see

How acceptance

Is moral and complete

And how it immediately harmonizes…

 

Perhaps there’s wisdom and beauty

In dwelling in the silence

And not soliciting the overused

To speak about it.

 

When things can be said

How much more eloquent

Would it be

To not say them.