Scattered Muttered

To be uptight is to defy Time. Her face flushed with seriousness. Tout with intent. The nosy bent towards life. Relaxed muscles, no tic. In harmony with time. Her beautiful tight round neck. The accent of the slender chain. Her big fawn eyes on you. What was she thinking? The world of the soul-substance. The other kingdom. Paradigm of obscure heathen dark. Wig of winter’s vast network. The enlightenment black hair. Bright with the Know. Specs looking through the eyes of the soul. 

The Other Kingdom

Wind blowing wild over a great marshland all covered with godly white snow. You will think that there is nothing else in the world but this holy marshland of silence. A gray sky meeting a gray marsh all over the horizon, exuding bodhisattva wisdom of nothingness which is our existence. All commotions are distant dreams. Happiness and discontent mere ideas. Minute fabrications of human mind which is but a dot in the great enveloping mystery of existence. Before commotion, there is silence. After commotion, there is silence. 

Distanced

There is a girl who lives not here. Her tender aspects create sublime contrast with the rocky terrain of that other land. I see her cruising up and down the undulating roads of that little town. Spangled jhola slung down  her shoulder, tidbits clasped to her bosom, her face serene. She walks alone in the sun. Little droplets of sweat trickle down her forehead and mingle with the serenity therein.

I look forward to the day I leave this madness behind and on a drowsy afternoon of the sun, sit by her side on a little bodhisattva rock and talk.

Drip Drip Dream Drum

I am here. This cubby hole hedges in on me. I do not particularly take to people around here. But this reality is not ultimate. Beyond this madness, lies another world, of senses, of sunlight, of little curious details that make us happy. A little sunny cottage in a small byroad habitat. The cottage is cosy, decent, practical, without extravagance, homey, comfortable. The approach to the house is open. There is no gate or fences. Around the yard, there are bushes, trees, undergrowth, a little stretch of flowerbed may be, but no dainty little garden. The back of the house opens up to billowy rolls of meadows.

Beyond one stretch of the meadow, there lies a little dense forest. There are old knotty trees with huge trunks. There is a fresh soggy fragrance in the air. The huge pools of shadows seem like little womb havens. I sit under a big bodhisattva tree trunk and meditate. As I close my eyes, the other senses grow keen. There is the soft rustle of the leaves. The soft caressing slender beams of sunlight rest on me in patches and keep me warm. I feel grateful for the fresh coolness around.