A garden grows At the top of the soil With a touch of sadness To it
A lonely soul Is leaving Hoping to have it better In another place
There is gold in the earth And next to it A hidden wound A flood of sadness And the body of a man
He is resting now Near water and green He is dreaming Of a life that he could have If he managed to go up To the open air Passing the blood And the tendency of history To pull us down Against our will
In the open air Our garden grows Married To a trauma
But we know Don’t we That every morsel of this scene Is made of gold
I want to be a tree But I am not sure Which tree I want to be And I’m not sure What the conditions are In the place where I’ll stand Is it very windy there? Is there competition for the food? Will the goats eat my bark? Will the other trees be friendly And will they understand That I have to be This certain way Because of how my childhood went?
But wait Maybe I can be a tree From another childhood? My mother stood very tall Or ran wildly in the fields My father traveled in an air balloon My brother played In coloring the clouds And I knew That everything is possible Right from the beginning?
The queen had a party The guests drank and talked Around the table But I wanted to sleep So she made a bed for me Nearby I sank in Among the big pillows The words of a book Appeared And I read them in my sleep
Nerve pain woke me up Where in the book was I?
I left with all the guests Not before I saw the queen Getting into that same bed Saying: How nice that it is warm
I let the others go And came back to fetch my shoes But the royal cat attacked me twice And fell on its back Like a rag
I gave up I laughed
The dream of my life was lying broken On the floor And light was coming Through the cracks.
The pilot is still hot From life Memories Scratch him like stars
But the fields grow dark The sun gets caught in a barn The wheat stalks lower Their heads
And as the pilot still flies Through the dust of the world The lakes underneath Go deep to no bottom.
My friend told me he is getting ready to die, and he is not afraid. As long as he lives, he said, he does what he likes to do. I placed it in my mouth, as you do with unknown food, waiting for the taste to show up. I did the painting that you have here, not knowing what I do, as is always the case, except for being loyal to my sense of beauty. Then I wrote the words that came.
The mind creates magnetic fields Within what do they live? They live in the truth The truth is everywhere And it is the only thing That cannot be destructed Therefore It is not a thing
Trees grow from the earth They eat the earth and drink water They soak the sun They breath the air Like us The earth and water are The sun is The air is Products of the ancient mind And are influenced by my own Current mind
My mind Is a traveling choice maker in infinity Using the old truth As clay To be shaped with imagination
Birds can fly They are not afraid of heights A bough Is a home for them Sometimes they would fight for a good one Then they’d sleep Almost standing Birds start to sing Even before the sun arrives Birds are soft And hard
And I What is hard and what is soft In me? What am I afraid of? What will my dreams be like If I have to keep my balance At night? Will I sing In the morning?
When I was very young, there were geckos on the screens of the windows in my room, hunting flies and moths. And beyond the screen birds were standing on the windowsills. Then they would fly to the trees that surrounded the house. In the evenings many birds would fight for the good boughs, making a huge noise. Then they’d settle down and sleep, sitting on their folded legs that held on to the thin branches. They did not have homework to do. I loved their boldness as they peeked into my room, with the excitement of having just flown still alive in them. Today, when I close my eyes and imagine what a good life is for me, I see myself flying above the landscape, almost like the birds, but I flap less with my hands. I just have to think forward and I fly. And when I settle on a bough, at the top of the tallest tree, I do not shout. There is nothing to fight for. The world comes to me.
The mountain range is dreaming It throws little lakes around And casts reflections In ochre and purple
When the sun goes down To meet the mountains The mountains cry To the sky
And the other little mountain Alone at the side Oh, Is in awe
The pain in my feet is hard to take. The body does not like it. The subconscious thinks it is terrible and something must be done immediately. I sit on the bed and place the more hurting foot over the other foot. I put my two palms on two different places between the knee and the pelvis. I want to feel both palms, as they touch the leg, at the same time. Not to move my attention from one to the other. Together. It is impossible to do with effort. I know already. So I relax as much as I can. I tell myself: Go empty. Go empty. Empty. I give away thoughts and worries. I feel calm for a moment. The pain goes crazy but for just a moment There is calm. In that moment the experience of the two palms touching in their different spots comes to me. It is not me chasing after the experience. It comes to me. It does not come to the mind but to the heart.
I stay in the experience. Within the environment of crazy pain, there is an area of peace, in which the experience of two separate hands touching two different places on the leg somehow continues to exist. I leave my attention there. I keep being careful not to make an effort. I just tune into experiencing the two touches. And the calm starts to grow.
Then there is a relaxation of the whole body. After some time the pain fades out from the foot that hurts more. Now it moves to the other foot and I continue. This is a healing state.
Sometimes the peace grows and I feel that I am the peace. Then the event of the pain in the body looks like an interesting event in eternity. And it is as if I am the little mountain at the side.
intuitiveflow 