What’s not to love my friend, when you’re sitting on top of a hill,
gazing at the moon and everything is still?
The house sits in the valley, proud and old and timeless,
for those who live within her are from
here, there, and nowhere at all.
I have been seeking in thought and time,
I have lacked, have lacked a friend,
The only friend worth counting,
the one on which I sit, which holds me,
which echoes my every mood as it exists
here, and now, and in this moment and always.
Moon, lilac surround.
And peaceful in your every moment of watching,
and ending, a stillness, and nothing.
And life awakes as two dogs run down a lane,
And another pinpoint of thought,
of this moment, follows in its own way,
connected disconnected and neither.
And back to the sound of the crow, a yellow moon,
And an aching sadness of the aloneness,
that floats above the naval,
disconnected from you, from earth, from trees.
How did I know which way to come, to come to this place,
to this now, to this forever?
Flow river flow,
flow this ache down this hill into the ground,
until I stand, these tears wept,
this forever known, and know nothing.
There is a tree down there in the valley,
which stands tall and white, next to another,
they make a little pathway between, V,
of touching near the ground.
Riding the wind a bird soars
and a glint down in the valley says
– there is something here.
I sit like a blob of flesh on the ground,
the cells identified as disconnected, as alone,
as the thing of the stuff world, that moves and then Rots.
The rest of the world exists in harmony
– how am I separate?
What craziness is this that separated me out?
The ‘circle of life’ is for Elton John only,
with shiny sequins, long gowns and a commercial world
that sings of peace yet knows nothing.
Touch me, beauty is enough for peace.
The intellect can ride a wave
until the frothing foam lands you on a beach of nothing.
Stimulated, the cells will shake and shimmer and search for meaning.
Meaning may come in bursts of highs and lows,
of nothings and some things.
But will it stay my friend,
will it not be washed away by the tide?
For when the tide has washed away
the beach of sparkle, of crap of shit and grime
what is left?
burning rocks under the sun where feet tread
– scorched for lack of earth.
Rather sit here, sit here with what
can be considered empty nothing,
sit in nothing, look inward, feel down,
touch the Earth with its beauty,
and let me find something here,
for I have been searching, for many ages past.
Tamsin 11.01.16
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