Today Becomes Yesterday

You dwell in a place albeit temporarily, but you are oblivious to any allotted time span befitting the present place. You project, and you seep yourself into this moment and place in time, there may be affection, and there may be longing. And in the night you may dream of the happenings of the day, and the days before, you may even bring this present situation that you stand in, into your dream. And you perhaps, may be unknowing, unaware of how this place receives you, in your drive to be right there, because you believe somehow, inside, that this is the only place for you to be right now, and then your comfortable feeling is shattered, signals inform you that this is not the place where you belong,that this is a temporary place, and a place that must be left behind in yesterday. And it may take a while to fully relieve yourself from the attachment that you had found there, And in time, it could be a day and it could be year, you understand that this place was not your home, and that you have some other place to go.

Success and Failure

Just one step away from failure, ah but you sidestep into the wonderland of success, with an eye on the temperature of the moment. Its odd how successfulness loves to question itself, like there is something lacking in its confidence. I guess when a thing isn't constant, it may create uncertainty. The wise tend to question themselves when the fools tend to forgive themselves in their unthinking, albeit tacitly, and without awareness. There is sensitivity and self consciousness within the wise and they don't seem to scream about their successes too much. In the melting pot though, everything has the same merit. You arrive at a point, and what does it matter how you happened to reach that point? So the wise and the foolish are closer to each other than one might think. We are all the same and none of us know, we just attempt, and some of us appear to win, certainly in the eyes of certain others, and some of us appear to lose, again in the eyes of others. And our own eyes, are suspicious to us, for they are selfish eyes, and they seek always for understanding from others. There is no contentment in isolation, there is always the quest for confirmation, acceptance. Perhaps then success and failure are more or less the same.

The New Order

They're throwing the lions to the Christians, the circus is on fire, and the government is all in jail. The world is having second thoughts, and science is questioning its sanity. Tomorrow is the prospect of unpredictability, some are frightened into the comfort of their easy answers, and some are on fire with their imaginations. And just around the corner from tomorrow are wild dreams of crazy truth. Freedom is in the air, and the air has the whiff of options and opportunities. Doors open wide to a new reality, what appeared to be lost, now appears to have been mislaid, uninformed, confused, overwhelmed. And the Christians sure are battling the lions, like the fight is from past lifetimes. Buddha sits still and smiles a fat smile, remembering how he left his loved ones and went on the road. I guess that at last his conscience is starting to bother him. The sun rains on a moonlit day, the earth escapes into the wilderness, all the comfort left, is in the fire of love, it is unchangable. It remains true, it dwells in hearts of love, and it explodes into beauty.

Silence and Sound

Interrupting me when I don't want to talk, there is more to peace than silence, when I have nothing to say. Some people seem to be afraid of the absence of sound. And then there is that screaming silence, a quiet aggression, A beautiful stillness, pervades sometimes, nonetheless, it reaches into the heart of you and it comforts and it shelters it walks you in its own direction and you have no choice but to follow.

Song

A meandering wind, takes me to places I never been. I wonder if poverty creates greed, and I have never been to poverty, but somehow, I am being shown the way to go there. The night is still, except for me, I am not still in the night. I am restless, and I wonder if my restlessness is noticed by the night. Dreams escape from the ether, they now gain life in a real place, they are mattering. And so far away from me, in a different place, glory exists, it does not take itself easily, it will not subside. Glory has its pride, and is attentive and stands lateral to my movement. The song appears to have died, there was disparity between the lyric and the air. And music is alive and it thrills.

Different Places

Similar games in different places, the eyes of minds and hearts, go searching through the barriers. I try to make some kind of sense out of my self, thoughts escape and flee sometimes within emotion. In this duality, there is some kind of oneness, although within it all, there is doubt. Truth stands behind its curtain, waiting for its cue. There is an area of mystery, and in this place, knowledge is lost somehow, for now, at least. The answers of decision are veiled, alive is a world between truth and corruption, and suspicion is always on hand, it would appear to be the only thing around that has any kind of understanding. Hearts fall and rise again, constancy is changing its course always, and elusive is its soul, it whirls in its own confusion, sometimes here and sometimes there, and sometimes it runs away to rest. And the focus is the future, undetermined although at times, imagined. Crazy is the heart when it doesn't know the way to travel, when it is unsure, when it is, ill at ease. And in different places, time suspects. The moon dances in the night, to the tune of romance. Otherwise, the sky is asleep and has nothing to declare. Even fortune tellers stand amazed and ask 'did this really happen to you?' to the reply of a semi-smile, of memories past. The world looks on, indifferent apparently, without opinion. Perhaps the world holds the answer, and its padlock just has to be unlocked.

Cormac

What I write is for you my darlng boy. Since you left, I have decided to dedicate my words to you. I have tried to be at one with you, and I will yet try. Where you are today, is the place, or is one of the places that i ponder upon. I try to exclude the darkness, and I dream that a life once lived, is its own expression. And you dwell within me and will continue to do so. You were of me, and you are of me, and you will always have been of me. There is no separation, death will not keep us apart. As long as I dwell in this land of life, you will dwell right here with me, and in this way I will keep you alive until my breath is no more. And I just had this sense that you were different from how you were, from how you lived. I can yet feel it. And perhaps where you are today will understand you, and will be close to you. When I lost you, I lost a part of myself, but my memory tells me that we are together, and neither of us can be alone.

French Cafe Evening

There you were, clinging to the remains of an French cafe evening. T-shirt and jeans, and eyes searching the distance. And outside the traffic is abuzz with its action. The clock, stops to dream, its hands empty now. We are in a museum of stillness, but still that sense of ages, persists. We are in the church of time, and time has become mislaid. I can only look at you again within all of the stillness, lest I may feel the fear of this moment, so you are exalted by me now, you have gained some greater position, as yet unbeknownst to you. We travel outside, the city streets are cold and hungry in the nighttime, they become lost within the darkness, and there is fear in the skies, and their only comfort is their stars. And shape shifting is happening, right before our eyes, that is, if only our eyes could look from outside of us. We can see only each other and this particular night, and perhaps our motion. The question to be asked is; 'Now where do we go?'

God

And in this particular ether, there are dreams of dreams, and places of sun that dwell in hearts of dream. Focus is confused and sometimes, just sometimes, things appear to become clear. And where is the place of this apparent clarity I sometimes wonder? Perhaps it is in the sky somewhere, in a place where angels reside, and perhaps it is on a cloudy day in a place where the lion tamer's breath seeks out the psychic mind of the fortuneteller. She knows things that are not common to know, and I am envious of her. I would like to touch the root of her smile, I would like to know where all of her insight emanates from. And I think of eyes, and I think of nature, and I think of the one who really holds the cards, and has loaned them to her, to discover what she may make of them. So truth is distant and people, or some people looking for it, seem to think that it should come easily to them, when they have the feeling of purity within themselves, and perhaps that feeling of purity within themselves is no more than a feeling of purity within themselves. The sky cracks thunder, and it rains on the other side of the world, and there are prayers to Gods, as yet undefined, perhaps God has looked at you and your prayers and has decided that your prayer and you belong among you and yours, and that you and yours, are the God that you seek so fervently.

Conformity

The idea of achieving the impossible is a thrilling thing. The barriers of imposed, so called 'reality' come crashing down, they are helpless and they really don't know which way to turn. And I am standing here, looking at this apparent impossibility, and I laugh into its face, yet my laugh is not one of mockery, but a laugh nonetheless. My laughter just wants to quietly explain to the impossible, that it isn't impossible, that it isn't out of reach, that it is attainable, a dream has explained this to me, and dreams are no fool. Objects of nature, like trees, teach the spirit well, and the spirit is imbued with a certain kind of love. That kind of love that is willing to give its spirit to the overwhelming of crazy so called, impossibility. And in the mirror of the memory of my mind, I saw a young man cry, in his constriction. His strength was taken from him, and he thought that the enemy was his judgement, when the enemy was his conformity.

The Journey of the Self

Journeying onward, stars descend to the eyes. and the moon shines in approval. What is known as 'sense' hides in its corner. Seeking for comfort from a completely different place. And this place today, in this moment, accepts itself in its unreality, in its gift of romance. The clock has lost its tick, and time has disappeared into its tediousness. A new day has begun and its rules have been mislaid. There is no black and white feeling within the changes of the heart. Life approves in its sense of justice, in its allowing you to be free. Memory has died, and the world seeks to become at one with itself. Thought has been betrayed, it lies in a lonely forsaken place, and it is lost in this place, it doesn't quite know where it should turn to. Now is the special time, and the feeling and ambition within this now. And this now is impregnated with desire, and this desire will search into the personal eyes for direction. This is the moment that has been dreamt of and it will live. On the street come the voices of the playing children and they seem to unite in unison to the tone of this time. Darkness has been overcome by light, and all that there is, is possibility, of the creation of wild imagining, manifested. Life is new. Life has suddenly changed, the self is in control. The self is suddenly in charge.

Heart and Mind

The heart looks within when it allows mind. Heart and mind fight for victory. So now a quandary is created, which one is to be followed? which is the one to trust? And each one is not entirely naked in itself, is not isolated, is not alone in itself. Or could there be, the lonely heart and the lonely mind? Perhaps this could be the work. They see-saw and they gain and lose control over one another. Can one respect the other? Is the other one necessary? There is no feeling in the mind, and there is no thought in the heart. They are sceptical of one another. One cannot gain the other's trust. They reside in worlds apart within a person. Yet the mind can believe in love, and the heart can understand the reasons and the motives of thought. Feeling needs to be comforted sometimes, before it can fully accept its freedom. And the heart can run free and the mind can run free. And you snuck up on me, all so suddenly with your change of heart, and all so suddenly I was so grateful that you had. The heart can have its secrets too. It can hold the greatest dreams. It can lead the way for mind to follow. It can lead the way to soul.

Silence

withdrawing that step into the darkness, fools they make their voices heard, when all that there is to be said is nothing. And fools seem to be in control, to themselves, they are not in touch with real thought. But still they sound,. And the sound is the foolish sound, the unnecessary sound, it happens upon a time that doesn't lack for it. And there are eyes, quiet eyes, and they journey within themselves, with no ambition to conquer others. For them life is within. They are the eyes of truth, they do not seek reward, they don't ask questions of the ones outside of themselves. They live within themselves, they do not venture, yet they are too searchers and they own power, and they are on a journey. I wonder now, if noise is a thing of fools, and I wonder now, if silence is the thing of the wise.

The Art of Knowing

I know there should be no motivation, no lust for acceptance. Art has to be pure, I know that there should be no reason why. It is just a happening thing, it shouldn't seek reward. Art itself is the reward, and there are different facets of the reward. To understand you need to be in humility, and then again, there is no cause for trying to understand. There is nothing to even attempt to understand, and any way, that kind of thing belongs to dumb intellect. This is the place of delusion, and if you are not aware, it will attempt to suck you in to its deception, to its being removed from truth, to its bullshit, to its lie. Mind so enjoys having an opinion of itself, sometimes it is afraid to just stand still and relax an just be. There is a kind of knowing, that is far removed from intellect, not that intellect can ever really know. Feeling knows, although it will not speak a word. Love knows and it deals in feeling too. This is higher knowledge, and I believe to even suggest knowledge in relation to them is a great insult. So then, there is no real knowledge except for the feelings in the heart. So I guess, to be in touch with the purity of the heart is to know as much as you can know for yourself.

Forsaken angels, and their angelic kind of love, which isn't really any kind of love. And right now in this moment is such a good place to be. There is violence in the love, and all that it asks for is more. It doesn't accept some easy and therefore some kind of phoney kind of love. And we stand here in all of this weakness, nothing speaks of truth, it wanders and it sways, and it deceives, after it has tantalised, it is not to be trusted, it is a liar. And then, love with its particular violence stands apart, and it turns from judgement and it is real. Love has its own aggression and its own violence, it does not stand in a passive place, Its eyes are searching for a place that is further on. Right here, in this moment, nothing seems to live, there is a waiting for the day to change or a waiting for tomorrow. And angels, are drifting, and all they ever seem to do is wing. I know an angel, and she is love

The Question Within the Silence

That sweet taste, both mellow and poignant, where the impossibility that you had imagined, glares back at you and questions the soundness of your mind. You stand helpless in a corner, your movement is all within the changes of your mind. You turn into yourself, looking for inward guilt. And inside of you, recognises the challenge just as you have suggested it, and in the silence dwell your feelings. They bob back and forth, on the horizon of decision. Beauty would appear to be intact, and colours your silence, and this perceived beauty has nothing to say for itself, but to speak to you. And you discover that you have to open your ears, to give yourself the chance of understanding, and the challenge is to understand the question within the silence, and to answer with both heart and mind.

Farewell and Adios

I never realised when I listened to those old Folk songs, that 'Farewell my own true love' actually meant, 'fare well my own true love' just like I never knew that 'adieu and adios' meant 'To God'

The Truth

The truth is what comes from out of you, when you explode. You sit comfortably within yourself, in a tired ease, unquestioned by the self, and you don't realise it, and you don't see it, but you subside. You become like a lesser self, a pretending, lesser self. Prudence is a straightjacket, it will take you into its noose, and it will leave you hanging there. Truth is when you wipe the tears from your eyes and you give them your own fire. And the fiery eyes will seek direction, and they will explore outside of the parameters that you had originally had imposed on them. And then perhaps in some kind of seeking to bring a distance closer, you embrace somewhere outside of your own personal world. And then two worlds collide, and a greater truth emerges, if everything is real and keeps to truth.

Evening

Perhaps I needed it then, but it means little to me now. I wonder though, where she was headed to. she, and her false affection, I am alive in this moment, and my memory doesn't love. So there was the rape of love in the place where the angels sing, and she was apart from the angels although somehow, she was on high. And she had urged me to remember her, and in this moment, all I can do is consider the moment. And today, I saw what I perceived to be beauty, and I addressed it and I told it so. And this beauty, thanked me for my appreciation, and then the beauty was gone. And the evening is crazy and it envelopes, it is helpless within itself, it doesn't know, it is lost in itself. I wonder if evening is easy with itself>?

Looking for Truth

These are ideas they are not statements of fact, as if they even could be. They are attempts at truth, I guess that they are attempts to get into touch with truth. And then the attempt at truth takes us to different places. I don't know anything, I haven't been informed of truth, I am yet, in the dark. So in the evening, I look into the eyes. I don't know which way to turn, no-one has told me, where I should go. I am lost within my life, and it would seem to be the only place that I can go.

Art

James Dean was right, the highest point of creation is in its creation, and then it is over, it is a memory, and there is a choice to be made for anyone who cares to make a choice, would like to place some value upon its head. A song or a poem or a physical piece of art cannot live again, because essentially, the creation involves the feeling. and the feeling is temporary will change when you don't even want to consider it. Some people understand how to feel toward art, and some people dont, some people are artists and some are understanding of artists and to some, it is all just foreign to them. And the artist and the ones who appreciate art are also lost in understanding the ways of others, they are unknowing too. So there are two types of people, the artist and his appreciators and the ones outside of art, but who dwell in another kind of world of art. And we all criticise so readily, as if there is no other way but ours, or at least, that ours is the only credible way. I guess that art is a bigger word than we imagine.

The Dream Within the Real

A moment turns to magic without forewarning, a demon escapes to its freedom in a nether place. And the clock is yet warning of routine, lust for compliance, but alas, no-one cares. And the moment of the magic, withdraws to itself, It seeks its own solitude within its own beauty. Definition howls in frustration, with opposition of rye smiles. And definition can now turn to the clock to gain comfort, it is all that is left for them, in their mathematical world. Nothing makes sense, and that is what makes the most sense. Eyes collide and recognise, theirs is the only knowing around, and crazy is this reality within dream, and real is this dream within reality. And today was the only time in life's history, although it sidles into its shyness. The clock is on fire and the only time is now.

The River Tolka and its Added Attractions

So I'm walking along the East Wall Road this morning, minding my own business as usual, and happen to look at the River Tolka which runs lateral to it, and I see a burned out Motor Car at the side of the river, just above the water, and I'm wondering to myself 'how the hell did that get there?' so i continue on, to do a bit of shopping in Aldi, and on my way back I happen to look in the direction of the river again, and now, there's a Motor Bike.

The Search

Crazily dancing on the eye on the window of living. Back and forth, twisting and turning, looking into the memory and the dreams of the future, and then stilling oneself to to alone with the present. Everywhere is a departure and an escape from the present reality, that teases and wants to beguile. So, without certainty, that insecure feeling visits, is the companion. And you can either accept it, or run from it in some kind of fear of reality. And then reality stands before you, naked in itself, without prejudice, dwelling in an apparently neutral place. So fear is the enemy of the understanding of reality, of an acceptance of a present truth. And you walk out of yourself to gaze at a picture of life outside of the self, and suddenly you have changed to a bigger self. It all takes courage, and has to be looked in the eye, sometimes even, in an unpleasant eye. There are comforts of course, like the kiss of another lost soul, but the greatest kiss, is the kiss of truth, and the kiss of truth lives within God. And God has to be perceived in selflessness, in humility, and then I believe he will grant understanding, when you are aligned to the search.

Man and God

Even an open mind, must make up its mind. The search may not yet be over but it becomes better informed. And a decision, doesn't necessarily have to be a conclusion, and anyway what is a conclusion? A delusion that stills one into some kind of 'knowing?' And high on the ramparts of the spirit God condescends to you to inform , that he doesn't give the ultimate information away. God is truth, and man is helpless, no matter how hard he may try, and where he might look. He has to face the reality of being unknowing, of someone having him on a leash. But he is asinine and proud and this too is the source of his delusion. He is you and I, and he is not God, although he may a trivial part of God. And then again, there couldn't possibly be a trivial part of God. I guess man in his deluded state, may still be God.

We Are One

Alive to this moment, and then nervously looking at the possibility of you, the darkness in our skies seems to subside into oblivion. Suddenly, as if from nowhere, but perhaps from the great God, I am confronted. You have sung the song that was in my heart, and I am helpless in compliance, and I gaze upon the pictures on your wall, that were written for me. And there is no point in trying to understand anymore, because there can be no understanding, what is, just is. Mind has given way to heart, and the heart is open searches into the open. And in the open, the whole world. And I refuse the past, in my consciousness of this moment. There is beauty in the air, and I am entranced. There is a kaleidescope forever changing, until it fixes itself on you and nowhere else. I am lost in you, and my own personal history, has become lost within itself. Your life lives within my life, and just like making love, we are one.

Now

Wild in a dream, the movement in the moment is given zest. I put my mind to sleep, for a rest that is overdue. Life is a aflame in its possibility, constriction is in bed with the mind, and the heart breaks through, its eyes are on fire with longing and creativity, and the day stands lateral to the present moment, it is somehow alien, to the present feeling. Time is a memory that will not be remembered, all there is, is now, and the feeling of this particular now. And the feeling is the sense, that grasp of sensuous now. There is no escape nor can there be, from the escape that the feeling explodes into the sleeping mind. Eyes, live to dwell in mystic life, eyes that have smiled and eyes that have cried. there is sun in the rain, and it attacks its shower its downness. And possibilities cling to the sun, and the sun inspires, it acts as a guardian, it radiates into some kind of magic. And there is magic in the stillness, and then the stillness is in motion and it succeeds. It lives.

Jennifer

I long for you jennifer, your serious look, the truth in your eyes, your long dark hair and your fullsome lips. I long to be with you on a warm day, walking with you in peace and in stillness. I long to make you smile and see your smile bewilder the day. And I long for your touch and feel your breath on my face. I long to help rid you of your darkness. And I long for you to touch me with your love, and I long for our love to manifest.

Life and Dream

Facets of person, like, do I believe you? when you are so interchangible? Our hearts drum, in a place that searches for music. You are new here, and in the reaches of your mind, is your sense of radio. Beauty stands aloof, there is an angry look, and then a sympathetic smile, it makes you wonder. Night comes down, and you gaze toward the glory of the day, which was of yesterday. Eyes crawl out of the darkness, your hands are tied enough to know that you can't be there with them. And suddenly, all there is, is now, and you care to think that this 'now' is the answer, is your guardian, is the one to give comfort. And this 'now' pretends to be forever present, to be some kind of permanent reality. So you, are standing on the sidelines, looking at the picture, until, the picture sinks into the life of your dream. And then you wonder about your life, and then you wonder about the dream....