wrapped snugly
in the blanket
of non-belonging
non-knowing
non-believing
non-escape

freedom still
just a taste on the tongue

as the blanket is torn to shreds
(dust in the windless wind)
all remains tossed into the vast
nothing snug about it
loose and sailing
free-falling
gone

freedom now just
another word
meaningless
still
beautiful

Feeling like a whirling dervish
turned to stone
a pillar of salt
not moving a hair

grinning out loud
the only prayer that comes
is this!

I cannot find you anywhere
walking up and down
the tree-lined streets
there is everything to see
but you.

I imagined that all
your old familiar haunts
had closed down
too empty without you
everyone gone mourning

but moving toward the window
there is only the space
now empty of you
and full of others
living it up
as if you'd never been

I long to knock hard
on the glass
to cry out loud
to scream your name
remind them of your
infinite goodness
fearless loyalty
undying love
infectious laugh
devoted friendship
everything you gave your life to

but knocking doesn't happen
crying doesn't happen
screaming doesn't happen
no one will hear me

there is only this empty space
here
where you and I
have never been.

A parade marched through the town.
Everywhere was music:
LOUD
dancing and singing
brass bands playing
and kettle drums
boom budda boom budda boom.
Multi-colored lanterns
exquisitely bright and beautiful
designed and made
with magical hands
sewing magical threads
onto magical bits of nothing
and oh, those play people
designed to look like others
riding busy bicycles
some with real wheels
some with imaginary ones
how on earth
will we know
which ones can be ridden somewhere
in particular
and which ones are just for fun?
laughing out loud
at their bright beauty
and streams of thinking flow:
Hey, I've got nowhere to go anyway!
I'll take three candy apples
oh, and one with caramel
and that silly hat there
and the electric blue one
the one with the made-up wheels
rainbow crepe-paper and hibiscus
tucked in the spider-web spokes
and ride off up to the moon
like the kid in ET.

--dedicated to Chantelle Rytter, with love and appreciation for your magic

It is clear to see
and sometimes painful to watch
the throes of agony
he endures
in order to know.
He says he will quit soon
because exhaustion
and this endless torment
might be getting the best of him.

On some afternoons still
he knocks on the door
of someone who appears to know.
This one who appears to know
has burned all of her books
taken her certificates down
and protests loudly to have
only the knowledge of nothing at all.

She shares this lack of knowledge
along with cups of peppermint-nettles-nothing tea.
Sometimes the visitor cries hard
because of his belly full of dredged-up grief
sometimes because of his unresolved joy
occasionally he laughs out loud at his own folly
and is precious and earnest if nothing else.
Mostly, he comes for the tea.
This is known by the one who knows nothing
based upon often finding the empty cup
placed mindfully on the table by the door.

You there lurking in the shadows
the light throws
on the walls of your own becoming.

The spiny figures flashing on the wall
are you, dear
hiding away
from your own
blinding beauty,
running hard.

Shall we hazard a guess?
Is that a searchlight in your hands?
Please, I invite you not to flip the switch.
Not this time.

If you could only see 
that out there in the deep 
empty darkness of mystery
nothing glows without you

It awaits 
with wonder
you to carry your walking, waking presence,
your very birth and being
across the threshold of nothing
into the open arms of beauty.

this afternoon
scents waft in on the breeze
sky is carolina blue
with whiter than white clouds
showing
streaky
puffy
and wild animations!
last night
bursts of sharp startling light
sliced into the room
like butchers wielding long shiny knives
and then making themselves dark again
all the while
mixing it up
with roaring growling threatening
giants from middle earth
tearing through the dirt
rumbling hard
and then
bounding into the ethos
just for good measure
and then shhhh
quiet as little church mice
staying still for awhile.
again and again
tearing through the room,
they played their wild game.
a dangling arm
attached to a gentle hand
caressing
the soft fur of a four-legged
come to that side of the bed
gentle and forlorn
seeking
soft comfort
and easy love.

hallelujah

sipping
morning tea
many tastes on the tongue
black tea
bergamot
scent of citrus
neem honey
cream
the cup itself
gratitude
touch
remembrance
all
tasted
on the tongue
and
in the heart

before sleep
a smile
a low bow
quiet gratitude
an endless song
the day's miracles
repeating
and
beginning again
as something new
that never was
and is now
only just becoming
what it is
and isn't
what it can
and cannot be
softly swaying
exquisite
form
and
formlessness
never here
never gone
always
a whisper
away
a sigh
a blossom
a tender nugget
briny nectar
thick with
the taste of
everything
silver
spinning
robe
for the invisible
one
who cannot speak
but holds
the swollen
light
upon
the dark door
where
emptiness
holds still
until
the wailing comes
endless
longing
silent
echoes
bringing
dawn

The chooser, always alive and kicking (sometimes screaming!) believing that "I" live life, in this field of choicelessness, where life, instead perhaps, lives you. A rollicking ride in the push-pull. It has been suggested in non-dual teachings, that we have no choice, that there is no chooser, and yet we feel as though we are choosing, in every moment. That idea of choice, free will, also has been suggested to us, much earlier on. Alan Watts spoke about the turning of a wheel, noticing how there is pushing with one hand, while the other is pulling. What a deliciously gnarly dilemma we have: choosing to believe that we are one or the other. Isn't it grand?!

All love, all day long,
Analisa