Within the cunning dome of consciousness where,
The many of the World rushes endlessly into the unity of perception,
The Self now sits, in its time-wrought garden of instruction,
Wait, for the monkey to cease its chatter.
Wait, for the sky to find a branch for each flitting bird.
Wait, for the breeze to be hushed and folded by the leaves.
Wait, for the rippling pool to be stilled.
The Self waits for it´s own dissolution.
Beneath each of us, the frantic clockwork ticks,
That makes the chattering mind that,
Like a blinded man in a darkened room,
Looks away from everything important.
The things, that make us see the things that should be there, but aren´t.
Await in the Mind´s underground,
For those clocks to tick the few, precious whens,
In which the Mind, for moments only, is not at war with itself.
Is not the bad machine, whose ill meshed gears
Rub and chafe to make the seeming ills of our existence.
The too many clocks that squabble to drive,
Too few pairs of hands, marking only intervals,
And never the moments wherein
The reality of experience actually takes place.
The art of emptiness must be cultivated backwards,
So to speak. As from the onion to the seed.
Ask the wrong emptiness and you will be answered, not with silence,
But with a stream of words, images and unlit equations,
That will tell you nothing you do not already know.
But, when you get it right;
When Will is honed to a point,
And applied with the gentlest of pressures,
Against the sky of the Self.
Just there ...,
We break through into undying silence,
Where all music has its source
(and Life, after all, is only music).
Here, Free Will is factual and not just a failure of imagination.
Here, improbable possibilities, just might happen to begin.
Here, at the start and end of all journeys of awakening,
The undying silence, where the bird of nothingness sings.
Inside the Self, the meniscus of time, climbs,
Up the tube of your limited existence, till reaching the top,
It bubbles over into limitless death.
But for this small while, sit inside the tube of eternity,
Where the meniscus of time,
Sits perfectly still,
Copyright © John Ferngrove 2009