12
To be solely the awareness, completely alone, effortless,
Is a suspension of thought, a disinterest in the ever-churning world.
A state of quietude, stillness, serenity, grace; interesting only if you are truly content,
To be done with all the many things your version of the universe offers.
No, it is not easy to let go, to be in the world, but not of it,
Even for the briefest of these mortal times.
28
Ditch the superstition.
It has always been utter nonsense,
Garbage, baloney, gobbledygook, noise, bunkum,
Absurdity, rubbish, twaddle, claptrap, poppycock, balderdash, tripe,
Malarkey, babble, gibberish, drivel, doublespeak,
Bunk, hogwash, rubbish, hot air.
So to speak.
29
We are certainly intoxicated by all our noise and busy-busy,
But zip up a few hundred meters, and stillness reigns.
The unknown is not bound by blah-blah or bling.
The mystery will spin on, with or without us.
36
The tree of knowledge,
Is a cacophony of imagination,
Allowed every direction and meaning.
The indivisible totality, that which is, and is not,
Is indifferent to all that is, and is not.
45
There is tabula rasa, an uncarved block, an unrippled soul, within,
But the imaginary, make-believe you, formed of consciousness,
Must become very still, very quiet, for its awareness to reign.
49
Noise, noise, noise, endless noise.
Empty vessels blaring, spewing cacophony,
Echoes of consciousness playing out such paltry dreams.
52
Why be at all concerned or bothered,
About awakening smoke to its ephemeral nature?
Is it any wonder that those rare few who realize their true nature,
Become very silent, very still, even in the greatest din?
54
From the quietude of boundless slumber, awareness awakens,
And gazing into the pool of memories, stokes the dream into another day.
Dust to dust, a few breaths, a few thoughts, between.
Let the vanity have its way.
67
Find a space where you can sit quietly, alone.
Ignore the ever-churning sensory theater.
Allow the thoughts to pass without interference.
Observe completely the beingness throughout the passing.
That simple awareness, that nowness, is the eternal, original nature.
To abide in the essential ever-fleeting moment, the mind still,
Is liberation from the fabrications of false identity.
74
Even if every creature from small to great, were to cry out in unison,
The cacophonous eruption would amount to no sound at all.
This garden world is but a minuscule particle of dust,
Timelessly spinning in the immensity of space.
Really no different than any of the invisible particles,
Circulating about the space in which you are sitting right now.
Listen very closely, and you will be the deep silence of the universal mind.
85
When You were young and innocent, the movement of consciousness,
Was like fresh sap flowing mightily through a spring tree.
As existence passed by with its many seasons,
There arose a vague awareness,
Of the vast, yawning expanse within.
Of the quietude that had always been present,
Since the ineffable walkabout in time and space began.
The indelible stillness that few are discerning enough to perceive.
Now, You are in that portion of life, when You make peace with the passions,
And quietly prepare for the end of space-time, and complete surrender to Your eternal origin.
109
The longing for oblivion runs silent, runs deep.
111
Sit quietly, move silently, watch closely,
Be as inwardly still, as a calm, windless day,
And You will be the harvest of your temporal fate.
126
Those who speak do not know.
Those who know do not speak.
The great silence stills tongues.
127
There is a great emptiness, a great solitude, a great silence,
Waiting within, when you are finished with all the noise of the world,
Playing its repetitive, hollow recording, over and over in the monkey-mind head
146
Only minds shackled to time and space, require meaning and purpose.
The sage wanders freely in the quietude of eternal awareness.
All meaning and purpose evaporates when you do.
* * * *
Consciousness is the cacophony of nothingness.
149
What a challenging thing,
Not to be drawn again and again and again,
Into the human paradigm, and its incessant, raucous cacophony,
All its cares and woes, all its troubles and bothers,
All its confusion and disharmony.
154
What is it to be born again,
But to be the awareness of the newborn.
As still and silent and attentively timeless as the cosmos,
From whence all phenomena small to great have been immaculately woven.
181
There is nothing to change,
Nothing to criticize, nothing to prove.
You are that which is absolute, and that is enough,
That is perfection in the most ultimate sense.
Everything else is just noise and bother.
256
The mind as identity is waves crashing.
The mind as awareness is eternally timeless.
Serenity is not born of the cacophony of thought.
280
More noise; joy to your world.
345
To those who proselytize one dogma or another,
What can you really do but stay silent, or apprise them, politely or not,
That you already are That which they claim to serve,
And thank them just the same.
346
If it is your calling to discern that which is mystery,
That which is within all, small to great,
You must let go everything.
Yes, everything.
The you, you pretend,
Fabricated by imagination,
Must become so inwardly quiet,
That you divine the awareness You are,
That which is boundless prior to all conception.
353
How beyond all pales absurd it at some point becomes.
We prattle endlessly about the silence, the serenity, the austerity, of a still mind,
But to remain in that state every moment, is for most, if not all, very challenging, very unlikely, indeed.
The monkey-mind is ever an absorbing thunder and lightning show,
To which death is really the only antidote.
396
Joust with others if You will,
Or sit quietly beside a forest stream,
It is ultimately all the same.
424
How silent is silent? How deep is deep? How still is still? How alone is alone?
452
Those who have thought so many thoughts, examined existence in so many ways,
Are no nearer to the quantum beingness than any peasant ploughing the fields of gold,
Or any worker bee quietly living out their fleeting existence in one urban hive or another.
Perhaps more aware of it, but no more in control of it, than any man in the moon.
455
What do all these thoughts, all this knowledge, all this trivia,
Mean, really, to a mind that has been stilled into eternal grace.
Awareness is the quiet hum of the boundless awakeness.
471
To whom but the rare inscrutable few,
Is silence more sweet than clamor?
Sightlessness sweeter than sight?
Tastelessness sweeter than taste?
Oderlessness sweeter than smell?
Touchlessness sweeter than touch?
Thoughtlessness sweeter than thought?