Category: poetry and prose


A Call Went Out

Oh great expanse
Ever still and ever moving
Stretching far, small as dust
Hear my call
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To be one with the silence
To be one with the shape
And the color
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To be reminded of the size
Of nothing and everything
Holding tight to the infinity
Giving up the finite
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Is an aim, is an aim
Can the receiver tune me in
Or am I the receiver
The sound or the silence
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To be trapped by the mind is ludicrous
To be victimized by the mind, prejudice
Forever capitalizing on my own fears
Never to forgive my past
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Freedom, beauty, life
Come from the mind that is unchained
Unbent by the weight of time
And terror
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Hear my call, but where
Where will the call be heard
In the mind that sent it out
The mind that picks it up
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Is such a mind disturbed by these thoughts
Where does the time stop
The infinity begin, the silence begin
The action without movement, the journey without motion
The love without fear
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If I sent out my own call
Am I the only one to hear it
If I merely send it out
Who but me can know to tune in
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Who is translating, translating
How to decipher the sounds
Do I trust in my small receiver
Or the Big Receiver
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Is it a ‘babblefish’ that I seek
Or simple listening, hearing
Understanding

And there came to be a man living in a child’s body, full of potential and without direction. Blown as the wind would blow, thrown as the spray of surf ‘gainst the rocks of Time. The desire was hidden; concealed. Without it, he would have died, this man-child, but know of it he did not. As the dawn broke, blue and red and cool a spark lept up. And where the wind had once blown him without thought, now it gave life to the spark. Flaming, burning hot. To consume him and all that he knew. Drowned in the sea of suffering, burned in the fires of hell, the child began to fall behind, ash-covered, smelling of the salty sea. Without this child for once, the man looked behind him; saw no past. Looked to his sides and saw only the shores of Now. Looked ahead and saw the most magnificent Nothing. And in that moment he became clear. Transparent. How had it been? What was to be? All forms moved away and apart, came close and together and over and over they danced. Circles became necklaces of hope and promise. Broken they weaved themselves into clothes of trust and virtue. Worn out they fell to the sky and raised themselves one last time to the fertile soil. Dead he seemed to himself. Littering his own ground floor. And in the earth the reflection of his true greatness emerged. Slowly, painfully, at first, then with something like ease the momentum carried him on and up and out of himself. Out of himself he became greater than the wind and lighter than the surf-spray. Mindless, beautiful to behold, the man walked on. Clothed now in his greatness, all thoughts were actions. These led only to other thoughts which were actions as well. Resting and toiling no longer opposites, felt as sure as the ebb and flow of the tides.

—Ponder East