Entry for 22 June 2006

The wind blows as if there is no tomorrow. 

It swirls up the fallen leaves from the street 

and the fallen hopes from the bottom of my heart. 

For a moment I rise and fly in the air, 

suspended by my own forgotten dreams and songs of childhood. 

I smile and wonder quietly-

Which corner of the world did the wind spit out happiness?

But then I remember the wonder of oneness

the wonder of being

And I know I am the wind.

3 poems by Edgar Allan Poe

Alone by 

From childhood's hour I have not been

As others were; I have not seen

As others saw; I could not bring

My passions from a common spring.

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow; I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone;

And all I loved, I loved alone.

Then- in my childhood, in the dawn

Of a most stormy life- was drawn

From every depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still:

From the torrent, or the fountain,

From the red cliff of the mountain,

From the sun that round me rolled

In its autumn tint of gold,

From the lightning in the sky

As it passed me flying by,

From the thunder and the storm,

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view.

A Dream

In visions of the dark night

I have dreamed of joy departed-

But a waking dream of life and light

Hath left me broken-hearted.



Ah! what is not a dream by day

To him whose eyes are cast

On things around him with a ray

Turned back upon the past?



That holy dream- that holy dream,

While all the world were chiding,

Hath cheered me as a lovely beam

A lonely spirit guiding.



What though that light, thro' storm and night,

So trembled from afar-

What could there be more purely bright

In Truth's day-star?

A Dream Within A Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow-

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.



I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand-

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep- while I weep!

O God! can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

Living the tao

"Empty yourself of everything

Let the mind become still

Watch the myriad things of nature 

rise and pass

grow and flourish 

forever returning to the source
Knowing nature leads to

enlightenment

impartiality

power

immortality with the eternal Tao"  

Ghostland

There she was walking. No cares, not a bother. On a land that was far from where she'd been raised. Walking with blisters. And the scream of her mother. Untouched by the moods of the shivering space.

The shadows did gather, the mist would surround her. And yet she kept walking, walking away. Through the mud and the holes on that spiralling way. Praising the lord for the unseen and the strange.

Yet the fog would grow deeper. In her limbs it would reach her. Finding her, blinding her, hiding her way. She knew it would be there, she knew she would be bare. The space and the time would collide in one day.

But in the days following, still she'd be walking. Roaming through nights with the ghosts in her soul. You can't see her body, her nakedness fading. You notice the footprints on the dusty road.

Books that I love

Here is one of my favourite books online...

"The characteristic features of Indian culture have long been a search for ultimate verities and the concomitant disciple-guru relationship. My own path led me to a Christlike sage whose beautiful life was chiseled for the ages. He was one of the great masters who are India's sole remaining wealth. Emerging in every generation, they have bulwarked their land against the fate of Babylon and Egypt. I find my earliest memories covering the anachronistic features of a previous incarnation. Clear recollections came to me of a distant life, a yogi amidst the Himalayan snows. These glimpses of the past, by some dimensionless link, also afforded me a glimpse of the future. The helpless humiliations of infancy are not banished from my mind. I was resentfully conscious of not being able to walk or express myself freely. Prayerful surges arose within me as I realized my bodily impotence. My strong emotional life took silent form as words in many languages. Among the inward confusion of tongues, my ear gradually accustomed itself to the circumambient Bengali syllables of my people. The beguiling scope of an infant's mind! adultly considered limited to toys and toes. Psychological ferment and my unresponsive body brought me to many obstinate crying-spells. I recall the general family bewilderment at my distress. Happier memories, too, crowd in on me: my mother's caresses, and my first attempts at lisping phrase and toddling step. These early triumphs, usually forgotten quickly, are yet a natural basis of self-confidence. My far-reaching memories are not unique. Many yogis are known to have retained their self-consciousness without interruption by the dramatic transition to and from "life" and "death." If man be solely a body, its loss indeed places the final period to identity. But if prophets down the millenniums spake with truth, man is essentially of incorporeal nature. The persistent core of human egoity is only temporarily allied with sense perception...."

http://www.crystalclarity.com/yogananda/