Stillness Still

What shall I do when my skin pickles and my mind dries splintered?

I won’t stare into dirty window panes.

What shall I do when my eyeballs glitch shudder open-shut, right to left?

I won’t run, slaughter, spin out, or crash in stupor-ful grim.

Where shall I go when cars slam openings cabin space so tight it pierces skin?

To nowhere regret drives home.

How shall I survive the sandwiched time of somatic stares and twitching sleep–

unparalleled movement unceasingly on?

By leaving love notes in your lunch box and writing letters home.

Why do we contrive without power un-surrendering ourselves to the perpetual?

We won’t let the wheel go, let the world spin a’wheel.

Which is in? Which is out? 

What matters?

When will the uncleaved door bend, ope-crack and whistle in the sizzling windy train of space, 

belly breathe hoary air eons long, trellised and clinging to cilial body, shivering sensoranticipatorily?

When still–

Yet still–

Stillness is.

 

Pixabay: waterstillnesswoodnets

Stillness and Presence


“At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;

Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,

But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity, 

Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,

Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,

There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.”

T.S. Eliot, “Four Quartets” 

The dance is ongoing. It is presence. It never was nor will be but at the still point of our ever turning, evolving world–that is us. And the dance is lovely and freeing if you stay there.

Adrift

  
I call him a drifter, 

but who remains static?

No thought ever nailed itself

down, tacked to airless walls.

No body stops unceasingly,

all that pumping and throbbing,

ever moving cogs and wheels

the sentient and incognizant alike.

Even in death and decay, there

movement devolves-transforming.

Stillness breathes a steady notion

but no such evidence exists.

Ever in motion, roving nomads,

we, the universe compels it.

Stillness Is

stillness
What to do when the skin pickles
and the mind dries splintered?
What to do when eyeballs glitch
shudder open-shut, right to left?
Where to go when cars slam openings
cabin space so tight it pierces skin?
How to survive the sandwiched time
of somatic stares and twitching sleep
unparalleled movement unceasingly on?
Why do we contrive without power
un-surrender ourselves to perpetuation?
Which is in?
When will the uncleaved door bend
ope-crack and whistle in the
sizzling windy train of space,
belly breathe hoary air eons long
trellised and clinging to cilial body,
shivering sensoranticipatorily?
When stillness is–