by Rob Littler
I have yet to meet myself
Neither coming nor going, feeling not-feeling--
As if time has stopped. Really,
I circle that moment, Yeat's falcon perpetually
Turning in an ever-widening
Gyre, eyeing the pinpoint at an altitude
The deepest breath can not assuage.
There is a place beyond this making
More akin to slumber, so awake
So as to appear as if under
Some catatonic stare.
I have seen it, those Saintly beings
Who are both one and many, who
Can be both night and day,
Who transcend while planted--
So wise that they
Choose to have nothing
Posted on 11/18/2015
Copyright © 2020 Rob Littler
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by V. Blake on 11/19/15 at 08:14 PM|
It's funny to read this today. I actually just started meditating this week and was also of a mind to write something about it. I probably still will. The last three lines of this are perfect, but I love the whole thing.