[Thespiritexpress] Endings, Beginnings and a Few Things In Between

Tue Mar 19 22:28:46 PDT 2024

WOW Too!
	Dennis

> On Mar 7, 2024, at 10:03 AM, lee michel alley via Thespiritexpress <thespiritexpress at lists.mcn.org> wrote:
> 
> I was cleaning rabbit hutches at the local animal shelter in Santa Cruz  on Tuesday, and missed this feast of word-play! Glad you shared it here!
> Thank you,
> Love,Lee
> 
>> On Mar 6, 2024, at 6:00 AM, Paloma Carmona via Thespiritexpress <thespiritexpress at lists.mcn.org <mailto:thespiritexpress at lists.mcn.org>> wrote:
>> 
>> 🤩 WoW! 
>> Absolutely stunning!🥰
>> 💛P 
>> 
>> Love long and prosper 
>> 
>>> On Mar 6, 2024, at 1:26 AM, Ed Balldinger via Thespiritexpress <thespiritexpress at lists.mcn.org <mailto:thespiritexpress at lists.mcn.org>> wrote:
>>> 
>>> 
>>> Here is the entire prosaic poem of which I read most parts this morning in Pathwork.  
>>> 
>>> Blessings of connection to all, through all, and in all... 
>>> 
>>> ~ Ed 
>>> 
>>> P.S.  this is the "getting close to finished" version of the poem I read today in Pathwork. I seem to change parts every week to this poem as I find changes in myself changing... 
>>> 
>>> Endings, Beginnings and a Few Things In Between
>>>  
>>>  
>>> And beside the grassy banks of a slow, transparent stream,
>>> You seemed to contemplate an unforgiving history,
>>> and the difference between clouds and their reflection.
>>>            ~ N. Scott Momaday
>>> 
>>>  
>>> Another new opportunity blows across this thinly veiled life of mine.  It clutches my eternal fabric as if all my garments have been left unworn. My other suit (not the one from my birthday) awaits a good wear this year.  Although it continuously alters itself, I’m aware that it will be worn, torn, and sworn to some salient secrecy in mystery’s midst. 
>>>  
>>> That with which I identify is clearly obscured by my own plain view with far greater frequency than it once was.  From context to content, in a constant array, presence plays in silence where nothing is left unsaid.  Where words stir friction in a slurry of ritual’s need, perfect incineration prevails.       
>>> 
>>> That which triggers happiness is an unloaded, disassembled gun.  I move toward its mouth with ease.  A friend inquires, "Is that a trigger for you?"  I holster my inadequate response momentarily – spilling favor in turn – a transformational skill I picked up in high-school watching Cheech & Chong educational films.  There were other trickery bits I learned along the way.  I’m not sure that anyone was aware of what I absorbed, but it all worked out in the end as far as I’m concerned. 
>>>  
>>> Then I reply in repose to my friend,  “No, I don’t feel triggered so much as I feel bludgeoned by public opinion pulverizing my pineal perception with a common misuse of language without revealing how each one of us are so uniquely connected to our collective disconnection.”  My friend kicks the dirt in circles as I go on, “I still learn from some sense of history – his, hers, theirs, my own – that we (a repetitious lot) are often misinformed by our own factually elaborate gaps, milking soft truths from the core of all cores, whipping our own withering tit to the tata-tat-tat of a synaptic trap wrapped in this society’s great misinterpretation.”        
>>> 
>>> Jesus told me once, “Three drops of purple reigns a fistful of rock.  A grain of sand, possibly once a mountain, is on the move again.”  I’m not certain why he told me so, and now there’s an overflow of suspicious redemption layered in a clairvoyant residue beside me.  I pack lightly for the next trip.  “No choice but to choose,” or so I’ve heard it said.  Some of these sand granules remain unshifted in listless winds of wonder.  I came to find grooves askew in chasmic dispensations, lain low in the super flow of lava lamp transfusions; an hourglass built on concurrent half hours, one hour at a time when time devours its own identifiable transmutation.  
>>> 
>>> Matches strike tinsel lips on mercury kisses stuck to uneven bricks out of reach from finger’s tip to slow-down devolution done, and there is no union dissolved in the “un-one.”  This new unity no longer disavows.  It reaches through various clarities yet to be unseen where sacred bread assimilation begins in line; a millennial shift in radical disbeliefs roughly goes pervasive, and a rickety, rocky fella scores rations in a can.  No land left unturned.  No turnkey turns out so low.  No last rite reads its own ceremonial farewell.  And for none of that, there shall be one guarantee.   
>>> 
>>> All this to say that each adventure unties itself at the base, letting loose its own choiceless choosing of a traceless trace soothing the beast within, without...
>>>  
>>> hesitation…  
>>>  
>>> hunger…  
>>>  
>>> emptiness…
>>>          
>>>           despair.  
>>> 
>>>  
>>>   <>
>>> Edgar Z. Balldinger
>>>    January 3 – March 5, 2024
>>>      © Nublin’s Pub, 2024
>>>  
>>>  
>>> 
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