Sitting.
Like a slowly weathering
sandstone statue.
Gazing,
into the eternally setting sun of the present
moment of now aflame
radiating
cotton candy pink, royal silken gold, tangerine orange, rose bloom red.
Sitting.
As still as still can discover.
In a wind tunnel.
The stream of existence blasting
past
engulfing me, leaving behind the wake of my presence
patience
in the here and now.
The existence stream roars.
The existence stream trickles.
Always flowing, full of life, flush with a billion thoughts
each with their own story
line —————————.
Each ladden with feeling.
Observe
let it come
let it go, by staying anchored
to the here
and now.
Or grasp it, clutch it, haul it back
and try, forever fruitlessly, to shape it
make it
the way you want it to be.
And away you’ll find yourself swept
prey to the whims of its ebb and flow, eddies and rapids.
And soon, regardless of how you choose to live
the existence stream will weather you no more.
Into a billion pieces we all dissolve.
Flotsam and jetsam and a
weathering cause
for the experience of others
in the existence stream.
PoemsofaDad 