Later, Earlier, Now
The die is cast. (“Iacta alea est.”)
“Iacta alea est.”
“The die is cast.”
-Attributed to Julius Caesar at the crossing of the Rubicon, as recorded by Suetonius in Divus Julius 32.-
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All these things
I need to do,
Important things,
Bright and new.
Can I find
The stolen time,
Or should I just make do?
Why am I asking you?
I will get to them later…
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Earlier, I thought
It was better:
The coffee I drank,
The smooth romance,
The dancing and thrill of it all,
All seasons, including fall.
If I go back in time,
If only in my mind,
They all seem better.
A time-machine
Would have been
A better invention
Than sliced bread,
But we have this instead…
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And now… what is now?
Can I furtively grasp it
Before I am past it?
A slight sliver,
Lightning, a glimmer,
Gone too quickly
Into the past.
The die is cast.
What chance have we
To be
Here indeed…
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How did now
Become this narrow,
Squashed between
Yesterday and Tomorrow,
Pinned between
A split loaf of bread,
Thinly sliced and diced and dead?
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What if instead
Of the narrowly seen,
We contemplate
That this deep ravine
Is truly where we have allways been,
And the passing of time as it seems
Is what is lost inside the dream.
🎲
The only time we ever got
Is the present time, as you forgot
To set the alarm for Now.
You are allways here anyhow.
The present as you share visually,
It inspires me words of gratitude
as if it were a controlled brokeness,
A divinely desired crack openness
that cracked from the One into the many
Creating a never random relating sphere
Yet alive and surprising in choices
So it may looked at itself
And so it is below
and so above
Side to side ways,
as in order as in chaos,
Myriad of lightup awareness
Singing through unique voices
We see light into form,
forms into meaning,
Meaning into art,
A creativity never lost
as you always write into my heart
The past is a dream,
you allways lived here with me.
And as lucid as we may be for days to come
And go
and on it flows
the record of times it grows
Wild!
In the crack that welcome the dream
Open palms down your rainfall
Reality magnanimous of the unreal
Soaked in whatever is left unseen
by sheer chance
Puddle of stillness to observe,
The curiosity of a child
until a clarity amongst choices playing before us
An Infinite game of love and laughter
And it braids, that crack braids constance
And disrupt localized assumption of identity
with the dreaming to produce memories,
Free to braid when unidentified,
No more hoarding of memories
Free to create for the whole nest
The songs of a future
To nourish the evolutionary tale of love
it braids, yes, constantly with the future,
that siphons in the crack a now broken shell of memory
and tries out a potentiality from that choice already made,
Aspiring not already actual, about to be Is
The ever birth of Is of what Is
Like a braid trying out gold rings of devotion,
The threshold felt in awareness
Shimmering around the fingers of God
May it grows and recedes as waves at either shores
Kissing through the inner eye toward open lips
A lap dance of black holes to light whole
*
The more we are made to notice,
embraced in the cracked open heart
A love leaking through my fingers
As it leaked through you
That rising river of love in the crack
Beautiful!