Island DreamsAs I sit among the daffodils,Gazing intently, waiting patiently,For my shadow to move,For my woman to echo,My silences and even my voice,Songs wash up on my shores,Of men long gone,Men with my memory,And some even without my face.I recognize something of my own,And even something that’s not mine.And realize the illusion of ownership,As the barnacles claim the ship’s hull,And the captain bemoans its fate.

As I sit among my daffodils,Gazing intently, waiting patiently,Getting rid of forms to find shadows,And my woman hears her own voice echoing disdain,I meditate upon the artistry, And the craftmanship of the gods,Making unconcerned animals their mouthpeices,Making unsuspecting men their puppets.Wisdom is impersonal, Intelligence unconcious of itself,And the men who fight barnacles clinging onto their ships’ hull,Break into it holes and sink their own ships.To let in is to own it,To close the door is to deny it.Wise men open up, idiots slam it shut.

To want a Reality because the man who lived itWrote excellent poetry Is foolish to say the very least.Open up and see – the moment is here.You understand it becauseYou lived it too.

Illusion is a close approximation of Reality,

Reality is the most persistent illusion.Make what thou wilt of it,Unconcerned with those who point fingers and throw stones.