Week Eighteen Poem: Still

It is impossible to write

When my heart is peaceful.

There is nothing to grab onto,

Stick words to,

And ruminate upon.

There is no outrage or heartbreak

No adoration or elation.

Stillness of the mind yields

Stillness of the pen.

Peace, refracted through

The prism of my mind

Casts rainbows of contentment

Across attic beams and foundation stones.

I cannot write, unified, void of duality.

In the beginning there was the word

The word that started it all

Before the word there was only Being.

I cast a stone into the Stillness

Try to get a rise,
Manifest a raison d’etre.

The ripple will need a voice.

Take a breath and raise the pen,

Ready to catch the wave and
Sketch the boundaries that separate

This tiny piece of Self from the Source

It is no use and I laugh out loud

at the effort to instigate a chain reaction.

That Peace has its own gravity

The ripple falls back into the Still Lake of Being

It’s impossible to write

In such a place

Where words have no meaning

One can only Be.