Fleeting Thoughts

Fleeting thoughts

Allowing everything to blow away like morning wind

Image taken by author atop the island of Amantani

Man of few words, says the observer telling tales — inspiring others to see what not ought to stranglehold — taking us straight to the bottom of the sea. Visionary, he declared, judged by a jury and populous of unbeknownst words flowing without any gathered thought.

Trapped temporarily in black and white painted realities, a lifetime of climbing — Mt. Everest base camp is not high enough for reaching soul. Nearer and nearer, goals persistent draw to summits calling winds — of change inner and outer perceptual understanding’s golden stamp.

Chapters shorter, fusing various collective storylines — canvas breathing into an epic tale of nothingness and everything in between. Observer, observing the observer, becoming the observed — vast universal insufflation — filling lungs — the breath of life spilling words into one.

Nature’s nectar singing — roots digging deeper into the sand of time — no longer running out but gathering inwardly songs reverberation carried tunes. Pointed fingers — mirrored reflecting childhood bringing the observer inward yet again.

Single breath — pooling energies in solar plexus’ transmuting — gathered collective belief — releasing all there ever was and what may be — returning to emptiness — the vastness of thought ranging infinitely. Breathing out wounded souls — songs remaining battlefields, bloodstained kisses of naysayers and bell curves where others remain.

Johnny hour stomp’s, mistranslated Bron-Y-Aur clapping along to limited and country lanes, calling my name. Centered on self — higher purpose presenting — no longer messing around with those brick walls — singing a songbird’s song calling your name.

Infinite gratitude for lessons touch — passing through heavy pulls — releasing another ancient song of trickster’s playful disguise. Toe-tapping, the body, actively moving through another town shadowed by the ecliptic moon.

Attentive ear — man of few words, fleeting and passing winds escaping thee.

~Ani Po

Man of few words is recently heard from a friend describing me — what used to be a chatterbox of stories and being the center of attention. I smile, reflecting on the recent events, often described as collective thought, with accusations still flying my way — raising my voice far from it, just another finger-pointing at my re-evaluating inner knowing of who I am and where I ought to be. Right here, as always present in being.

Loop pedal activated for the first time in a while, Bron-Y-Aur stomp taking me into a world of knowing and unknowing. Regurgitating words or smiling — breathing life itself — creating a new galaxy of thought.

Telling my story or walking my talk — self-guided meditation in every step — a man of few words.

Image of Golden Eagle flying overheard by author

Here is a video of my loop pedal calling my name. I share this song, as the Mofo Bros have asked me to stomp and clap along.

Much gratitude for those who take time to read, ponder, and allow the inner workings of self to come forward. Grateful for the feedback, love shared, and, more importantly, the Dance with Inspiration. Deep Peace.

Joseph Lieungh

Photo by Javardh on Unsplash