Some poems seem to take on a life of their own. Apropos perhaps, I do not remember when I wrote the first version of the poem below—only that it was a very long time ago—and it seems also to have no end. I’ve come back to it multiple times, tweaked it here and there, but its completion is forever illusive. Like snake tracks in the desert sand, it evades capture. This poem of beginnings and endings, has neither. Maybe we are all like that, without beginning nor ending, in reality… and our essential self too, like snake tracks in the desert sand, evades capture.
beginnings In every beginning there is death and in all death, there is rebirth. Do you remember your beginning? We are a continuum, of eternity & nothingness polarity & unity a quivering consciousness sometimes shackled by words. Freezing bits of existence into b/l_o.c+k-s tumbling from our mouths we trip in the rubble of our own expression. Until weary, perhaps with splintered and twisted feet we lay down, seeking nothing other than earth and sky. Here we find, an infinite desert. Here our hollowed self, shimmers alive reawakened in an instant of eternity. A single drop of rain falls into the soul and the membrane of each cell shivers shedding itself into currents of grace flowing and flowing like blood into crevices and over rocks and into ancient ravines returning devoutly inevitably to firelit waves of a primordial sea. Do you remember your beginning?