Knowing Nothing


I could never explain to anyone,
What it was that I Longed for.
I could never explain,
Even to myself.


I could never explain to anyone,
What it was that I Longed for.
I could never explain,
Even to myself.

It wasn't just an emotional thing,
Or some object of mental curiosity,
It was something of both, and far, far more,
Across the Whole of Being.

It was there, always,
The Ancient Ache of the heart,
The relentless quest of the mind,
The furrowed brow of Wonder.

Longing.

When Longing was Fulfilled, I could never explain,
What it was that had happened,
Or the nature of that which Shone thereafter,
Effortlessly, always, in the Locus of the Heart.

Spiritual academics had many explanations,
Of both Longing and Fulfillment.
But those descriptions fell far short,
Of the Kingdom of Heaven, or the Hearts Lingering Radiance.

And so I sat, and sit, in Experience,
With no knowledge of “what” is Experienced,
For all of the explanations I have heard,
Seem to me so much concept, theory, and conjecture.

Authorities abound, emphatic, full of certitude,
On “enlightenment”, “awakening”, more so, or less so.
The unique expressions of those who have come before,
And experienced… Something.

I keep to myself, and avoid the “spiritual marketplace”,
That cacophony of screaming vendors,
Screaming at each other, and all who pass by,
The nature of “Truth”.

I sit on the porch with my puppy,
And watch the branches sway,
Dissolving in Golden Translucence.
What is that Light?

I've no “idea”.

I sit and Vanish, along with the world,
As Ananda wells up, flooding the Experience of Being,
Dissolving manifest form, in the Ecstasy of Formless Being.
What is this “Ananda”?

I've no "idea".

This is not enough for many of my friends,
Who seek to understand that which is beyond understanding,
Who seek to Know that which cannot be Known,
Who seek to experience what is only experienced…

With the Vanishing of the Experiencer.