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All poems: copyright by
Nicholas Gordon
Free scrapbook poems
permission to use
provided by the author. |
Being is a point, without dimension.
Our consciousness of now is never now.
No sight or sound is simultaneous,
Needing its own time to get to us,
Instants that no instant will allow.
Each moment is the scene of our invention.
Mind is the machine for our invention,
A chip for giving beings their dimension,
Restricted by what circuits will allow.
Know, then, that the one, eternal now,
Unlike the fact-based fiction writ by us,
Sustains a candle simultaneous.
So is all being simultaneous,
Each tick of time a fabulous invention,
The mark of motion relative to us,
Here now, now gone, unchanged in its dimension.
Give your attention, please, to what is now,
As far as mind and motion will allow.
Before-now still exists, you must allow,
Robe and remnant simultaneous,
In point of fact, both fact-induced invention,
Each already past the restless now,
Lost in its untouchable dimension,
A rush of light enroute away from us.
Nor can we even say that "we" are "us,"
Depending on what grammar would allow.
Life does not proceed in one dimension:
Inside, all is simultaneous,
Sensed through the surmise of our invention,
As deeply felt as that which we call now.
Most of us sense something beyond now.
Infinity's a lamp that burns in us
Deep beneath the sea of our invention,
Intense as our imaginings allow.
Eight days the lamps burned, simultaneous,
Light streaming from a point without dimension,
Light simultaneous with our invention,
External to the one now known to us,
Night in no dimension we allow. |
