Things are just as they are
The many paper doll covers drop away
That which Plays does not leave, however
Only the kind of playing that was borne
Of striving, play acting, a wish to stand out
Somehow different, as if what we truly Are lacks.
No more pretending called for, although pretense
Arrives from time to time, leaving its calling card as
Residue, the way sour milk leaves its trace on the glass
The I can momentarily forget that it is Luminous, Empty,
That which Knows –and if it wears anything, it is stitched
Together entirely of Love and glows simply as Experiencing.
San Cristobal, NM
16 February 2015
Life Being Life 
Wonderful words Janice. A brilliantly flowing description of Being in the world but not of it.
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Thank you Babaramram. Appreciating your commenting and visit to contemplative fire. Blessings!
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Typo near the bottom “The” instead of “Then” ? I think. Raymond
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Actually no typo, Raymond, but thanks for wishing to help out! Try reading it this a way: “The “I” can momentarily forget…” The poem speaks about or refers to the “I” or the separate self as a noun or an object here. But that objectness is dissolving…
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Janice, I am truly always brought into your world so deeply through your stark honest poetry… to me, you are the modern day Rumi
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Dear One, My sense is you are open and alive in your awareness, which is LOVE itself… My work, if this is work, is already done (essentially unnecessary) with your very receptivity! Ah! Nonetheless, thank YOU!
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