A Poem From:

Bliss Pig
and other poems


We were always One.
There was only One;
there never was
anyone else.

But just to make the sport more scary
we played at the game of adversary
and hid ourselves in mysteries
swathed in our separate histories
and dreamed of finding One.

But it was always One.
One hung upon the cross,
One sat beneath the bodhi tree
and One was good
and One was bad
and One was all there'll ever be,
    shaman and cynic, sinner and saint.

Behind the mask,
beneath the paint,
beyond the blade of arbitrary time,
there has been One,
    integral and sublime
being whatever, however, whoever it chose to be,
    being you,
    being me,
    being Itself in myriad manifestation.

And, not to spoil the game,
but just to have a moment's celebration,
let's recollect with love and jubilation
that we are One.