Current Era Unfolding at a Rapid Pace

 

   Dreams are exploding on me right now. From the ashes of the fallen empires new green shoots will sprout skyward. On the ground floor of any endeavor lies a platform waiting to rise. There's more to the Jack in the Beanstalk tale than can meet a myriad eyes. 

   In streamlined packets of information like soft photons emitting a warm light. 

  there's a sense of comfort knowing the darkness doesn't comprise all of the night. 

   Knowing in the back of the head there's a vault of memories stored for the day. 

 

    I am developing a single minded vision that encompasses all of my ambitions 

   since its based on the singular premise I've concocted for the setting of my fantasy

   trilogy of compilations, a potpourri of pulp fiction delivered without compunction

   

  to enrich the narrative with a sense of urgency to make it as alive as possible 

   the events occurring do mesh up with the wave of circumstances we've all undergone

   in our respective pathways interlacing to form the tapestry of our journeys on Earth.

    

Shaun Lawton 

textbook wingflower silhouette

    to reflect on dreams 

  half recalled may lead to 

   a beautiful thicket of thorns

   arrested by a compound eye 

seizing upon the scene 

 to fracture spectrums of glaring 

 light as flashes to come before  

 the punctuating heartbeat 

   left us dazzled and stunned

in its relentless wake, I 

respond from inside to

stagger aside and cry 

 out in panicked self-defense 

 "Eternal Diocturum!

  My Lord," This one time 

 I can remember calling out 

 in a manner of dealing in vain 

with an electromagnetic cut

nature storms down 

to end up becoming all

caught up in as if into a safe

flaming whirlwind, a liberating 

aspect of annihilation unknown as

 the sensation of knowing who we are 

  to discern palpable alternatives 

 to our unreality as mirrors

   of our ongoing will to reflect  

       shaun lawton 

LA VIDA ES UN SUENO

A strange man from a distant land once told me, via a means resembling the subtlest hand theater, evoking strings of an orchestral idea as if by slyly adding veins beneath the flesh, plucking them under one by one, overlaying by degrees and passing over seas through thinning silver clouds, his hands spoke silently with minnowing gestures articulating phrases plainly understood for their universality, which shaped a story in the air about a cloaked and hooded man upon a camel or horse, it wasn't clear, striding for days across the rippled dunes of a half-blown desert, until every night, when they dreamed together in a heap by a depression in the red rock, their being the center of their own dream, each was revealed behind closed eyelids the same titanic body of water awaiting them after many days travel across the shared landscape of the real, and during one early morning while they passed over the blowing sands, the man remembered an old poem which a wizened Spaniard had taught him when he was nine years old.

Life is but a Dream, and there is only one, without a dreamer, for what we are is the dreaming, every one of us being dreamed, and dreaming also but with ourselves the center of our own dream. I dream the universe; all that I dream is I; I who both am and am not as I; and while dreaming the universe, with you perceiving it—you who are not as I but am as I—for we are the dreaming without a dreamer, and there is only one Dream that is life.

“This poem arose from ancient philosophies beyond the east and has been reputed to contain the literal truth as the masters of old came to understand it,” the donkey brayed as they approached the coastline—as if to make fun of the masters or not, the man wasn't quite sure—as they gazed clear eyed through the spray beyond the horizon over the sea shore.

Shaun Lawton