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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476776" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>My Third Eye Opening Oceanically Of Its Own Accord</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">My third eye opening oceanically of its own accord.<br>The wingspans of the flowers bloom omnidirectionally. <br>The blue sky lays a balmy smile upon my flightfeathers. <br>Blood hums to the blissful resonance of being alive. <br>Even the glowing concrete seems benign. The gates <br>with their rusting guns triggered like locks, the fences <br>holding the occupying gardens with their placard poppies <br>back like riot cops. Time without haste. Consumed <br>by a moment as perennial as summer on earth. <br>Nothing urgent in the fulfilment of small destinies <br>in the grass, no antecedents necessary to know <br>how to live this, no event trivial or especially significant, <br>I'm as open-minded as the wind on a shoreless afternoon<br>that tastes of the stars gusting in the dust at my feet. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wild parsnip, Queen Ann's Lace, mullein, goldenrod, <br>purple loosetrife and cattails in the ditches along the roads, <br>Lichens of the moon on the staves of the cedar rails <br>where the red-winged blackbirds sit <br>to paint their picture-music on the unprimed air <br>like the musical notes of a cadmium red and yellow song<br>with overriding tones of nocturnes to come. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sweetness of life when it takes its mind off of everything <br>and requires nothing of the living but attendance.<br>Just to be here like a vagrant wavelength of awareness <br>among things as they are without trying <br>to gouge your eyes out like bluejays at the sunflowers <br>to get at the roots of the flowering mind deep in the heart <br>of the hidden harmonies basking on the surface<br>they're joy riding like the elegant riffs <br>of the dolphins and flying fish that leap out of the shadows <br>into the enraptured atmosphere of their own auras<br>like blue damselflies and green tree frogs and old guitars<br>working their necks like weavers, or fleet-footed spiders<br>walking on water like heavy metal on a Ouija board, <br>like thorns in the eye of a bubble, hoping it doesn't <br>wash them out like tears in the eyes of a voodoo doll<br>looking through the keyhole of a needle it couldn't find<br>like paradise on the other side of its blind blessing.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not for long or far, I'm still walking a habitable planet <br>full of wonders. Though the road keeps getting shorter <br>like a fuse behind me the further I travel down it, <br>and the asteroids keep making newsbreaking fly-bys, <br>and there are rosaries of bubbling methane rising <br>from under the shrinking skull caps of the poles, <br>and people are still trying to keep each other's attention <br>by stabbing one another in the eye, but for a moment <br>that isn't concerned about whether anything lasts or not, <br>there are no omens stuck in the throats of the rocks, <br>or blood of children splashed on the hollyhocks. A re-run <br>of provisional innocence in a few hundred acres of woodland <br>swept under the rugs of abandoned farms as not worth the trouble. <br>Lapwing gates hanging by a hinge to distract <br>the wild grapevines away from her empty nest<br>as if it still cherished its emptiness out of a force of habit. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I look upon the Tay River at sunset, the reflection <br>of the darkening hill quivering in the cooling breeze <br>like the more mercurial downside of itself, <br>and the sky opening the blue-green eyes of the peacocks<br>like stars with too much make-up on, and a handful<br>of charred crows flying through the roots of the trees, <br>trying to make sense of themselves like a burnt manuscript. <br>And what can you say to the stars that are beginning <br>to look for themselves in the approaching night <br>except this too is the world where even the lost, <br>in attempting to return to themselves through<br>the unattainability of the past, shed light all along the way? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nightfall and the silence intensifies the conversation <br>with bioluminous insights of the radiance <br>blazing out of the darkness of a white coma<br>as if it depended upon the contrast oxymoronically<br>just to be noticed like waterlilies in the shallows <br>of the conscious mind anchored by a spinal cord <br>to the reptilian epodes of its own illustrious starmud<br>as every thought moment is, like kelp and kites <br>and river reeds swaying like synchronized swimmers <br>to the currents and wavelengths, the turns <br>and counterturns, of thematic waters with a musical motif<br>that plays to its own depths from the bridge <br>of a burning violin dancing like fire on the water <br>with no fear of ever being drowned out by the moon.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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The wingspans of the flowers bloom omnidirectionally. 
The blue sky lays a balmy smile upon my flightfeathers. 
Blood hums to the blissful resonance of being alive. 
Even the glowing concrete see..."></div>
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