Love Fills

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I am lifted upon a cloud

As light as love

As playful and transient

As love,

Making no mark upon the world

But indelible significance.

For what else lifts us

In the body?

What else

Conveys the clouds,

Makes the moon the delicious moon

And the sun magnificent?

Even when we are down,

Crowded by thoughts,

Living beaten

By the throng of our thinking,

Still we are lifted

And still we are born

In the world and of the world,

Love in everything

Despite our tenacious denial.

How long can we hold

To absence, and the idea

Of heartless universe?

A lifetime, perhaps?

Or perhaps,

There is instantaneous recognition

That loves fills

And always has.

In The Feeling

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In the feeling

All that was future

And past

Is gathered

To the beautiful, unfolding now.

You,

Withdrawn from scattered self

With eyes only for the world

And the things in it,

Are returned inward

To yourself,

Finding that you are whole

As you have always been,

And full of love

For every wrong turn

That lead you to the truth.

Never were you parted

Never were you alone

Never were you distant

From wisdom’s place

And the heart song

Singing

Life’s simple authenticity.

You are the outpouring of self,

Fresh and new and crisp

To the world

And joyous

In the living of it.

Love

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Love sees you

Dwelling shameful,

Harbouring secret thoughts

Too ugly to own,

And puts its hand upon your shoulder,

Turns your face

Towards the sun

And whispers

‘You are not alone in this

For I hold all in warmth,

And all your shameful thought

Is but a heavy weight

You need not lug about

Nor even believe.

Come out

From the shadow of your thinking,

There is no weight in love

Only fullness

Of the heart absolved

And the infinite wealth

Of joyous being.’

Potential

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Turn

From the tired old trudge

Into limitation,

Where the mind conjures

Ever decreasing lack

And multiplies of hardship.

Turn towards

The vortex of love

Spinning perfect

In the centre you forget

While straying in the dream

Of you as lonely entity,

You as lonely, separate fact.

This infinite you is limitless

And born anew,

Fresh and ever fruitful.

It calls the thoughts,

Enrobes them rich,

Colours them

In love’s ubiquitous energy,

And spins them

In upward spirals

Bringing more and more

And glorious more

In never ending

Expansion of being,

A potential

That cannot be reached

But can be

Reached into

And rode:

You,

Forever uplifted.

No Need To Love

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You need not love the self

For the self loves you.

Relax, forget about the work

Of loving, it’s not yours to do,

For the self loves

Your every limitation.

Stop attempting the impossible:

You cannot conjure love

Through will and the toil of thinking,

Just chill

For you are loved already,

Wholly and infinitely,

No part of you left out.

See you are bathed in love,

See that, only see,

Then sit back

And do absolutely nothing.

Don’t Delve

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Don’t delve around in the mud,

Searching for the lost parts of yourself

In a quagmire of regret and loss.

The lost parts of yourself aren’t there,

And nor are they lost,

For the self watches you over your shoulder

Aware of the mud on your face

And the oily stink between your fingers

As you dredge up your shameful

And sordid past,

Offering yet another ugly

Memory for memory to feed upon.

Instead, climb up upon the bank,

Sit in the sun, allowing your mind

To drift free from the sludge

Of past chronicles.

Your lost self was never lost,

And sits, enjoying the sunshine

Smiling kindly upon your tribulations.

It was you who was lost, not yourself,

Who’s love for you

Was never in question.

Spring Prayer

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Newly minted air

Made new by the night

Holds spring

In its spaciousness.

The world is awake

And tender

As the first-born greens

Of beginnings

Brought forth

Again, and yet again

In timelessness.

Being dances

To the steadiness

Of the sun,

Lives as a prayer

To the becoming of the one

Who holds

The delicate flower

And weight of the earth

And else innumerable,

All secure

In boundless,

Infinite nothingness.

Wonderful Space

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The garden is ripe with being

For sunlight

Diffuse through haze

Illuminates

And encourages

All green things

To be

Ever more themselves.

And like the plants

I expose my skin

And open my pores

And breath in

That light,

Absorb

The sweetness offered

Unconditionally,

And drink in life

Knowing, as it is mine

So it belongs to all

Whose hearts beat

And in whose veins sap rises,

And in even the static selves

Of soil and stones

And things thought inanimate,

Nevertheless

A pulse of being still thrills.

Being Beautiful Earth

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I walk barefoot

Upon your back

Breathing the fresh, clean air

Cleansed by the trees,

Their breath in mine

As mine is in theirs.

And my eyes gaze upon all your wonder,

My eyes which are yours,

My seeing which is your sight.

To think I once walked separate,

High in thought

And fear

And confusion,

Yet still my bare feet

Touched the ground,

And what the soil bore

I ate, digested, made into myself,

Unyieldingly gripping

The fiction of separation,

Believing illusion

Despite the proof of my body.

The wind is in me

And I am the wind.

I am the earth

Momentarily raised into flesh,

Borrowed from eternity.

I am the being and the seeing.

How could I have maintained

The belief that in all the universe,

Only we, as humans,

Dwell outside all that is?

Identity Struggle

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We wear our race like a heavy cloak

Painting our skins with uncomfortable ideas.

We wear our gender like lead boots,

Stumbling in discomfort proclaimed as ease.

We wear our sexuality like a brightly

Coloured mask.

Our religion and politics

We wear as indomitable rightness.

Our point of view

Is an impenetrable stone castle

Fortified until the last soldier is killed.

Our countries are emblems

For which many will die.

So many are the dividing lines,

The fractious ideas,

For we are tribes

Of a broken mind,

Switching allegiances

Like a fickle tide forgetting the moon,

Changing our image to suit,

Gritting our teeth

In gripped identity

Held as a fist

Shaken at the world.

Are you for or against?

⁃ the what does not matter

In this politics of imagery.

Is it possible we are mistaken

In our hell-bent

Desperation to be somebody?

Could we be

Loose in all the periphery

Of our difference?

Could we see that we one in our being

And the rest is but a jumble of ideas

To wear, not for the war of it

But for the fun of it.

Where is even rightness in this?

Perhaps nowhere

But within the expanse of our boundless self

Containing nothing but the infinite.