Like a child of the universe
My heart drinks
The love
That comes
In a flow
Of warmth
Like the breath
Of my beloved.
At base level
The heart is a pump
An organ of flesh
Higher
It is organ of feeling
Floating on an emotive sea
And yet higher still
It is receiver
Of higher dimension
And the portal
Through which
The universe
Feeds its children
An opening through which
Love pours
Into self
Ignites the body to living
And lifts
Everything it touches
With light
Owned
By none
But God.
Uncategorized
Dearest
Dearest,
For one moment
Rest
The machine in your head.
Sometimes it seems
So overwhelming, I know -
Those thoughts thinking
Way too fast,
Exploring all sorts
Of dark passageways.
And sometimes
You think those passageways
Are the vesicles
Of your heart,
And at the depth of you
Is a crypt
Where there is something
On which
You should never ever look.
No, no, no,
Hear me now child of love,
This is not your heart
But cobwebs
Made to look
Like fearful things.
Your heart is beside you now
Beautiful child,
She stands with you
In the space of always.
And if there are cobwebs
She loves them.
And if there are fearful things
She holds them in her arms
And loves them too.
Dearest,
Do not believe the world
That says you’re lost
To She
Who loves you always.
Do not believe that world
High on separate thought.
Feel instead
The warmth
That stands beside you always.
Dearest,
You are loved by She
And truly,
It can be
No other way.
What If
What if
Words became tears
And logic
Became a lozenge
Dissolving on the tongue
And we dispensed
With the dry bones
Of loveless ideas
And gazed instead
Into the eyes
Of someone we love
Finding there
The letters of our name
Disentangled
From their sentence form
And washed down our cheeks
Like pebbles in a stream
Banked
Upon the slow curve
Of the river’s turn.
What was once
In thought
Is disassembled
And then reconfigured
In the writing works
And calligraphies
Of nature’s hand
Upon land and water.
What was once made
From man’s disembodiment
Is remade by God.
Like the world now
Man is
Written as the poem
In flow,
No less beautiful
Than the fine grains
Of graded sand
Made into the shapes
Of rounds
And eclipses
As if the loving moon too
Was caught in that spell
And no less
Intricately connected.
To Find the Truth
I used to think
That to find the truth
I had to mine
The self
For the original sin,
That first crime
Where I walked away
When I should have
Remained,
That first step I took
Outside of myself
Which split me
And delivered
All the subsequent pain.
And perhaps there is truth there
But also
Such a long time
Using the fragmented mind
In an attempt to fix itself,
Yet finding
Only a collage
Of disappointment
And recurring dreams
Of regret.
Now, I do not mine
But sit here relaxed
Without the need
For cause and effect,
Holding loosely
A mild indifference
To symptoms
And that great causal defect
That the mind
Made into
An unwinnable game.
Perhaps there is a partial truth
In searching out that
Primordial shame
Locked in a deep pit
Beyond the scope
Of finding.
But perhaps
The greater truth
Remains
In the full heart
That bears
All that could ever
Come to pass,
All found
In its witnessing.
For the greater truth
Lies in love
In open love
That always looked
Without flinching
In freeing love
That brings the greater truth
Of love’s
Acceptance
Of everything.
God Came
God came
In the form of a breeze
And played with dry leaves
For a curling moment.
Then He came
As my brother
Wearing a frown,
Dragging his ego
Like a regal gown
Yet muddied
With the whole of history.
Next, He came as emotion
Stirred in my chest
And triggering
All sorts of reaction.
He came
And He went
In form’s motion
Yet all the while
He stayed
Smiling
At everything various
And stretched between
Poles
Far and near
But remaining here
Ever-present
While all else
Played
Like the breeze
Among the crisp leaves
In the curling moment.
Path
Brother,
Stand unashamed
In the truth
Of your enquiring self.
You are he
Who must ask questions
To quench his thirst.
You cannot fight
Your birthright
Or the way
You are in the world.
Rest in this knowledge
That the path is right,
And your place on it
Is where you must be.
There is a deep truth
In acceptance
Of all
That you are
And all you have taken on.
Only this
Will see you transformed
And untransformed.
How you are
Is the truth
As it stands
In the moment.
There is sweetness here
Even while bitterness
Is tasted.
There is great freedom
To be powerless
Before God
To be as He is
To be as He is.
Feng Shui
In the house
is
space
and objects
on the shelf
and furniture placed
but
mostly space
as if
each object
was a pointer
to that
which held
it
safe
as if
subtle space
had traded place
with form
to be
the
more important
thing
and that
which calls
attention
to
itself
allowing
all
the stands proud
to find its home.
Before All Else
To share
The sunshine of the heart
Is to find
The sun upon your face
And bliss
In basking
In its beauty.
For around each corner
Is a smiling face
Reflecting joy,
Both playful and loving,
And each new corner
Yields still more of the same
Infinite quality.
Can you imagine
A world
In which the heart
Is worn naked
And transparent
In the body,
And everywhere
There are flowers
Glowing
In adoration of the sun?
Well, this IS the world
In which the heart
Finds its place in plenty
And where the mind
Has settled down.
This IS the world
Into which we are born
Through the tool of the body,
Knowing the grit and dank
Of the soil
And yet also
The ineffable reality
From whence we all come.
How could we not share
This truth
Made of light and love,
Beyond the bounds of space
And time
And all we deem heavy?
How could we not share
This warm and tender truth
Of happiness
God-given to us all
As life
Found effortless
Just like the sun
And the flowers -
And really
All forms under
The light loved down.
How could we not share
The sharing
That brought us to ourselves
And to the boundless
And to the truth
That we are love
First
Love first
Before all else.
Rich Moment
The sea beeeze is thick
With the moment
As if time
Were the grains of sand
On the beach,
Granular beneath our feet
And somehow transmitting silence.
–
This moment feels pregnant
With the ocean,
Speaking through the surf,
And the traders
Shutting down their stalls,
Heeding the encroaching night.
–
The tea, served in paper cups
Is as warm as the moon,
And tastes as good
As if it wasn’t just the tongue
But the skin and the tide
And wild dogs on the beach
Which tasted it.
–
What exactly is this rich moment
In which the body feels
As if the sea had invaded.
Perhaps it’s the heart
Or the sun
Still invigorating the skin,
Or the mind’s relinquishment.
Perhaps it’s the echo
Of the argument
And truths spoken
That leaves us empty
And tinglingly receptive.
Argument
What is the waves’ opinion
Of the couple’s fight?
For before, during and after
The sea slid landward
Then slid back,
And white noise rolled
From left to right
Along the long shore drift.
–
And what is the breeze’s opinion
Of the argument,
High in the rustle-top palms
And blowing from the horizon’s depth
Where the sunset,
Kaleidoscopic in the clouds,
Breaks apart in hues of molten orange.
–
And what is the sand’s point of view,
Shifting and flat
With each sluice
And slap of the waves,
The sunset oranging
The mirrory film
Exposed at the ocean’s call back
And salty in-breath.
distilledvoice 