Heart Slide

The lonely heart

Is beyond tired:

It is absent.

Acknowledge the absence,

The dept

The insatiable wanting.

See it,

See the absolute truth

Of the hungry heart

And the deepest moment

Where two possibilities balance

Side by side,

Where one thing

Becomes its opposite,

And slides

From dept to fullness,

From hunger to wholeness

From wanting to satisfied,

For the heart is alive

And brimming

With warmth,

Not lonely

Or tired,

Just present.

Share The Light

I have drunk

From the standpipe

Of sour belief,

Constricted and miserly,

Gripping every drop

In an effort to control preciousness,

Becoming a gaunt shadow

Because of it,

For I am a man of this world.

Oh but the world urges to flow outward,

And the standpipe,

Rusty and dripping poverty,

Is but the mind’s eagerness

To hold love down.

For there are some

Whose eyes see beyond the standpipe

To the infinite source,

A waterfall

In which all need

Is foiled in an everlasting deluge.

And for others there is no standpipe

Denying the flow,

Only the mind

Constructing a fictional valve,

Dispensing injustice

And such a limited view.

For energy is free for all,

And you may drink your fill

Until you are full and wholesome

And ready to share

All the light in the world,

Knowing there is no end to it.

Endlessly Refreshing

The air in me

Is not mine.

The bone and the flesh,

And deeper defined –

The vessels, the nerves, the cells,

And deeper still – the molecules bound,

Are not me or mine,

But companions

In a movement of time.

Am I the river, a stream?

Am I the wind,

Am I the rain?

Together we are something

And nothing.

But alive is

This dance of form expressing,

Unfolding, degrading, re-expressing,

For this world is but a wondrous garment,

Worn and tore down

Worn and torn down

Worn and torn down,

Endlessly refreshing.

Being

Moving in the garden

My body is free

As new expectant air,

Mellow in the coming.

The push of bulbs

Rises through my limbs,

The sap called by the source

To come and become.

Is there better than being,

Just being?

The gnats know,

Ascribing their wisdom

In choreography

Written on the breeze

Where the afternoon is nothing

But a pale yellow light.