In the sweet spring wonder
The bud of my life opens,
Synchronised with the buds
Of the earth.
The air contains me
And the quivering bird,
Its heart broken open,
Broken into song.
Morning is beautiful,
Fresh as imbibed breath,
Acknowledged
As spirits subtle vapour.
The scent is the hawthorn
Of my childhood,
When I first saw,
When my eyes were first open.
I am here again,
Bathed in deliciousness,
Open mouthed
That I should be.
I need no more than this
Easy breath,
In which all that is free
Is contained
Or actually left unrestrained
So that I am no longer different
From all I perceive.
Is freedom just this release
From the me
I thought leashed
To separation’s identity?
Can I be free of freedom
So there is nothing left,
Nothing left
From which to flee?
Tell me there is no God
And I shall die in my garden
Breathing the wonder,
My brain obliterated
By the green spring
And the blackbird
Fluorescing
Music and magnitude
And wielding the shrill knife
Of beauty’s grievous wound,
And I will say nothing,
But put the pen
On the paper
And write my pitiful, joyous attempt
At the writing of it,
And die in my tears
And laugh in my tears,
And cry for the love
That kills me
As I feel
Its world-ending enormity.
The sun gives
Without question,
Pulsing with energy
In an ever outward movement,
Gifting without requirement,
Being because it is.
And we, the myriad life
In all our forms
Receive this gift,
And dance
In light transformed,
Wholly containing it.
The inner sun,
The sun of our heart
Is not different
Or a photon less
Than its heavenly reflection
Benevolent beyond our sky.
The mother gives
The gift, the life, the energy.
She is
In the shape of
The mother beyond the world,
Who breathes life
Into existence.
The mother is deity in earthly form,
No less than God
But no more than the mothers
In time, who populate the ages,
And bring new life
Time and time again.
They are her
As she is them.
In their hearts
They know her
Although not all resonate
With her full magnitude.
When she gives
The world is more
For she is the blood in the veins
And breath coming freely,
Filling the lungs,
And elevating the body
And the mind
With the gift of Source
Given infinitely
As a stream of love without end.
On the shelves
There are all the goods
You would expect:
Produce in colourful array.
There are people milling in the aisles,
Shop assistants serving,
Trollies wheeled,
Announcements made.
In this
You move, breathe, exist.
Reality happens – reality is.
What more could you possibly want?
I walk in reality, breathing the breath,
Feeling the body, seeing with the eyes.
The world is beautiful
For it happens
Despite the thoughts in my head.
The garden grows, expands into spring,
The foliage lush with promise.
The cat sits by the pond, under the
Blossoming trees, and amid daffodils.
He breathes the air too,
Watching, always watching,
Thinking not one moment beyond the
Moment he’s in.
Turn away the eyes
And comfort the ears:
Let the news fade
So all the angry voices are quietened,
Their fear lessened,
Their turmoil stilled,
The mangled knot of fractions thought
Fermenting doom and worse
Popped in the corner and ignored.
What is the real news,
The new news
Born in the self centre,
In the place that is no place,
The voice speaking
Of heart
And love
And truth,
That we are more
Than these jagged thoughts
Blown out of all proportion
And enlarged
Into flagrant monsters?
We are more than this:
More in the quiet place,
The stillness,
The ever expanding space
Of new ideas
Made from nothing.
The time has come to acknowledge love
And its infinite yet subtle process,
It’s utter gift,
It’s ubiquitous and never failing availability;
For it is free for all to take their fill,
And given wholly
To ever single one of us.
The flower of my heart
Blooms on a stem
Of gossamer energy,
Upsurging from the world
Behind the world,
The space that is formless.
My heart smiles on me
As the heart behind the heart smiles,
As love comes
Like a river from the source:
Like a river from the source
Provided endlessly.
New air,
The first in the world
And light as spirit imbibed,
Holds the scent of morning.
And there is twittering
Of innumerable birds,
Joyous as the magnolia buds
In voluptuous opening.
For all things are expressing
Their being in timeless rebirth,
The song of spring
Once more alive.
distilledvoice 