love

Love

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Float

On the upwelling,

The ever pushing pulse

Of love,

For it is yours

As it is you.

Oh, how that intellect

And riddled belief

Tells you

It isn’t so,

Oh, how cold and alone

And desperate

The separate minds feels,

How loathsome life feels.

Yet, still you float

Alive in reality,

The unacknowledged truth

A wedge between you and you,

The truth displaced

By fearful thinking.

Oh, but the truth is love,

The all encompassing feeling

Filling you whole,

A mother to your woe

Holding you close

As the child comforted.

The truth is love:

It will fill you if you but ask.

Joy

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Joy in the twittering birds

Alight the air,

The wingbeat uplifting;

A fleeting moment

Agrasp the twig in bud.

Joy in the first bees

Suddenly innumerable.

Joy in the fly

Sunning himself on the leaf,

Absorbing the nutrient

Of the sun.

Joy in the exuberance

Of every plant,

Plump on the moment.

Joy in the resonance

Of the wood pigeon’s throat,

The highlighting of treetops

And branching canopy.

Joy in the morning mist

Shrouding the distance,

Enrobing the far away

In a joyous dream.

Joy in the saxophone

Wafting from the neighbours garden.

Joy in the children’s voices

Lost in the their play.

Joy in the sound of a car

Thrumming up the hill.

Joy in the stink of cat shit

Enlivened by the warmth.

Joy in the body

And joy in the body of the world.

Joy in everything.

For The Politicians

~ distilledvoice ~ 3 Comments

Your incendiary words

Are the kindling

In the pyre

In which you stand.

Your hatred

Are the sparks

Falling into the hot oil

Smoking at your feet.

Excite the crowd with an inciting speech,

Encourage the rage of the rage-full

Until they are hot for blood and vengeance.

But ready yourself,

For what you give out

You’ll receive in measures multiplied.

The wounds you inflict

Are both the wounds on your soul

And the wounds

Your enemies

Will flay you with.

All Of Us

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I am the black man

And I love my skin

And the life within the body.

And yet I am the white man,

Pale as the purity of snow.

And still I am Asian.

And so too am I mixed,

With all the races blood

In lattices twisted up in the

Ages DNA, conjuring diversity,

Bringing beauty and ugliness

Time and time again.

But I too am a woman

For there is joy in that form,

As there is joy within the masculine.

And the body of a child is mine.

And sometimes I am sexless,

Indefinably between

The boarders of mapmakers

And nationality.

And I am every class and cast

There ever was.

All this I have in me.

And as I am,

So too is other,

Not one

With jurisdiction

Over emotion, attribute or worth.

Not one less than

And not one more than.

All of us

Looking upon the world

From the same different place,

Infinitely capable

And with equal potential

To be all things.

Coming Home

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is when being away from yourself is no crime, and where wrongdoings are smiled upon, attracting no shame.

it’s when Ill thought is not made Ill with thought, but allowed to be but thought in the cosmos of your being.

it’s where there is no requirement for change, for already you are whole, and where need itself is looked upon with equanimity, and even calming is calm beyond calm.

it is when being is simply seeing what is being, and when warmth is all there is or could ever be.

Connection

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How would our world be different

If when need arose

We’d but call upon God

To ask for what our hearts required?

How would we change

If this was more

Than fanciful belief

Or a hope derived from pain.

What certitude

Would such a connection make,

Our needs satisfied

Way before they became malignant?

Who would we be

With love’s channel open,

The answers flowing out

As if from an infinite spring?

Fragrant Rose

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Fragrant rose

Destroy me with weapon of your scent

Until I am laid bare

And broken into pieces

With but one sense left

And one breath

To offer you wholly.

Then let me die

In your folds,

Loosened from the world,

Myself thrown

Headlong into the softness

Of your beauty.

Spontaneous

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What else

But sweet oblivion

To solve the angst

Of worldly living;

Its pleasures and pain?

Where else

But the heart’s here and now,

To quench

The ever-shifting appetites;

The changeling mind?

Who else

But the you behind the you,

The self itself whole

And happening;

Spontaneity immediately alive?

A Traveller’s Sweet Moment

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All the various people toing and froing with bags pause as heads tilt to orange lights capitalising arrivals, departures, long lists of destinations, or mill about waiting to board.

A deisel thrums, fuming up the place, and a tannoy mumbles. The sun shines, diffused through skylights stained with pigeon droppings.

And in this intersecting place which is no real destination, I find happiness in the happening of reality unfolding, suddenly miraculous as if the being in me, my heart, had melted like butter in the dish next to the half eaten croissant disintegrating on a plate.

And as the guard blows a whistle my insides break from something solid to a free flowing fluid made of nothing but lightness and space and the joy of dying, where all paradoxes balloon inside until my skin seems a transitory coating, a boarder and yet an open door, a bubble’s width transparency, in which, and through the world I momentarily glide.