A Traveller’s Sweet Moment

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.

In The Aching Out

In the aching out

Of separation from the Source,

In that desperation

Of the body without,

Energy in that fraught moment

Disbelieved

And transformed into a mind robbing truth,

The inner sun eclipsed

Until all is gripped anxiety

And the thieving hunger

Drawn from soul

Reluctant in the giving.

In that moment,

In the knowing of that bitter biting absence,

That disconnected fatigue

And adrenal drift of dept,

Caffeine flowing

In the pressured veins,

In that moment

Of seeing the truth of untruth

And the untruth of lovelessness,

The love to flood the self is found,

And all that was

Is warmed

And looked upon

With tender eyes

That seed no malignancy,

Only the simple need

That needs

Parenting

By the blessed touch of grace.

Happiness

The heart that is no heart,

Broken yet whole,

Fluid in the nothing,

Being in the free,

Disintegrated beyond particle

And solitude,

Blended and indistinct,

Dying and alive,

Timelessly destroyed,

Obliterated,

Overwhelmed

And pounded from existence

Into existence’s open arms,

Until nameless,

Until faceless,

Until placeless.

Beautiful Knife

Upon me rolls the wave

Of being,

Brought by the voice of the bird

Invisible in the thicket.

With the pick of her beak

And blade of her song

She cuts

The monoculture of mind

Bent on blandness

And domination,

And frees me

From the world of my cage

To world of my own.

Sweet Spring Wonder

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.