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.

The New News

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.

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.