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.

The Warmth

Bathe in the warm sea

Of universal light,

For it is near,

As near as your body.

You can reach for it,

Ask for it to warm your heart,

For it is as close to you

As your famished thoughts.

You can have it.

It is yours and always was,

You just turned away

For the briefest everlasting moment.

Prayer

I wish plenty on my enemy.

I wish him the whole world.

I wish him strength

And vitality,

Happy times,

Fulfilment of his desires

And speed in their unfold

So he does not wait or want

Or hunger or thirst.

I wish plenty on my enemy

And that he finds love in his heart

For friends and family,

For his beautiful children,

And all the folk

In his immediate familiarity.

I wish him warmth

So he might sit comfortable

Within his body,

His mind dipping

In the infinite flow of love,

His cells infused

With wealth

And wonder at it all;

His mind wishing plenty upon his enemy.

Wish

To the tight
To the tearless
To the dried
And desiccated
To the dead
Who still inhabit

I wish
The hot breath
Of Aslam
The gentle touch
Of Jesus Christ
The Buddha’s smile
Mohammad’s light
And the unsung strength
Of every mother
Who loved their child
And the fathers
Who stood
Strong and watchful.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015