all the crushing tides,
rivulets, flashing bolts of
life, light, fire and ice
carve these etchings’ speak
and harden, encase tender
flow while seeds erupt
magic, making me
in spite of, because of all
these shredding life songs
“I carry a torch in one hand
And a bucket of water in the other:
With these things I am going to set fire to Heaven
And put out the flames of Hell
So that no one worships God
for fear of hell or greed of heaven.”
Rabia, Eighth-century Sufi mystic poet
stripping life fells me
white silence stills sweet movement
’til the blooming sings
(I haven’t posted in months due to surreal challenges with CFS/ME and all the stripping life can be even without disease. The passing of two precious souls in February overwhelmed me and well, and. Life will, ultimately, dress us up in our naked humanity revealing the simple truth that with or without great health, with or without traditionally-held realities of identifiable productivity…love is all the reason to keep on, even if it’s a bit of a crawl with rebellious outbursts of dance. Here’s to better days.)
brilliant-coloured birds tend their silence here, perching on stillness and heart’s ache, a hushed fear catching in their throats, poised against a hope we’ve lost sight of in life’s cruel twists…
whose song will they next sing for us, breaking out upon the night a memorial of life precious, fleeting? surely their melodies weave eternal tapestries from the light of each heart that has ached and joyed before us and will flow onward, grasping our own and those yet to come…
let us hear their silence and know all the earth aches for each one of us.
and when their songs fall again on our ears, may we be gently enclosed in the comfort of their epochs, our stories alighting on trees, interwoven with the spirits of all nature, whispering into valleys, bursting along rivers we may never see, yet filling hearts with melodies uniquely given by each of our lives…
let us hear the love and know all the earth awaits our answering songs.
but for now the womb of silence weeps. the songbirds listen,
holding sorrow’s breath…
The heart of the soles of my feet of dancing sigh…they ache on earth pulsing a song long begun, hearing ancient knowing, yearning through the toes to the top of my head.
No ounce of will can bend the tides without the moon’s say so. No gumption of the reddest desire can re-write the years gone by or shift the mountain aside.
So, my feet wait and sigh, humming earth tunes through my being, reminding centuries of roots stretching deep, breathing life in spite of all the carnage haunting dreams left wanting.
And to my end this may be the most these soles know: to grow old in the hum of an ancient song and wait for the next expression of love, to know that only those gifted with fortunate favor and a timing divine make it beyond the mountain and across the sea, only those who dig deep find the center – the one source shaping stories for love’s next challenge, to know one’s failing may be the other’s best and that a world crawling on her knees never gets invited to the wedding feast.
“One cannot have doubt about that which he wishes to trust. To trust love you must be convinced of love. One cannot admit what he does not yield to. To yield to love you must be vulnerable to love. One cannot love what he does not dedicate himself to. To dedicate yourself to love you must be forever growing in love.” Leo Buscaglia
shore breaks here whisper
something about constancy.
love knows all our fears
tossing in tides of
change. we cling to sea’s uproar
’til the silence sighs
and we float ashore,
tumbling mystery and
faith in what we know.