For the first time,
in a long time
I'm not the rock that's stuck
in the middle of the river
brooding over the water
flowing down around
For the first time
in a long time
I am the water
flowing down, ocean-bound,
to a place it has never seen
a home it never knows exists
It wasn't that easy to break,
the heart
It wasn't giving up so easily
on love
Breaking it over and over again
didn't break its spirit
its hope
So it had to be broken
the way it was broken
by Love
for it to give up like this
on love.
The hopeless romantic,
gagged and bound,
locked up in the basement
is scratching love poems
under my feet
on her ceiling
Two sides of the same coin
I wish it flipped
so she can come up here,
trade places with me
Once upon a time
her basement was mine
Me her prisoner, and she, my queen
I love her enough
to willingly lock myself up again
Let her rule
Let her build a world
and destroy it if it comes to that
than listening to her
breaking her nails
scratching away her love,
her pain, her hopes,
my conscience
in these silent, holy nights
But she'd have to wait.
The rose-colored glasses lay on the ground
cracked, slightly, still functional,
and with it, the unrealistic enthusiasm.
The last blow was the last:
No more bending over backwards
to pick them up.
No more desperate attempts
to peek at the world
through a monochromatic distortion.
My stubborn spine refuses to bend
like it used to, to the whim of love and lovers
My stubborn neck refuses to look
over my unburdened shoulders
to brood over a past that exists no longer.
The world in its true multitude of hues
lies ahead for the naked eye to embrace.
The wind blowing through the madrones,
oaks, Douglas furs, the redwoods
sounded like the ocean waves
thrashing on the eroding Californian cliffs
The fire crackling in the night
in front of a tent
in Oppenheimer on a big screen
sounded like water
poured down from a height
on to a cement floor.
What would I spend my time on
if I'm not spending it on love?
What else would I look for
if I no longer look for love?
Where would my dreams take me
if I'm not dreaming about love?
What would I do with my life
if I'm not sacrificing it for love?
The tight laces tied back
holding the guards
that are up
like tall walls looming
over and around my heart
are coming undone tonight.
With a finger's pull
the laces loosen
the walls move farther
the cage of ribs fills up with air
conquering space, expands
and my heart leaps forth
through my breasts
like an untamed horse
through the ocean parted.
How do I get this boulder
off of my chest, my shoulder,
This boulder that's daming up the creek
yearning to flow ever so freely?
Walking beside another
we learn the pace, the rhythm,
the perspective
of another soul's earthly dance.
We commit to an unspoken covenant
to dance together, side by side.
We slow down or speed up
to harmonize our moves
to keep that silent promise
out of sheer curiosity
to learn the pace of another life,
what the ticking of another heart
can be like.
I light a candle
at the feet of St. Anthony for you
The patron saint of all things lost
thinking of you,
the boy from St. Anthony's.
I should have known.
Going back home has turned into
this whole mixture of emotions
because of you.
You hugged me tight and long
and left
looking back at me standing there
over and over
till we were no longer in sight
of each other.
It was my farewell
but you were the one that left.
The warmth of the fondness,
that sat on the luxurious couch
in the living room of my mind palace,
at the center of my heart
has left, like you.
The pain, the fear, the grief
the emptiness, the weight, the silence
have taken its place
instead.
How wonderful would it be
to have you now...
We would have drifted apart even
if you lived.
But now that you are gone,
you are more alive
roaming in the maze of my mind.
Lucky you...
-Nush-
Nothing else is left
from all that's sown and reaped
but a Bitter Goard from a bitter God
to survive the whole winter.
They say it's good for you
that it's nourishment, a healer.
Nothing else is left
from all that's sown and reaped
but the pain and the punishment,
quite enough, quite close
to knocking my guard down.
But they say it is good for you.
That it is medicine.
that the darkness is the womb
and silence, part of the treatment.
So, be patient, my patient.
In this dark womb of silence
grow patience.
The weight of the soil that buries you
is the weight of the soul that carries you
up, and up, to crack the crust
and out into that long-lost light.
-Uththara-
I can feel all the animals in me
pacing, gracing, piercing,
across the vast plains of my Psyche;
pecking, picking, perching
or flying across the endless skies;
until the month of May
or waiting patiently for a prey;
yearning in heat for a lover's call
the thirst, the hunger
and the satiation of it all,
I can feel them all.
-Uththara-
Life moves slowly these days
as if there's roadwork ahead.
I saw a couple of signs, of course,
but I get impatient in my head.
and then pours over the temple roof
as I sit on the warm floor
to patiently learn this game.
"Observe," She says, "the restlessness,
the clutter and the utter congestion;
Observe, my child, how all that moves
and slowly conquer your mind.
What you'll see will save your heart
and open your tight-shut eyes.
You'll know that happiness is a choice
and That. Will. Set. You. Free."
to walk this road to
the door of my poet.
to pick up where I
left off of this art
of conversation.
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| https://www.artmajeur.com/en/artdenoe/artworks/10453216/thoughts |
Trust it, My Love, trust it,
You need to let go and risk it.
If you wanna be sure-footed
You've got to trust your feet
and the earth that holds you.
