Poetry/Prose

Great Glass Walls

Image credit: Mine, Beijing 2010

Image credit: Mine, Beijing 2010

Dear Anonymous,

I tried to write a note to you today but when I was about to send it, I thought of all the synapses that would fire in your brain and cause you to respond in the way that you would, because you think the things that you naturally do.

And I wondered in that moment, how many people I have loved had wanted to write to me but couldn’t because they knew the same …

… that some strange volition within me would take the purity of their words and feed an ego that just couldn’t know better at that time.

How many?

I wanted to tell you so many details. Things that would get lost on the way to your deeper wisdom. I have tried this before. I know. They will.

So now I will send you nothing at all–something more pure than the ego can touch. Something so subtle it overwhelms the world. Something that will never be said but somehow be known until the moment before we die or almost do–what is real, what is true.

There is no me. And there is no you.

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Poetry/Prose

Social Studies

photo credit: mine, Koh Samui

photo credit: mine, Koh Samui

The feeling

When it’s right

It’s like being weightless

Energized

Free

When it’s wrong

It’s like a million memos

To the mind

Deciphering

Decoding

Exhausting

When you don’t have to think

You know

When you don’t know

You think

The gut doesn’t think

It knows

And from the moment

I first saw you

Years ago

In dark discos

Darting around

Shiny, yet

Somehow insecure

Worried, frantic

Sorting through crowds

Searching for something

Hiding from something else

I always paused to think

About you

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Poetry/Prose

We Always Find Out

girlwithblackgoggleswithtesttube

I am

Amused

Beyond a PhD in

This thing

Boys

Wishing to be men

Do

Even as

I prepare to retire

I still research

Now and then

Behind goggles

Sometimes surprised

Always amused

And it’s funny

The chemical

Physical

Biological

Types

That we draw

To this lab

To watch

A few words

Some body language

A hypothesis

You think

That we think

It’s real

That we’ll cry

We think different

And we prefer to laugh

We are scientists

We always find out

Read up on things

Exchange research

We all study

We all share

We all talk

We. all. talk.

Observe

Divide

Mimics from real

The tapestry

The venoms

Potent

Impotent

Of wildest dreams

Woven

Specimen after specimen

Slide after slide

Microscopes

Beakers

Bell jars

Tattered radios

In corners of labs

Play music

Sometimes our favorite songs

As we spank our hands together

Wink at each other

Slough off our lab coats

Call it a day

Go out for a drink

Celebrate results

We are scientists

We always find out

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Poetry/Prose

Now, Decide

photo credit: mine

photo credit: mine

Right now is a live wire.

You may think only something (maybe boring, maybe not, but limited by what you are exposed to) is happening.

When really everything is, now.

From the outside to sit still may seem pointless–but it is in doing this that we boil ourselves down to nothing and feel everything at once.

A massive speck, sitting there.

You might be in a little room with just yourself yet you know a whale is traversing the sea, a baby is being born, someone is digging through garbage, a businessman is clinking a glass over a million-dollar deal and you sit there and just know.

And on and on and on.

It’s electric, and you have so many options, how to perceive, right now.

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Poetry/Prose

Heart + Soul

Me, giving myself a hug, like I do every day.

People practice yoga for many reasons. I am starting to think that mine was so I could give myself a really strong hug, every day.

A draft/scrapped stream of consciousness submission to a love book, which runs from grounded factual almost-narrative to ethereal, philosophical mumbo-jambalaya (I submitted another piece so just share this one in case anyone likes it–it’s a “true” story).

I guess if I were to sum up what I have learned in one sentence, I’d say this: love—I mean really loving—is inherently risky when you think of yourself as separate from its bounds (but my point with this piece is to argue with great gusto that you are NOT). There are so many other things you can say like “yeah, but there’s always another chance at love,” etc. But I want to focus on the perception of risk.

I want to drill deeply into the idea of risk, because it is by doing this that I feel I have learned to love more deeply than I ever thought possible. I have learned to move–or rather dig, like one would try to dig a tunnel through the Earth herself and emerge on the other side to, surrender, lie down and look up at the stars–through the risky stage into the more mature stage of embodying love more fully than ever.

These days, love, to me is not even a contract. It is a purpose and an impulse that is a highest birthright, a deepest refuge and an unlimited source of courage and power.

(One quick aside: meditation has been the key to me discovering and focusing on the concept of risk as a critical key to loving more freely and deeply. Sitting still on a regular basis kinda makes you brave like that.)

My story is grounded in the fact that about 12 years ago I left the comforts of my own culture to date, marry, divorce and again continuously date and have relationships with men from countries and customs quite different than my own. People ask why I have trouble going back to American men and I will say this: once a man from another culture stretches your perception of the way love can be, you have trouble going back to a more predictable pattern.

After my first breakup with a Turkish man, I was completely devastated. The idea of finding something like that seemed preposterous. So I lost hope. I met another Turkish man after that who showed a tendency to commit so, in one unconscious, default, fearful-foul swoop, I married him when he asked.

I loved him, but not in a way that was risky.

Not in a way where I felt I had something really to lose. He’d never leave me. Not because I was me, but because he was dogmatically locked in somehow. Marriage was more important as a container than as an experience and a daily stream of choices toward intimacy, organic behavior and interpersonal evolution vs. guarantees and automatic behavior.

I have not married since.

There was something so settling yet uninspiring about that marriage. We were together three years—two of which were minus any sense of physical passion given that there was only a modicum to begin with.

When I began practicing more yoga and moved us to another country, as a leading spouse with an overseas job, the shifts within me were too great. I realized I was stronger than I ever knew before and gained a sense of the fact that I could survive alone. I broke out of the marriage and into an international scene of men, many of whom were Arabs.

My first experience after divorce was with a Pakistani man, then an Egyptian, then a South African, then an Indian and then, for a year and a half, I settled down with an Iranian professor who specialized in artificial intelligence and natural language processing. We seemingly had a very nice run, but then one day, out of the blue, an expert at studying and testing the real vs. the artificial, he said he couldn’t be with me because I wasn’t Iranian. So many messages we humans make up to say a simple thing: my soul doesn’t run in parallel with yours anymore.

Needless to say the last five years of my life, post marriage and in the thick of dating, have been a character-building exercise. The breakup with the Iranian was especially disillusioning and yet profoundly sobering because he was a) the first person to ever break off a relationship with me and b) he retracted his love–confirming several times that he never meant the words he said every day until that point. The words “I love you,” suddenly became somewhat obsolete in their subjectivity.

Someone could get really jaded by all this–but I found it an opportunity. A chance. To get real.

When I look back, this was a massive turning point in my process to learn how to love more closely to what my ideals of the feeling truly are. The key word being: feeling. Countless memes, books and self-help guides circle back around the concept of loving yourself. But to really get down to this at the experiential level, for some of us, takes going through pain and loss.

These are the only types of experiences that we engage in to understand ever more deeply our ability to survive them. Some people may not engage so fully as try to medicate these sentiments. But when you engage them, when you burrow deeper and deeper into the pitch-black caverns of pain and loss, you start to notice a pattern that the more deeply you loved, the greater the depth inside you reached when these sentiments call you with them.

This is where risk comes in. When it’s real, when it’s deep, you know it can—and will, by death, breakup, circumstance, eventually—be taken from you yet you must proceed. Through the pain, this fact becomes matter, and the experience of your deepest levels come in so handy as anchor points for you moving forward.

Because you know, it’s going to get really dark sometimes, but you also know something more important—you will and do survive. This is the other side of the coin of loving. It’s a coin that is constantly rotating in the air if you can only keep your heart open.

Closing the heart–by either nailing down a relationship that may not be based in love or by avoiding the pain that love promises–will freeze that coin in mid-air. A dullness will take over your life. You will be an observer of love rather than a subject to its whims.

By nature, when you are separate from it, love is totally risky. Deep, true, honest, passionate and vulnerable love carries risk. Yet the fear of losing it is far greater a risk in the end. And even fighting that risk and defeating that fear cannot protect you from the pain of someone leaving your life. Still, what if you could see these situations from a different kind of dimension. A dimension where you are all one in the same and just moving in and out of these mirrored rooms and experiencing all these experiences and losing but gaining before losing again but one is related to the other?

In the end, diving in, pushing against all of your fears, against all the perception of what is gambled, means diving deep. And the deeper you go the closer you are to the wellspring’s source inside–yourself.

Once you get a load of that, it’s like you see this massive light on the ocean bed. Nobody else can see it. Nobody else can reach it. You know it’s your secret. You know it’s inside you. This light. And you just kind of shift.

Voila! Risk no longer applies.

Instead of tightly fisting the good and loving times, obsessing and over-analyzing how you can make them last, you open your hand and let them come and go. You are enough. You are love itself. As is everything else that makes that inspires that love to grow and expand. And as it expands you realize something—that everyone that ever loved you, every love you ever shared, EVERY EXPERIENCE WAS AND IS FROM THE SAME SOURCE. YOU.

This drops your shoulders if you let it. It introduces fear to its dead end, when you remember. If you return to this thought, really let it sink in, you begin to feel the futility of being anything but fear’s opposite: loving.

You are not threatened. You are suddenly operating from a center instead of reacting to external realities. You are highly mobile, never stuck, never trapped, never abandoned. YOU ARE LOVE. And you know how and where to move when you admit this–flow away from what is pain and toward what is joy.

If nobody is around to share it with, you are bathing in it–you find you have so much of it inside. You just do.

It’s time to stop getting so confused and distracted about the source of love–right behind, under, above your nose, 24 hours a day, every day of your life.

Acknowledge and fuse love as it is: the gift of life itself, coursing through you, offering you constantly a breath, a view, a sound, a taste of it. Poised and held surely at the very breast of life itself, you are life’s baby: alive, tended to, and if you should be open to it, loved.

Sometimes I drink my smoothie in the morning and imagine I am at the breast of the universe. Isn’t that weird? Well. It’s true and it makes me happy.

You woke up, you can read this, you have food to eat, you can interpret this with electric intelligence–when did you forget this meant that you are always, always, so, well, loved!

And from this place, the love you extend from yourself is like honey from a bee of your mind, flying flower to flower, processing experiences, self assured in its flight, landing, natural, purposeful. Being alive is a calling, and it’s enough.

Stop struggling against it by creating things you want that you don’t have. Just be … just buzz. Love is its own reward, a luxury, a risk, a gain, a loss, until you realize it is actually you. And the fibers of your being begin to insist on this. You start to realize you are gold.

You are pure gold and you deserve to be protected, cared for, respected, alive. Boundaries start forming around this, naturally and cognitively. You start to study, how to care for this love that is yours. You discover things that cause you to move toward or away from others, effortlessly, without a second thought … it doesn’t matter because you are and have enough: love.

And you don’t need to be around people who promise to be the source of that love and can’t. In fact, you just won’t.

Again, risk starts to reduce as a consideration, in a practical sense this time.

Finally, I will say it hurts sometimes. It does. Because, as the adage proclaims, change is the only constant in life. But that feeling you keep trying to avoid happens whether you engage in loving or not. You suffer less to understand how it works–that it is you at its source, that it is inspired and mirrored by others in a magical mix of ways, but to begin with, it’s YOURS.

Today, I have a lot going on in my private life and nothing at all. Depends on the day. Bottom line: I love myself, I integrate everything every lover, every friend, every family member, every ONE gives me that is good for me and throw the rest in the burning garbage can labeled “past tense.”

Risk is an invention of the mind. Love is natural, organic, resourceful–nothing experienced could ever be a net loss.

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Poetry/Prose

You Would Have Been Lions

photo credit: mine

photo credit: mine


Cubs

What can I say?

When I can’t lick you

I know

You would have been lions

My mind is part of nature herself

All twisted and dressed

In cement

And male ambition

My mind is part of that nature too

And it got made up

Still, I want to lick you

Cubs

Both of you

You are still here

You would have been here

You will be here

And yet

You would have been lions

Cubs

Everywhere

Every moment

Every chance

I think of you

You are still here

You would have been here

You will be here

And when you are

I will never let you out of my life

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Poetry/Prose

Keep Moving, Mapmaker

PS: Did you ever notice how  phallic the NYC metro map is?

PS: Did you ever notice how phallic the NYC metro map is?

You are a cartographer
Your life is a map
There are ways to get places
And there are experiments that result in dead ends
No shortcuts
No guarantees, except:
Every day life gives you a chance to improve your resolution

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Art, Music/Book Reviews, Poetry/Prose

Start Again

Whatever it is. Whatever it was. It’s gone.

No pact or promise can hold it in place.

Not because you don’t deserve it, but because it’s always changing.

Appreciate it and let it go.

It will surely fly back to you if it wants to do–or into the sky, carrying a part of you to timeless heaven.

Eternally impressed–its memory will shift around your actions and change their meaning every day.

The minds-eye mirrorball–shifting light of reason as the hours, days, years, lifetimes pass.

We live in so many dimensions.

Let go and see it.

Let go and live into your next one.

Every day.

Look in the mirror first.

Say it to yourself first.

Start again.

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Poetry/Prose, Yoga & Spiritual

2014 (I Have Learned)

Screen Shot 2014-12-30 at 9.45.10 PM

And if you did not care deeply for me

In moments when I needed you most

Indeed you helped me find

The deepest place within

From where these calls for care rose

From here

I see now

I needed you

To help me find it

And when I saw it

The anchor dropped

The sand settled

Softly, perfectly

Around and around

My own limitations

And those of others

Now all I have to do

Is feel the current rock me

For I am always tied

To myself, most deeply

This sea is mine

And the sky is now the limit

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Poetry/Prose

I Don’t Want Anymore

Image credit: Panoramio "a moment of perfect contentment"

Image credit: Panoramio “a moment of perfect contentment”

It’s just that …

What I always thought I wanted

Still wants me to want it

And I don’t

I just don’t anymore

 

One day

Sometime after I was born

I caught a glimpse of it

Started following it around

 

It took me to many places

Showed me stuff

What I was studying

Was something that never ends

 

But not in a poetic way

More like a dull, repeating way

Not even like waves

Because waves are interesting

 

No

Wanting is more like a factory line

Like a big hamster wheel

Based on past constructions

That strangle the future

Time’s ticking hand, stuck

 

It’s the fragmented offshoot

Of desire

A bug in a program

A cranky robot baby

 

Wanting

 

In that space

Where want was

I grip the moments

And they feel me up

 

Penetrate

So I know where I am

Not where I was

Not where I’m going

 

Where I am

Time moves

It’s a river

 

At nights, after nights

I do drive home alone

But I don’t flinch at the cars

Even the big ones

No matter what they do

Even when they nip my mirror

In this silly town

Anymore

 

Free from all this want

Free from all the weight

Of that silly, silly want

That still wants me to want it

 

You may ask:

What to do if not to want?

 

Pardon me if I offend your wants, but how about let’s just live to the max and see what happens?!

 

Because

I don’t want

I just don’t want anymore

 

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Poetry/Prose, Sugar Free

Happy Endings

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Usually I need music to write

But I sit in silence tonight

Because something has been pulling me

Like thread

Finally, through the eye of a needle

Just noticed now

After 30-odd years

 

Like an eight year-old girl

Tugging on the hand of a woman almost 40

Tugging her through scenarios

She thought the gods wanted

Tugging and tugging

 

Year after year

And she thought she was older

Past all that

Just living like people do

With ups and downs

And downs and downs

And stories and fodder

For blogs and books

 

Tonight she discovered

This tugging child

Some weird flinch

In her hand

That words in a book

Drew her eyes finally

To look down

In one breathtaking moment

To see

That little fist

Strangling her fingers

 

Yes, tonight was the night

After a particular series of events

That seemed loving

Could have been more loving

Found me in the bathtub

Looking up from a book

Weaving words

Through my mind’s voice

Running films of the past

‘Or my mind’s eyes

 

Dumbfounded

Aware

The girl was right there

Always has been

Tugging at me

Only now

Looking at me

 

Like thousands of yesterdays ago

Playing out

That kermit the frog sweatshirt

Anemic face

Blue, penetrating eyes

Nerves like a rabbit

Distracted, wild

Lost, somehow

Yet stunningly lucid

 

Her hunger for love palpable

Her attention

A warm breeze of empathy

With survival-grade hooks

Save me

She could have said

 

Instead, she smiled

Looking down at an angle

Nowhere

 

Her fist squeezing tighter

Around my hand

 

I wiped my eyes

Collected myself

Asked her some questions

Began to weep some more

 

Oh, you only have two pairs of pants?

She looked down regretting her penchant for truth

 

Who are your friends here?

Well why don’t they talk to you?

What do your parents do?

Oh.

 

All I want to do is adopt her

Tell her I have nice clothes for her

That we can talk every day

When she gets home from school

 

I will make her snacks

She doesn’t have to wait until dinner

Fight over fish sticks

Tuck her importance deeper

Every night

Into her pajama pockets

 

Everybody did their best

It’s not about them, anymore

It’s about us

Now it’s our turn

 

Lucky for her

She has no choice

And neither do I

 

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Poetry/Prose

Shut Up, Sit Down and Feel the Pain (stream of consciousness)

This is a cat that graced my life for a year, named Mooncake. He was deaf and pure gentleness. I think of him and feel the sweetest pain in missing him.

This is a cat named Mooncake. He was in my life for a year. He was deaf and pure gentleness. I feel the sweetest pain in missing him.

For this to make sense, you have to get to a point where pain is not some taboo part of your thought process or a step child you blow off. Pain is not “bad.” Pain just is. And it’s here to stay. So why not ponder it, shed light on it, stop being so dang scared of it.

Automatic pilot

Massive waves

Predictability

 

You’re supposed to be fine

Everything is functional

Why not you?

 

Because in all this ease of use

You are no longer friends

With pain

And it scares you

Deep inside

It does

 

 

Give me the 2nd or 3rd world

Forcing life upon me:

Flexibility

Innovation

Execution

The ground

 

It’s nerve wracking

Ego fraying

Relative

Good times

 

What was life

A hundred years ago

Infections

Lost limbs

Childbirth

No anesthesia

 

No matter

 

It doesn’t matter

When you live

Where you live

How you live

Whoever you are

You will know pain

 

As everything becomes “easier”

Pain’s roots defy logic

But pain itself, never

If it’s not beside you

It’s around the corner

You see?

 

A society with its share of grit

But without that

Pain rebrands itself

 

Neurosis

Paranoia

Anxiety

Alienation

Autoimmunity

 

It niggles, constantly

A water torture

But where is the tap?

 

We’re fine

Pain

In the flow

Pain

On top of the world

Pain

 

Like a fly you can’t swat

 

Everything works well

So …

… what am I doing?

 

At the gross level

Making plans

Shaking hands

Getting stuff done

Spinning wheels

Flying high

 

But everyone has to land

Sometimes

 

At the subtle level

The bigger project

 

As it all gets louder outside

We gotta sit down, shut up

 

Or we’ll never trace it

Explore it

Set it free

This pain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Poetry/Prose, Yoga & Spiritual

Have I Grown Up Yet? (this is not a poem!)

Image credit: mine

Image credit: mine

I would be lying to say that the past couple weeks were not a washing machine of “didn’t I already pass this test?!” and “are you f&^%$ kidding me, universe?!” moments.

And yet, I prayed–through the shadows cast continuously by this series of personal retrogrades–that there was indeed a reason for all of it. Strangely, situations that were familiar and disturbing at the outset saw unfamiliar resolutions based on a new level of clarity. Something I played a lot of life, hard, to win. And as the days have passed since a lot of the storm settled, I am starting to get it. There’s always a delay–always!

In plain English: I went through a bunch of shit that I had been through a long time ago, in very abbreviated ways, so that I could ensure that the situations ended totally differently based on the level of maturity I have attained.

Like most westerners I know, I need some kind of definition or reason–as dumb as that sounds considering my size and life’s importance in the grand scheme of things–and so if I must have this I would preliminarily say that all this bullshit lately is to show me that indeed I have grown up.

I mean “the proof,” the universe seems to say, verbatim, “is in the fact that you are going through the same scenarios but the endings are better: more about a long-term solution and a win-win scenario.”

Me: Am I growing up? Am I? Have I changed? Why do you want me to go through these dumb things?

Universe: How the heck would you know without a repeat of stuff you went through 20 years ago, in extreme fast-forward motion, with a completely different resolution and very little reaction on your part while it all went down?!

Me: Ooooh … yeah; I guess you’re right. (laughing)

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Poetry/Prose

Sheet Music (stream of consciousness)

In the West, all notes must resolve by the end of the piece—what goes up must come down and must be justified by a partner note that balances it, somewhere, even miles ahead, in the movement. Perhaps this is the case in Eastern music as well, but the way of achieving this for both ‘ends’ of the Earth is radically different.

In the end, our life is but a single symphony, among many. Reborn into different initial notes, we must resolve, again and again, what we embody different recognizable shapes of flesh, bone and nerve to do.

When the last note is played, the book is set down, and another is lifted to the pedestal. We will do it all again, starting on a different note, in a different hall, in a different city, with a different crowd. Again.

I don’t care anymore who says we are living just one life and going to heaven or hell—it is clear to me that we create these things on Earth anyway. And we must soon all take responsibility for our part in their manifestation!

You are in the midst of this particular life. Your eyeballs reading this screen here in this patch of time, before you see it on glasses, and then contact lenses, and then through a chip in your brain and then not at all because you just know it because you are a cave person in an unsettled land on a newborn habitable planet, and on and on the future unfolds and unwraps beyond our imaginations.

You see anyway, when you realize this life is but one of yours, that the smaller few-day spans of time, that used to cause us such agony in unknowing and anxiety in the unforeseeable, become way more bearable, even laughable. Detaching just enough, we see how life rolls. Yet this will never preclude the stark reality that we must get in there–lest we be thrown in– to role around with it too … we are part of the orchestra after all. We cannot escape, or we will be politely yet firmly invited to face, again, those parts of the music.

When we loosen our bow ties or exchange our heals for soft soles–walk swiftly to the parking lot with instruments slung over our shoulders–what do we feel following behind us? What is our legacy? Even through perfect execution of notes, we created some drama—and we are left with the residual. It accompanies many of us to bed. It greets just as many first thing in the morning. This symphony. This melodrama.

And in the end, who the heck cares what any of it means so much as how you behaved?! Were you giving props to the guy on the tuba? Did you work with the first-seat violinist? Did you see your role within all of it? Try to expand it? Max out your power to add value? Or did you fight and yearn to break out of it? Did you play your part, let others play theirs? Did you feel the applause deeply and take it on as yours? Did you let the glory live in your heart and the modesty sit in your mind—the knowledge always that you were just practicing, like any other day … that you are always just practicing?

Did you see the times you want to repeat again, make just a bit better, just a bit sweeter, just a bit more true to the moment, and eventually more … heavenly?

Because without your decisions, it’s only sheet music.

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Poetry/Prose

Never Hide (from Allison)

Feelings

Formless

Real

The world’s worth

Pack of children

Pound at your heart

Fearless, naked, intent

Clinging, laughing, crying

Begging?

I will never be a man

Folding his arms

Shaking his head

Wagging his finger

At wisdom’s pearls

These children

My business

Everyone’s business

Making love with liberty

We bear its children

Seeded

Deeper and deeper

Silken knots

Released

Past is present is future

Generations generate

Distractions

Sit still!

Master alone

Tend to the children

With quiet hours

Invisible

Inaudible

Impalpable

Imperceptible

Hyperreal

Nothing but nature

Everything but words

Roared by a lioness

Who smells ego’s lips licked

As it eyes her cubs

Bears its wordy teeth

Salivating, speaking

“Intense”

Roar!

“Shameful”

Roar!

“Embarrassing”

Roar!

“Wrong”

Roar!!!!

Stillness

Death

Resurrection

Transformation

Emergence

A blinding flock of white doves

Soaring, soaring, soaring

Diving anywhere

Over dinner’s table

Children

Spilling over

Between friends

Onto the floor

Flooding the room

Flooding the streets

Flooding the times

We are most alone

Together

Every naked motion

Running fingers

Through the waking man’s hair

Cycles

Reunions

Never alone

Ever

In stillness

Children gather

They sing

Of bigger plans

Than we will ever know

 

 

 

 

Standard
Poetry/Prose, Yoga & Spiritual

See

DSC_0797

There is a sadness in true love. A sadness I have come to depend on, inspired by separation. The closer we get, the more we realize we are somehow apart, and yet we strive all our lives to overcome this.

The meantimes, the space, fills with sadness and longing. Why are these feelings like bastard children? To me, they are at the table, feasting on my adoration and, in turn, feeding my dreams, my art, my imagination with all of their truths. Sadness reminds me we are born into duality. Longing reminds me have the capacity to see beyond this–into spirit–through the eyes of the soul.

Our unity.

We grasp for each other. But there aren’t enough kisses. There aren’t enough words. There aren’t enough tender touches. Silent moments. Shared breaths. There aren’t enough poems or paintings; songs, plays or films. There never will be. There never should be.

Look into my eyes. Stay. See. Now. Only now. There is enough of everything.

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