The Taste of Peace

It’s the empty bliss between heartbreaks.

The second your clinging fingers let it slip

over the cliff and in your lightened grasp

colour floods back to your hand,

red rivulets rushing to warm

your desperate flesh.

It’s the golden pulse around you

when at last you reach the surface

and seize your first grasp of air.

Where straining ceases,

the casement flies open

and all that’s ever been floods in

– more than you could ever dream –

till the tears run

at the kaleidoscopic freedom

that was waiting all along.

A Mosaic of Sparks

Kept away from our perfection

by the shell that maintains our selves.

Why break up what is whole,

mutilate what is shining?

Why on earth would you take down the sun

and slice it into shards,

send them out to roam and find themselves,

remember the wholeness that once was?

And by so doing leave the whole world

in darkness, disarray.

Why fool them into believing they are many

when they have always been one?

Why present the enlightened

with a false idol?

 

But is the sun one as it appears,

or scores of twisting flames –

and either way does it not

give out light that stretches over infinity

and heat that lets emerald-green life bud

endless stretches of nothing away?

Might the sun be really

a mosaic of sparks,

side by side,

believing themselves alone?

Would they recognize what we see,

that blinding ball we’re birthed through?

Or would they see only a face in a crowd,

begging for company

and purpose?

Day 30: Digging Up Mountains

The song in the mountains

is a bittersweet lament,

an open, pure yearning.

It echoes through caves

and muffled in snow, is swept away in the wind.

The awakened, the heart simple

as an unfolding bud sings of peace,

and of loneliness?

Were our wounds scrubbed clean,

excuses ripped open to let light rush in,

sear the soul raw and translucent.

Were we but vessels with warmth

seeping from our fingers.

 

Or if we sank into earth,

into the mud of each other’s skin,

messy, broken yearning.

Sensuous climbs to ancient ruins,

and tumbles down into waiting arms.

If alone we spend a hundred years

digging for truth, with who,

when that joy is learnt,

can we share the news?

When the secret of how to love is found,

is there time to offer it up?

 

Might there be other roads to the sun?

When was I taught a heart must be

flawless before it dares to cleave?

When was the cut made between Love

and loving you?

Give me your hand, darling, the way down is steep.

Through a broken, healed binding,

may we study the galaxies

we’re formed of underneath.

 

 

 

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