Month: September 2010

And the reason
it feels like bubbles
is the uncontrollable rising
conveys light emptiness;
a giddy connection of fat shapes
in roly-poly wonder,
the opposite of swallowing.
Effervescent essence
greets itself
at play in the froth.
It cannot be contained,
existing only in the now;
pops into soft droplets of remembrance,
a residue of rainbows.
Spontaneous liberation,
it can catch us by surprise
amid despair
or deep pleasure.
Most commonly transmuted into smiles or giggles,
sometimes a snort or belly laugh,
occasionally a quiet flick of one tear-rimmed eye…
these are the dance steps of joy.

Why these fences,

slippery barricades greased for deterrence,

barbs sharpened to repel welcome?

Come! she says

but not too close;

make haste!

but not too fast

lest illusion slip,

walls collapse,

the lonely posture

change.

Scoop up rich brown handfuls,

the kundalini travelling upwards,

use belly fire, escort towards the heart,

liberating softly

these tightly curled wings.

Relax into the upwards flow,

the gentle persuasion

coaxing and unravelling.

Unwrap the cramped delicate webs,

enrich them with the flow of lower blood,

stretch enough to see their vibrant splash.

Gossamer strength,

these fragile tools

provide what we need to alight,

perch on higher branches.

I arrive adorned with trinkets,

beautiful words and concepts,

beliefs I hold dear.

The archway bids me bow,

strip down,

enter plain and vulnerable.

Heat and steam,

dark and stillness

make way for inner light.

Names dissipate, words dissolve.

Light inside a diamond

choosing to distill as one facet,

allows for return to one name,

one humbled pen.

Let us give thanks

for generous frugality,

expansive sustainability,

abundance that allows for constant planting.

Let us sow new seeds

for others to harvest,

work in fields among the rocks and wild roses,

slowly removing the prickles to leave fertile room.

Let us learn from the cycle of seasons,

from the risk of frost,

the dizzying danger of overexposure.

Shovels in hand,

we dig up buried talents,

invest them in projects

with a high risk of flourishing.

In these beetle times

with hard tight bodies,

shiny skittering

abounds

at a dizzying pace.

In the forest

a slug undulates,

sensitive softness

draping

over rough protrusions.

Without appendages,

movement comes from its thick centre

supported by earth.

Attentive feelers

respond in a delicate sway,

new information coaxing the lazy excursion.

Comfortable in its own slime.

it exudes a messy benediction,

a shimmering trail.

The beetle stops

to briefly hear

the languid rustling,

a thousand slugs receiving

earth’s massage.

I am making room for this raw birthing,

upsurge of emptiness,

embodied birth canal open to receive dark light.

I am tasting the soft me,

the self that is truly one-time stew,

my blend of flavours and stirrings.

The lid has clattered to the floor,

the stew continues to simmer,

waiting for new ingredients.

The lid has clattered to the floor,

the soup is not finished.

I am open to the soft me,

the invitation to sip savoury sweetness,

to offer up my broth

for hungry travellers.

I am open to right now,

listening for the dance of molecules,

vast stillness between them.