like the wave loves the ocean

ocean wave

You sing me songs through the air.
You say every word I’ve cried to hear.
You run to me when I long for you.
You put your normal life on a platter
Toss it into the sky, Turn
And hold out your arms to me.
Your circling spiral of energy
Tornado and whirlwind breeze
Heat, turning calm, knowing
All at once in my soul
You hold me, meet me
In the space of vast seeing
A place both foreign and home
In this instance (we are flowing)
Like the way we breathe —
Sometimes with knowing focus
Other times    Naturally-unaware
That life pulses through us
With us — Is us.

I love the way you love me
Like the wave loves the ocean
and the ocean loves the wave.

 

~Photo by Simon Clayton on Pexels.com

the One

 

A man tells me (he is a guru) — you must stop

being a mirror to others — I try — He asks

to see inside me and I agree and open.

Rage boils in him as Reflection stares back

and he battles the Shadows of Self on the wall.

I sit down — he is not the One for whom I am waiting.

 

A man says he loves me (above all else) — that Light

in my eyes ignites his passion and captures his heart — I try

to explain Reflection and Mirrors and Truth, opening into

voice, teaching — but determination breeds deafness

and he sets Fire to his Life with my eyes.

I sit down — he is not the One for whom I am waiting.

 

A man sings me sweet songs (and begs me) — save me

from myself, help me find my way — I try — I open

the melodies and lyrics of No Fear to reflect his Beauty,

but the fear in his heart is a Monster well-fed, and roars to life,

and he turns and runs away.

I sit down — he is not the One for whom I am waiting.

 

A man tells me he loves me and sees my shimmer of Light.

I call him Guru and he Humbles from the Title — Tells me, No,

you are your own Guru. You are a Mirror and we are One.

I Am meeting my Reflection — Naked in the Space of Sacred Being

with My Heart, My Courage, My Suffering, My Love — I open.

I stand up — he is the One on whom I have been waiting.

 

 

 

 

Frolicking with Puck

 

I trail the wake of your light into the coffee shop

knowing you are magic.

Liquid grace splits the air apart for you to move through.

 

The Master of Ceremonies, The Permission Grantor,

The King, The Jester, The Clown – all arrive.

The Top-Hat Ringmaster of Delight performs

As each mask glides from page to face to page again,

a conjunctive union of deft fingers and sharp mind.

 

The Magician with a Hat Not-A-Hat and a Rabbit

Not-A-Rabbit. And Words-Not-Words shift-shape

into meaning, transmute into breathing,

take flight like Doves soaring

above the Pleasant Silver-Haired Lady of Style

and the husband she tells to sit down. Listen.

But the call of the Dove and its gentle cooing

is not a language his ears were built to hear.

 

This birdsong rolls into form into fountains gushing

a washing-water of repentance and recollection

that the Lady Patron of Renowned Repetition hopes

she can capture in a box, but the Fountain of Youth

remains a mystery and a type of water that boxes cannot carry.

 

On we go in this way until a shy sparkle of translucent blue truth

In the half-lid drop-gaze smile within the masking  shimmers.

A heart-beat, heart-light, soul-spark knowing of recognition comes.

 

 

You for Muse

Amor Vincit Omnia (Love Conquers All), a depic...

Amor Vincit Omnia (Love Conquers All), a depiction of the god of love, Eros. By Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, circa 1601–1602 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Love poems never suited
me. Too un-sentimental,
a realist, an artist. I
wrote of concrete moments,
never tried sonnets or
romantic poesy. One
must have unrequited
love for that — a permanently
present, happy love says
little. Lives content not to
speak — but, lost un-held
things demand words. Need
expression of absence. Loss
or broken dreams demand
a voice.

Love poems never called
to me. Too realistic, too jaded
for fairy tales. I need
to crave the unavailable,
must have gut-wrenching
deep-set pain to push
the words forward, out of heated
muscle, flesh, heart – the poet
in me found you for Muse –
this reminds me of Greek
mythology, love-hate
relationships with the Oracles.

You will be
like other myths, will
grow distant,
un-useable. With time
an old god no longer
believed to exist. Your
shimmering marble
covered in moss,
decay crossing cream,
old water stains and
some new graffiti
will color you unimportant.

April 2011