For me it’s easier to embrace, I guess.
Long wedded to the quest
And not just some otherwise busy
Preoccupied visitor
Indifferently passing through.
But I suppose we are all
Writers of our own lives,
Are we not?
How much better – joy laden
The story is then,
If one remains
Free enough in your spirit
To always find some time at least,
To be as a child would be.
Able to hone in, to find the pulse
Of whatever small excitements,
Opportunities otherwise easily missed,
That life still so often puts our way.
Believe me,
To catch and plant them all
Would soon fill your open heart
To bursting point,
If you were ever that artful.
For as adulthood takes hold,
Poised
And seductively accomplished
As it often may well be,
How barren is the vessel
That has no seed left within.
If you can be,
Be entirely naked – as one to another.
Not just in your body,
But surrender also every close kept need,
Your fears, all that you hold dear.
And, in so doing,
Together conjure something delightful,
Pursue it to a crescendo
And in the calmness that follows,
Almost by accident,
You will have stumbled on the immeasurable.
As if a thousand nights of passion,
Of ecstasy, of insight and elevation
Have been scooped up, there and then,
To be kept forever in your soul.
I promise you
This is so much more than mortal love
God given,
This is the religion of experience,
Of true sanctity,
Long striven for, hard won.
And with it comes a spiritual gateway,
Rarely even glimpsed,
Triggered to open
Only to such discovery,
When joy and humility finally bubble up
And flow simultaneously
To stain the day eternal in their glorious hue.
And, once achieved,
Should the levy of age,
The passing of years
Ever tempt you to doubt it,
Just pause for a moment and feel
How such sweet pivots in time
Remembered,
Ripen still, even in solitude.
Like fabulous guests
Re-visiting a sun-lit porch
That has waited seemingly forever
To welcome them home again.
Brave,
Or maybe not?
Needs must…
Fausse mesure
Circumstance toys with us all,
I’m afraid.
Some may say it’s fate’s cruel hand,
A toss of the dice:
‘Born to whom, exposed to what…’
Safe?
Or maybe instead
Endowed with a hungry soul
That’s been enchanted to risk too much.
Loved?
Or then again perhaps
Abandoned, exploited,
Burnt by the hollow pain of others.
And then left alone,
With a need to heal,
To escape such abject despair.
Jagged crevices most will never see
Or can even imagine.
Who’s lucky then? I’m not so sure…
Those charmed enough
To sail through life’s journeys
Woundless, intact?
Or those who were once staggering,
Bleeding,
Damaged and lost,
Who have somehow found the way back
To their own angel within…
For, in the harshest
Most constricted of circumstance,
And uniquely so,
Do the most precious of all jewels come into being.
Treasure forever is what we know this to be.
So to have been where you have been
And to still have joy,
Dazzling in your heart,
Now there’s a thing to make the whole world smile.
In the shadows of my life
I spy something still askew.
On a grey sombre winter’s afternoon,
The sound of stillness
Penetrates space
To highlight what’s missing.
In a corner though,
Soft pastel energy
Breathes and glows still,
Its perfection somehow more obvious
In the muted light.
As if the gentlest of reminders
To dare to love more.
To recapture bliss and rapture,
That sense of clashing golden symbols,
Of sparking chimes in the ether.
Too often we choose instead
To become lulled,
To forget life shrinks or expands
In relation to courage showed,
Becalmed by the risk of pain or loss
And outcomes that can never be certain.
And, until something stirs,
Who or what gives you that tug,
I wonder?
A summons that beckons you upwards again,
Like an ocean diver ascendant,
Bursting to the surface,
Back into the clear blue skies
And bright yellow light,
The frothing oxygen of hope and exhilaration.
This is the gilded spiral
Of longings within.
Our very own cathedral
That points persistently to heaven.
How precious then the gloom
Beneath these vaulted spires,
And, within such confines,
The needs and wounds
That first find time there
To open us up,
Then lift us homeward again.
Inside every single,
Obdurate, intractable skull
Is an entire universe humming,
Every bit as vast as the heavens above,
From whence we all came.
And with that realisation
Comes a power
That can melt tyranny itself,
Lay waste any dictator’s cannon.
And all this played out
Within a prescribed arena
Forever licensed to allow us full rein.
Albeit that we remain bound
To a narrative
That sometimes still needs
To remind us of our mortality,
And in so doing,
Will punish and wound,
Seemingly without care or remorse.
But be not afeared.
Wear any such scars well,
Knowing that,
For every moment of suffering,
Others will arrive
That will instead pierce you with joy.
Open the doors of your heart and they will come…
And for every cruel arrow,
Sweet caresses of delirium also
To nourish your soul.
Recent Comments