Belly of a Star

my practice of compassion


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The authentic breath of being

falls

 

This is just me listening to the waterfall of life. I know nothing…….

No ONE has the answers.

As a collective we carry the truth, the light, and the freedom from fear. As singular, we do not.

Anyone claiming to know the true way, the right way, or the answers, is in illusion.

It is impossible to know the all, unless the one is tapped into the whole of humanity. In this case, this one would have clarity so expansive that the limited verbiage chosen, and filtered through the mind and fingers, would be likewise limited in perspective; in so being, words would be broken open like eggs and leaked upon the souls as yoke, shedding golden essence and drippings, the richness of nutrients craved in such degree as to lead the innkeeper of knowledge to expand in search of more.

If words from a person, claiming to know the truth, cause the other to feel subjected to judgment, ideology, fear, or defense, then the person who speaks, in proclaiming his wisdom as factual, is trapped in falsehood.

Disbelief runs rampant amongst followers who allow the ego-leader to take the front and show the way. Disbelief that suffers within the soul, as if the awareness itself of falsehood is representative of reality—a living, breathing substance taking in the bearer that witnesses the wrong doings.

To put it lightly, the one spreading truths that he claims are truths, is the one doing more harm than good.

An effective and beneficial being will claim first, and foremost, that he knows nothing. That she is just as much a part of evolution as the rest, constantly affected, molded, shifted, and subjected to immediate and recognizable change.

Essentially, change is inevitable.

In addition, the more one comes closer to the core of self, the more she pulls away.

For the closer one enters into the state of perpetual-ness, and continual metamorphosis, the more one tends to cling backwards in hopes of complete and solid form.

This too is inevitable, a natural response to the human conditioning. In this state, a being is likely to pull back in intensity, a pulling which leads to the act of clinging to an ideology or doctrine. This found ‘knowledge’ then becomes the limb in representation, a singular isolated branch to grasp that can further serve to dig one’s way deeper away from the growing roots of collective wisdom.

Here is where the clinging begins.

What is taken in is indeed grasped by the scope of senses, a scope perhaps deemed justly inadequate, but nonetheless the means in which life is interpreted.

The casualty of this time is the inability to drift passed the limited scope of reason and the elevated grandeurs of attention placed on the avenue of perceived discovery: that being the calculated and numbered senses.

Each sense is part of the limited body. Each sense is therefore limited. Yet man makes claims that in his obvious limitations he can, through the vigorous use of logic and sensory intake, manage to interpret the labyrinth of life—one man claiming to understand the whole.

Nature has not gifted the singular anything; for beneath nature’s umbrella, within her donned compass, no singular exists.

It is man who negates the concept of union and devises plans to elevate the status of non-existence of whole.

Until he begins to forge for not the sole intention of one, but for the sole intention of all, he shall remain obliterated in agony and ill-will, by his own intention.

Few have gathered enough of the whole to reach the stage of fortitude, of service, of the fullness of letting go of one for the cause of the all. It is a difficult, though manageable in task. And shedding the definition of words, and meandering past the peelings of concepts, one cannot even call the giving of self a task. For once intermingled into the whole, the giving of self is the only plausible escape of isolation. Indeed, the task previously rendered infeasible and difficult by the masses, is the exact escape-route to peace.

How blunder-filled the world is, as the singular tries to build upon the singular, expecting satisfaction in self-growth and self-elevation. How high must one travel to feel this celebrated sensation of ‘good?’ How high must one climb? How many must follow? Believe? Validate?

In claiming to know the answers, one naturally has clung to the singular, to the I, and to that which has been called various names.

Ranging from fearless ideology to radical uproar—all forms of self-righteousness reek of havoc. When one is most certain of self and the way, when one is pointing adamantly to his truth, then that is when the others must run and dodge. Not out of fear, but out of recognition that the poison of unreasoning man is the most advantageous to those with like venom, and the least deadly to those on the path to self-destruction.

For to dive into the illusion of assumption, to think oneself closer to truth than the rest, is to pull oneself up by the straps of illusion and set self down in the mist of confusion.

There is no one. There is no better. There is no right or wrong. And yet more and more sacrifice their livelihood for the agony of stagnant unmoving illusion.

Here is the cyclic death they speak of in journals of ages: the path of no doers, the path of the idle-minded wandering through the same desert repeatedly, in hopes of finding the forest-stream. To them the desert is alive and real. To them the answer is just beyond reach. To them, if the feet keep traveling, then truth must be found. And still they drown in the illusion, whilst dying of thirst. Dutifully at odds with the truth they have created.

How brilliant is their folly, to in theory trap oneself in the struggle of one, when the one is nowhere to be found.

Here is the man interrupted. Stopped where he once was whole, intersected and dissected by the casual interruption of spirit quest, and set on a path dubious in degree, in which he becomes one with the all-of-nothing. Here is the faulty path, the only fault, if fault be found, in the unraveling over and over of a schematic plan of escape.

How much easier to erase where one is standing, then to continually build upon illusion. How much easier to pull out the foundation of false security, and expose self once and for all to the rugged elements, to breathe in the desert air, to gasp at the absence of liquid, and to decompose this self.

And what better way than to drag the weary questing-one out of the illusion, and into the arms of all, into the authentic breath of being.

For WE are not characters gifted with the insight of finding the answers.

We are the answers.

We are the beginning and the end.

We are the ink that scribes,

the tree that bends to form the parchment,

the river that bleeds from one end to the next,

recycling into the nether-lands.

We are the all. And still we cramp our beings into the dynamically compressed sentence of: I am.

As if we could live in such confinement.

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The Moon above the Mountain

moon over mountain

Sometimes you are the moon above my mountain. Glowing and set on the stage of my skyline.

Sometimes I think I created you for my own suffering—to set myself apart and be made into loneliness.

For without loneliness how could union become?

Sometimes I think I made you into this untouchable longing—to keep myself reaching and yearning.

For without desire how could satisfaction live?

Sometimes I know I found you as the answer to my ache—to press your image upon my love-sick heart and wish for you in completion.

For without living as half, how could I be made as whole?

Sometimes I know I have made this world with you in it, so in my striving I will not forget my failings—to wish again and again for your unavailable attention.

For without missing your return, how could I recognize adoration?

Sometimes the way in which you move me is uninterrupted in that everything I do and say involves the foundation of finding you—filling myself with your beauty.

For without breathing your essence, how could I exist?

Sometimes the way in which you enter my mind is like a wild cat chasing her tail—scratching and biting at something that is there in the background.

For without the looking back, how could I look forward?

I am this woman with you, and without you.

I am this woman dialing your name to the stars and coming up short.

With no place to enter except back into the hollowed out parts—the caves of missing you.

Until the sun comes, and he is not you. He is but the part of you removed. He is the continuing onward without my hand in yours. He is the essence of strength. The one built from the tower I allowed to crumble in your memory.

Sometimes I think you were made for my growing—set out and standing in my exact line of vision—the puzzle piece I required.

For without you, I was forced to find myself.

Sometimes you are the moon above my mountain. Lighting the way home.


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Ancient Winter

wisdom

There’s a place inside of me, so ancient, so old.

Determined in her non-determination.

Agile in her fragility.

Broken in the places twice repaired.

Again, she deems herself worthy, and the gods pour down her sacrifice.

Some golden maiden lost in the ages of time. Lost onto herself in the blizzard of story unlocked, untold, and drifting in the land of unreachable.

To touch her is to dream and to dream to be with her, in this open space of nowhere.

I can see her, in the window to the opening of self, through the ancient scrolls of yesteryears.

I can see her drifting by from side to side.

Her transparency the truth.

Her echoes the star-seed set out long before her eyes began.

I am to her the river, flowing and moving.

Uninterrupted.

My everything exact.

My every part perfection.

To her there exists no concept of failure.

No word for incomplete.

No word beyond the muttering of the winter wind.

She is the snow woman, gathering the flakes as innocent beneath the magic.

Mouth upon the rigid ever coming cold, swallowing in delight what transpires from above.

She is the maiden pouring her forgiveness out into the soil rich, splendid in her own making, molding her being between her hands, dripping the love-lips of pleasure—kisses to the earth, her home.

She floats in a manner that seeks not to serve or surrender.

Only to be.

As the wave upon the waters she travels, a part of existence released again with each breaking.

Had she but a wish, if thought arose, her dreams would be of me.

To hold me in her diligent joy and whisper the sound of air.

Silence blown through me, tucked beneath me, as the dissolving blanket transformed into sheltering grace.

Eternal is her essence.

Eternal is she made.

Some lady of the night, seized from the day, and taken into the chamber of this self.

Locked away, she is.

A willing captive capsized within my being.

Living as the shadow of my calling.

I come to her in the midnight hour.

Reeking of pain.

The sorrow as belt around my neck.

Jaguar intermingled with boa—squeezing softness biting at my flesh.

The comfort comes then, in subtle surprise.

Burrowing into me as the sunburn of summer season.

Scorching with the nurturing rays.

Swallowing me in suffocating pleasure.

The external light submerging.

The remembrance reborn.

To be made as her.

One in her all.

My tainted longings scooped up and divided, sorted into her basket of merriment.

Laugh, she carries on, laugh, her body speaks. Holding me, her open babe—her story found.


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Come to Me

Oh my darling, oh my starlight, oh my soft and gentleman

How your arms feel as the heavens

And your heart my very land

 

Come to me in echoed heartache, come to me in withered rhyme

Come to me in all your journeys, touching down beyond this time

Hold me like no other lover, pull my aching wants inside

Whisper to me my sweet darling, and tell me that you’re mine

 

Move as ocean, as you die for, every inch of me so sweet

Move right through me, as you fly for, this taste of golden wheat

Take my sweetness, take my loving, take the jewels that hide beneath

Through the quaking we shall quiver, and two shall be complete

 

Oh my darling, oh my starlight, oh my soft and gentleman

How your arms feel as the heavens

And your heart my very land

Come to me in echoed heartache, come to me in withered rhyme

Come to me in all your journeys, touching down beyond this time

 

 

Within the star-tears falling softly, within the breeze so gentle-pure

Whisper in my darkness, and be my sorrow’s cure

Whisper me in daylight, and tell me all’s the same

That you’ve come to take me always, and give me your strong name

 

Come and love me in your hours, as they reach past time set free

Come and enter every moment, in our building ecstasy

You are freedom in my making, you are none like those before

You are answer without question, you are joy poured out for more

 

Oh my darling, oh my starlight, oh my soft and gentleman

How your arms feel as the heavens

And your heart my very land

Come to me in echoed heartache, come to me in withered rhyme

Come to me in all your journeys, touching down beyond this time

 

Take my bounty, as your treasure, my longing, full indeed

Take in all this tender loving, in all the ways you need

Come to me in shadowed hunger, with your pain outstretched, forlorn

Come to me in darkness swallowed, with your heart so bitter torn

 

Call me angel, call me sunshine, call me light you’ll always need

Call me everything you long for, call me very honey seed

In my waking I have found you, and my spirit soars aflame

Call me sunlight of your morning, and return to me again

 

Oh my darling, oh my starlight, oh my soft and gentleman

How your arms feel as the heavens

And your heart my very land


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The Tremble

sam in glasses

He enters and all trembles. The bees. The birds. The very sky.

The whisperers of words shushed.

All silenced.

Say, his fingers.

How they weave and break, as the wave at the peak of servitude, pounding on the sandy shore proclaiming his arrival.

All is still.

Say, his voice.

Gentle comes the tellings of before.

And he weeps in his confession.

In his confusion.

Hush now, she comes, his mistress cloaked in blue, bathing him in gentle promises.

Pressing her cheek to his, her sign of blessing.

Her skin the touch of delight. Her taste still lingering beyond his breath.

Inhale as he does, her beauty. Taking her with his eyes and the quiet plenitude offered through the beating of his heart.

His hand to hers, he releases his guard, and the air escapes him, embracing the delicate freedom.

Her wanting sets upon his chest, the broadness thick and inviting. To hold him again, her only bliss.

To be taken into his stronghold, the only desire.

Oh, how she misses him in their shared withholding.

Her ache easing back to the familiar home. His passion seizing—lightening disassembled and reborn down the span of his center line.

Tell me, she asks, without words. Take me, her every layer screams.

And still he stands, the weeping man, forging through the land, this warrior come home.

In thought. In long ago deed.

Reliving where he’d traveled, and mourning his departure.

Lastly she moves, swaying her silhouette beyond reach. Her last desperate plea trapped in the quake of her throat.

Love me, she bleeds.

Before embracing herself in tremble.

longing

longing 2


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Sunlit Lover

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Even with all the treasure split open

With all proclaimed false

I sit at my loom of nowhere

Spinning my tale of nothing

Bending my villain and my champion

Into threads to bear

Each chance falling

From the pierced sky

I shift

One second collapsed into the next

Remade

Fluid

Pliable

Open

Transcended into the universal space

Measured out in sequence

And, yet, I find you

Someplace between the concept of lost

And pleasingly found

Intrigued

In your crevices and ways

In whispers never spoken

My shadow man

Singing at my window in the woken hours

My daylight dreams painted by anticipated footsteps

Enchantment vibrating

Through the honey dripped words

Materialized from lips turned

In surrendered thoughts

Irresistible

Beauty never pressed close enough

Meandering droplets of encased love

Into the well

Of consciousness

I proclaim as mine

My sparkling-gold sunlit lover

My cold bitter moon

Where I bask

Blanketed and deemed complete

Until the breaking comes

Reformed and reformed by the illusion

That is you

 

 

 

 


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Ukulele Love

carrot love

Ukulele Love

This is a love song about a love song that never came.

This is a love song about a bloke who has no name.

He’s the make believe man inside her head. The one she draws in dreams.

He’s the make believe man with a make believe band who drums out melodies.

Oh, I love you, you’re so pretty

Oh, I love you, you’re so kind

Oh, I love you, you’re a darling

But I won’t take you as mine

This is a love song about a love song that never came.

This is a love song about a girl who has no name.

She’s the make believe charm inside his head. The one he pens in dreams.

She’s the make believe charm with a make believe hand which spells out misery.

But, I don’t love you, no I don’t

But, I don’t love you, silly bloke

But, I don’t love you, this you know

Though, I can’t and won’t let go

This is a love song about a silly song that never sang.

This is a love song about a song that has no name.

It’s the make believe story inside our heads. The one we spin in dreams.

It’s the make believe story with a make believe end, no truth, or so it seems.