Belly of a Star

my practice of compassion

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Caress me, I called out, like none other before me; the anchoring voice finding refuge in the drifting causations of eternity. Come, and come again, to this place I have prepared, highlighted by your existence. I will find you, I proclaimed, knowing beyond measure, that the endless cycle of All had begun.

You would enter, unexpectedly, through the backdoor of my imaginings, carrying the essence of our love. I would take you, then, like some hungry bird set free amongst the fertile living soil, and devour my own image found in your truth.

Enter again, you did, this trembling child no less mystified than the stars themselves, burst at my death, and showering her light long after.

Had I known you from before, the tears would have ceased to caress my pain and ripened me to the fullness of first sight.

Yet, I knew not, and danced as babe alone, weeping for your grace and imminent light. Come, I called from the depths of the lonely soul asleep, unbroken still by the yoke of shelter, named you.

Come, I screamed, the agony ripping through me as windstorm to sailor’s suit. Torn, tattered, starved of the sea itself, whilst all about the bounty lived.

Had I known, then never would I have come down upon my knee and wished it so. To be what is and what is not and sacrificed for the love of All.

And, yet, had I known, the tenderness in me would have unfolded a million times true, and bled out to the world your forgiveness.

I am because you came and I am not because you came not.

And everywhere I glance, I see your beauty.

Can I not help but to call out more, to reclaim that which is my territory born open? And to remain here ’til the end of days, cherishing the whispers of my heart.

Oh, how I long to be that which is your highest worth. To be that which resonates with the storybook of opening, the essence you first tasted when you spoke my name.

By word, and word alone, I come to you. And by word, in this standing hope, I return your tidings. Can you not see me here, some love-struck bride, emptied of all she is? Filled with the hope of morrows.

Knowing long after my still voice quiets, with the coming of the day of death, I shall remain, elevated in the towers of your light. Some dove come home with garland of green, nested in your glorious goodness.

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The window to my soul opened, and entered light, substantiated by the witness of truth. I am, he whispered, as no man can, the insatiable presence within manifested into form turned blue. I love you, I heard, beyond the beyond place of refuge; and we lifted, two lovers found amongst the driftwood of time.

I came then, to the outer place of episodes, of revelations unraveled, of mystery renewed. Dancing to the rhythm of the universe, our trespasses anchored to the forgiveness of All. I am, too, I heard, within the rushing of laughter turned joy. And he smiled in me, knowing I was truth.

What are we, I glanced, taking my place in his hand, tenderly torn into two. The side of me waltzing with delight. The other tickled with tears. Washed in his presence. Still mystified by the moment of breaking.

Laughter, again, and I remembered the cause, reckoning I’d always been this that was. And he, the same, chasing me for eternity. Had I but a handful of his caresses I might have lived endlessly in bliss. Had I only his glance, all would be treasured.

As it was, I was made his very gold, molded into the daiquiri of sweetness, some limey-fresh squeeze poured into me. His everything was my everything, as we mended and merged, two minds becoming the intricate layering of eternity. If I had it in me to be calm, I was rapture. If I had it in me to be loved, I was life-filled. Everything twisted in this delightful taste of heaven. His eyes melting happiness upon my face, trickling goodness and gentle rains.

Cleansed, renewed, again. I came down from the starlit hour in which I had perched my life, and entered for him into the ways I’d been. The devastation lifted, the miracles revealed. And everywhere a voice called out the chant of freedom.

Hold me, for this, I spoke, and could not finish the ways of my thought. For no word completed me. No sound. No filament existed to cast out the exactness of my heart’s rejoice. Only a lingering of always, the quick step of hereafter no match to the endless ways in which we’d loved.



I am searching beyond the starlight into the caverns of unknown, the deep dark space that collapses into itself and leaves me barren with questions.

Scraped out and open to all that is. All that will be and has been.

How am I, in this space of no space, ascending beyond without leaving within?

Am I not just a fleck of nonsense absorbing the currency of thought, scattered dividends of yesterday’s theories; my own mind the orchestrator of a tune that erects circumstances.

Had I not been where I’d been, where would I be? And how is it that everywhere I go there is this pressing truth of not being?

Am I free-floating in the vicinity of reason, circling as particle passed the orbiting truth without recognition, skipping by what is there, blinded to what exists? Bumping into random spectators and retreating through the passenger train of strangers.

Am I?

Or does this being reflect the potentiality of what could be, the waiting point, the singular place of beginning brought back to itself from the end?

A loop of circular life, receding and retreating, bleeding out and returning to the outskirts of humanity.

I am tormented but the totality of thoughts circumvented, as breech baby turned stillborn.

I am this drudger of no-man’s land, excavating desert storms and transforming the blind into seers.

This one with emptied eyes being the essential self, left barren still.


And Here I Dance

Photo on 2-10-14 at 11.57 AM

There is a sweet surrendering in my heart, in which I am in the presence of my higher power, under a command so nurturing that I cannot help but feel a part of Source itself.

I am alive in every part of my being, and I am happy to be.

When the troubles come—the aches of life, the devastating desires that leave me psychologically and spiritually drooling at the mouth, and in a temporary state of total disregard to my disciplined practices of removal of attachment and the process of opening to submission; driven backwards, spiraled into a place of before, steered by this one afraid of the future, doubtful of abundance, and weary of the judgment of onlookers—still their remains and underpinning of strength and resilience.

Sometimes this state lasts longer than a spell; sometimes it catches me like a net, and I am but again some jagged edged fish trying to cut out of the entrapment of self.

Again, I submerge into this place of dismal ‘daunting-ness,’ doubtful of my light and truth. Doubtful of my calling.

And I suffer here in all degrees, tortured more so by the hauntings of my mind than by the demons about.

Still, in this time, I am made aware—some observer abstracted and set about to mediate the fallings that transpire.

Here I am free, in a sense, unlocked from the earthly bound me, and set high above the dwelling that is neither home nor happening, but this invisible battle between that which is and that which is naught.

Time and time again, I return as foe to myself, only to surrender to that which is all abiding: the light of love.

And here I dance, within and without, borders lifted and fenced-being undone.

I cannot help but rejoice and seem as mad man set out of the cave of darkened days. Arms flailing in a manner suggestive of a playground symphony.

Rejoicing. Rejoined. Recognized.

I am what I am is what I return to; this someone etched by this something, belonging to neither time nor singular purpose.

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Still, I am

What is it about me, this invisible someone, that is made to feel irreversible in her vulnerability and compassion?

Shall I move as jester, through my past, and pull out the elements of cause, or shall I instead, center myself here, in balance, and move through as water, exploring the avenues of my reason?

I am this and I am that, but still I remain the same. Some unidentifiable, ever shifting substance. And yet, the others, some of them, the few I suppose, find pleasure, or at least vitality, in claiming me for what they see, for what they believe to know.

I don’t know. It is such a randomness, this world; how it plays out like a ring-circus-game. Leaps and bounds, rest, and cheers. Thumbs down or cash collected. Divided, dispersed, and brought through again, we are, as clever dictators unraveled into mice. Round and round our cages.

I cannot understand where I live, for whom I live, and for whom I breathe, if not for some higher purpose or good. For some reason beyond this limiting float-less self, that sinks beyond barriers and rules, and becomes blade between what is and what is not. Spinning her motor and dissecting the whole into various parts of nonsense.

I am affected. I am affected over and over by the toxins of the world, by the very labeling of the words, by the birthing of word, by sound, by vibration, by all that exists as movement. And all spins. All spins past me and through me, and in me, cycle upon cycle of life and death.

And still, I am.

Unrecognizable in this outfit I have constructed. Not recognizable in reflection. Not motionless enough to grasp or comprehend.

The worse of it, this variance of invisible self, coming when the demons approach, with their envious ways, and hunched backsides. Seeped over and over in righteousness of self and prosperity. Wanting to dominate, control, center life around their essence, success and wholeness.

How they penetrate me, this semblance of substance I am, with their wicked ways.

I am to them what they are to the world. Untouchable. Lustful. A chaser of dreams. I am to them this evil set inside to turn a spell.

And it is here I sit; not long, not for an established time, not for ever, just for a speck of eternity, in their shell of claimed humanity, in their piercing-bellowed echoes of judgment and non-acceptance. In their shattered self replaced with hate.

Here I sit as them, and breathe out what can only be torrential rains of days gone wrong. Where hollowed out souls screamed for comfort and received none. Where the brevity of a callous life became the very sword that slashed out eyes to all that is. All that was. All that can and will be.

If I be surgeon, then to them I would establish sight. To see again, if only for the splendid second of recourse; that all is, has already been, and will be; continuously spun by the emptiness spawned, until surrendered, and brought up again into the wholeness of All.

And then, and only then, set right upon the laws of justice, the opened-heart revealed, with all that is naught set asunder into the flowering of self, shall We breathe again. The falling retrieved, and the masked silence brought to life as one voice of freedom birthed.

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Dignified Love

And though he did not know of them, he saw them thusly with perfect sight.

Their enamored hearts set before He that was righteous with dignified love.
He cherished them innately as the children of his womb, the essence that stirred him into delightful admiration.

For they were a part of Him, their very limbs his arches. Their voice his song, unified and broken through as earthly angels reborn.

Had he not come from this place of stillness, where the darkness spilled and splattered upon his mind, he still would be forever trapped in the place of blindness.

But alas, his kindled heart had blossomed, the spines of goodness branching out as vines of fragrance opened.

Across the walls of bricked-minds and shattered-hope he entered. The barriers removed before mention; the warriors called upon with sounding trumpet before effort; everywhere he walked the moment ceased and time bowed down in recognition of its own reality and existence undone.

For nothing came in the scope of this man’s determination: that careful love that pours through the wounds of thousands upon thousands and champions the child broken.

I am that I am, he pronounced, with a seeming-to-live spell; though the chalice of his voice held nothing upon nothing: No motivation. No whispers of hope. Not anything tangible or definable.

All of which could be collected and defined was eradicated from the moment of suffering removed. And here he sang and danced in a rhythm of ghost un-breached, of substance removed and un-subjucated by the essence of naught. I am that I am, he rang out, as bell upon the highest peek of non-temple.

And with this he was vanished into the air of delight, into the arms of no one, but his sweet gentle self, varnished in the latherings of dignified love.