I Carry You in My Heart

I carry you in my heart
Like the raven who captures tipped-sunlight
In his feathered wing
Like joyous wave drops gathered
Splashing upon open shore
Each the other’s tidings
I carry you in my heart
Sungazer proud, whispering the profoundness
Of captive released
Searching eyes surrendered
In all ways
To freedom
I carry you in my heart
As the wounded soldier long forgotten
As the grieving bridegroom left at altar
As the lost soul-searching,
Passed over, alone
I carry you in my heart
Your rivers, my rivers
Your tale, my tale
Your journey the intermingling splashing of colors burst
Nested into the bountiful union named ‘we’
I carry you in my heart
In all ways perceived
In all ways mastered
In all realities, in all times rendered
And undone
I carry you in my heart
My last silver-starred-hope, risen voice
Song undone and opened wide
Exploded with the glorious ache
Again and again, named you
I carry you in my heart
Nibble away at the succulent goodness
Caress measureless, soft fair light
Cradle sweet treasure tender
Remembering still to soften my hold
And rest you easy
Upon the valley green
Richness, for the taking
I carry you in my heart

Surrendered

I see you there
Standing amongst the shadows
You are like me:
Honorable, dignified, gifted
Yet, you feel trapped and alone
Entirely isolated
You see your wings, you see your freedom
And you wonder
How is it I can feel so tethered?
And you question
Your worth, your beauty, your voice
You become lost in the substance that is not you
In the gap that is someone or something else
You become what is within your grasp
And you hold on, not knowing how to release
You are a drifter, lost, reasoning someday you have to get it right
Someday, with all of your effort and thought, you must reach the end
The place where the torment stops
The place where you can stand firmly enough
To fly
I cannot begin to understand the matrix of your mind
The intricate makings
The details
The power
But I can feel your agony
The pain surrounds me
And I know
I recognize me in you, you in me
And us
This unity we have created
And I want to reach out and find what clutters you
Pull out the blockages that feed you lies
Cast out the darkness
And turn you golden back to the sun
That you are
I long to waver in your presence
And eat away at all of the hauntings claimed
To devour every inch that is daunting, damaging
Unruly
To be a dictator over your heart
But only for an instant, less than a moment
An interval between the beginning and end of time
A space tucked inside the dimensions of linear
How I would sit there
As your captain
And caress all your aching
Remove what is naught
As red ribbons pulled taut
And released to the starlight
Dangling, lifting
All that is pain
Into another place
Far from you
Emptied
I would sing
My lullaby
Of your grace
Of your perfection
Of your imminent glory
And I would tuck you into the deepest awakening
Your slumber released
Into the dream of now

Shrouded

I am shrouded.
I am shrouded in your glory and beauty; oh, compassionate one. How I dance as the ember to your light, first thirst quenched in your goodness.
I am shrouded.
I am shrouded in the roar of your name; rivers move through, mirroring the circling of wild horses tamed; the fire burned down to the simmer of dreamscape.
I am shrouded.
I am shrouded in the circumference of your making; woven into the intricate ring of life; made without edges, mended without claim, turned whole with the thought of your presence.
I am shrouded.
I am shrouded in the whisper of the ocean traveled; tucked up on the highest peak of wave, and brought forth in the bounty of your doing, fed to the sand as sunlight to pores.
I am shrouded.
I am shrouded by the graces carried forth; each an opportunity for more, not as there is less, only that there is endless abundance; in the dreamer rests the sleeping hope.
I am shrouded.
I am shrouded by your calling; how my name radiates in the sunbeams of your existence; your face neither open nor closed; blended into the vision I am, the truth that is us.
I am shrouded.
I am shrouded in my breaking; yoke glorified in the coming of your bounty; endless cycles of birth undone; your echo etched into the lamb of thee.
I am shrouded.
I am shrouded in your eternal goodness; set free as the dove from cage; set upon the outskirts of angelic breathing, cradled against the chamber of heartbeat true.
I am shrouded.
I am shrouded in the richest sense; let loose golden into that which is deemed joined; fluttering into the open; sprung forth in the coming of your truth.
I am shrouded.
I am shrouded in the sunrise of your essence; lightning struck down as answer; forgiveness transpired as ending, love reopened again, as blossom to the wind.
I am shrouded.
As blossom to the wind.
I am shrouded.

The Bell’s Echo

I love you infinitely and abundantly so. You as no other before and no other after. For your eyes are mine, and mine yours, the drifters found in the merging of ocean blue.

I am that which you are, in my essence, at my core, in the semblance ignited by the flame that is us. Birthed of you, I be. Made into the vessel you demand, and handed down to the generation of generation.

There is no guidance beyond your starlight, no suffering found, no emptiness devoured. All is all; and in your effervescent glow I shine; as the mountain to the climber, and the waters to the thirsty, I am beheld in your presence as the source of goodness.

I bow down to your mercy in my feeble grace, begging for your compassion and forgiveness; not that I am less to be as this: a blended source of greatness; only because I have found that within there is a bountiful mystery that whilst uncovered delivers me speechless and tormented by the unfathomable.

I apologize therefor not for the part that is we, but the part that is ‘I’; this indistinguishable evaporation that claims foundation. I apologize for the dismissal of reality, that of you and I combined, and for the acceptance of singularity.

For my sin, if sin there be, is only found here, and even here an invisible ghost remains. For nothing is found in nothing, neither substantiated, defended, or surrendered. So again, I bow down, not as my self in resignation, but as you in reflection of your worthiness.

I am that I am, and I sing to you, as lover to falcon, begging for flight, for the claws of your reckoning. To be gathered beneath your feathers, the wind against my spirit, a blanket to this babe, cradled in the forging of your coming. Moved through the invisibleness of air, made blue for our senses alone.

I celebrate, I call out, I remove this voice, and then scream again, the piercing the only movement torn through, the only substance allowed beyond this realm. A sound onto sound, vibrating with reverence and grace into the region that is you. I am, and I am again, delivered and redelivered.

Oh, can you not see me here, again, your precious servant, calling and dancing to the stream of your name? At last I am free in the day after day; at last home in the presence of your glory. And how I ring this golden bell of honor of my found home. Ring and ring, until the sound echoes into millennium.

I Call Out

In you I find the creator of my universe, the instigator of choice, and benevolent maker of belief. In me, I find you, still, your cherry lips against my breath, breathing in all that is and was before. Inside, I stir, as honey to the nectar, reversed and brought back to self. Everything turned backwards, as if time were a memory and the recourse a destiny without tune. No sound. No breaking. No bearing. Nothing but a gentle whisper of naught. Oh, to be in your silhouette, the sunlight on my embrace, tickling me with your greatness, and to dance here, say, in the wonderment that is you.

I call out, my arms stretched as the beacon of hope, my misery tied round in box, a present to your voice. Listen. And enters the solitude of nowhere, the emblem of the serpent rising to feed off of what may be. Listen, to the stillness gathered at my belly ripened with the womb of you. Birth upon birth, one within one, opening to the opportunity of eternity.

I cannot stand here idling in merriment, pretending to break ground through an illusion of circumstance, when all around they twirl, these blind mistresses adorned in favors to please a master fool. Edging their way to the outskirts of humanity, only to be pulled back into the bleak of ghostly wears. Had I not been this forsaken dove, left destitute on the road of tomorrow, had I not been the same in my devastating solace, might I to be here, as them, reaching for stars that neither exist nor fall? Had I not been this angel lost so swiftly and gauntly would not the heavens no longer recognize the slightness of spirit, grasping at straws from whence I slipped through?

I am the raven, black, I know. Tender in your care and hunted by taunted dreams. I am the raven, true, tapping on the forgotten window pane of tomorrow. My beak blemished with the spots of your goodness. My bleeding poured out in withered footsteps clawed into the foundation of truth.

I am that I am, and yet I know not from where you flow out into me, through bitter cold, through winter’s bite. How you come in your ways eating away at my darkness and lighting the flame within. Again. Again. Instigating thought upon thought, and then bedding my ways, as soldier aching. Tucked in the sweetness of you. Bathed in your glory.

How I call out, true, a child in the light of your forgiving mercy. Loving not for what I be but for what I am. In wholeness, in truth, in everlasting faith, you anoint me. My treaty of peace brought up for sacrifice, my broken limbed-heart pierced in your name. Need I be this way to appease the sunrise calling? Need I be this lamb of love? Or shall I provide instead the womb of tyrant and feast upon what the valley swallows, the swarms, the enemy? Ought I disrobe my foolish offerings, and dance, stranger proud upon thy foothold. Please, I whisper to the dark of night. Please, I proclaim, and you are flooded with my essence.

Scattered Gatherings

I vacillate between thinking I know something and accepting I know nothing. Wherein the tides of change of my conscious awareness of grasping used to vary from day-to-day, and maybe carry and effervescent glow that highlighted ‘attachment’ at random intervals throughout the week, now it appears that I shift continually, moment by moment, step by step. Had it not been for my finite reasoning in regards to spiritually studies, I would think myself mad, or certainly delusional. For what I find in the depth of ancient texts substantiates my own inner dwellings of non-substantiated self. I see myself sounding more and more like someone I am not, and losing a grip on what I used to be, and find myself further enjoying the journey of release and gratitude for existence, whatever form it takes, or ceases to take.

However, at the same time I perceive who I am as very much human with self-proclaimed flaws, though in divine perfection I be. This terrifies me, this semblance of being a failed creature.

No amount of reasoning can take me out of the state of ‘failure.’ In no way is this an interior battle of perfectionism or trying to be someone or prove something. In all ways this is a spiritual shedding, of sorts, in which I stand and face a mirror of a mirror of self, somewhere trapped between the reflections, hovering out of my body and out of what is manifested from viewpoint.

I cannot help but to do this, to dip back into a place that feels as humility, but borders on the primal definition of gluttony—the exterior outcry for redemption based on an exceedingly punitive view of the self in which the lessons learned are erased and all is abashed for the love of Christ to a degree that the deemed ‘victim’ slips into ego-state in embracing such self-inflicted misery.

I go there to a degree, but never fully. I stop myself, some hitchhiker through the galaxy of my own surmised prospect of self, listening to an inner voice that is neither pleasing or enticing, unless one peaks at the experience of being solicited my painful renderings spawned wild.

I am that I am, I remind myself, though I continually fall backwards into a predisposition of how could I have done this more accurately. Accurately being the key word, in meaning, how could I have represented my full self fully? This indeed is a contrary statement, for how can one represent the exact self, say ye full or empty, when no self is able waiting?

I query here, inside my mind, or what seems to be my mind, and sit a spell, and awful stench-filled spell, wading through the waves of inner demons. Had I not known I was of the light, I am sure I would sacrifice my own existence to relieve the internal pangs. As there is nothing as devastating to my own soul as singularly embracing the concept of deception. Deception of self onto self, creating that which is not genuinely authentic, but some offspring of gluttony risen, that being the prospect for fame, fortune, circumstance, or renewal of want for one alone. In this state, I dutifully self-punish, not in any fashion noticeable to the onlooker, only in a way that eats away at my own being, teaching me of things that are neither here nor there, whilst retaining a truth so strikingly piercing that the ears of the soul bleed out.

Depression need not enter. As it appears that even depression is no match to the wallowing that suppresses me. It is a tampering of the reality in which I perceive my being, a way in which the world is toppled through, without the hope that I once carried. Erased I am. And in my erasing, nothing remains to hold that which might enter, except the residue of what is not. Again, I spin some circle of thought; yet, clearly the truth be told.

I hold onto this naysay position with remarkable fortitude coming up with what must be a thousand thorns to the heart. Each one recognized and determined as factual. Each one named by that which I had done or undone. Each remark countered. Each specter weighed. I am the weight of my actions, the mass of my thoughts, indicative to the cow who gives her milk in rations, only to hoard the honey for her own drinking. I am this spinster, not able to give out what is mine to give, nibbling away at the best pieces and embracing the bride of pride. How dutifully I dance in this state, frayed out between what was and what is, counting, as miser, the stools of my dissertation, as if the stench that bleeds out of contradictory terms inside the barrier of mind be the hindsight of discovery. I am not what these words say, and yet I placate my self in this space, keeping her held as hostage spun askew. Holding her down in the muck of what is not, to tear out of the deepest heart-chamber what beats as truth.

I twist here, torrential storm, windtunnel sucked under, and remain here uncertain of my sanction, uncertain of my calling, thinking I am nothing but a slight fool hammering away at a place that is erect no longer. Where is this invisibleness leading, the indignation of the righteous one calls out. And I bleed further into the realms of hot demon coals, the fire long ago leached, and the feathers of the falcon lay waste, symbolic representation of further demise. All who trespass are demolished. All who dive in wiped clean. And still I remain in a drafted dungeon of my own doing.

Had I not been a fool, I would not know how to stand here today; had I not endured the spectrum-spun way of non-gentle rendering, I would not exist as speaker. I am dead to myself again upon again, torn open on display as to release the poison within, the scattered gatherings collected that hindered my sight and came as treasure from this earthly dwelling naught. I am sacrificed for the further dawning of self, taken to the night, so I might spring forth anew and reborn.

Had I not been a witness to my repeated suffering, I would stand as the erect one proud, pleased of my own doings, and there the filth would leak from my renderings. Instead, as soldier to knee, I am surrendered to the forces that be, waiting for the time of standing, when I can face the enemy line purged of that which is deemed ‘unclean.’ I am a warrior, yes, but a warrior that stealthily dies upon thy self day after day, morn after morn, moment onto moment, to wipe away all that is a casualty of existence.

For His Devouring

I am what you are not and you are what I am not; his whisper came into me gradually, unopened and free, with no demand for attention. And I shivered in a place I know not of, pulsating rhythms cascading up the linear compass of my reality.

Listen, he spoke, his voice a broken stream carrying my essence along, not alone and not together, yet formed in a union of mystery, blended into some buttery goodness of taste to be. Had I not seen him, I would have believed his spirit to be housed outside this realm, in another dimension of time and space, perhaps aside the stars of the ocean or within the makings of the mountain’s ribbon wrapped through eternity.

Blended, yes, the word echoed in my mouth, pressing upon the pallet of self. Wishful, I was, becoming something familiar and unfamiliar at once. Penetrated by his form and existence.

Rest in me, I thought, truly in me, amongst the hidden parts, unburied and surfaced long ago, made way for your entrance. Come into me, fully, pulsating with the vibration that is you.

He did, before my thought awoke, a talisman entering for my protection, and I, in turn became his space, the occupant dipping into what was before as recognizable and delightful.

Though unknown, he was, he was known, a ripple brought forward from before, cascading into the rivers poured out. I wanted him, not as one aches for lover, but as one aches for self, a representation of all that was and all that will be, and more so the stamping of the moment, when all stood still, and at last I could embrace this life.

Alive! Breathing in the someone we became. Breathing in his rapture. His dignified grace.

His needs, though deeply hidden, emerged, just at the surface of me, and I could feel, as one feels his way through the darkness of familiar, the edges of where he led. Guiding me to his own tasseled secrets, hung up and dangling in the star-center of his soul, of what had to be his region, the very valley where he lay.

I rested there, in the glacier melted; the waters moving between us as paint fluid, though stagnant in a way I had craved for centuries. Stuck in some universal pattern of awareness.

I liked him here, in this place he had undone for me, and me alone. Liked him as I liked the jelly-jangling joy of a babe. I reached in then, and dripped with his sweetness, tantalizing flavor.

I am, he spoke, again, shivering me with the causation spun of his desert words. Parched, he began, drinking me, taking what he’d come for, enticed by his own appetite, enamored by my wrappings. Unraveled, the walls collapsed and all about was light. Every variable molecule un-spun and resting in the bath of illumination.

Breathe me. Breathe me. Breathe. The tide came, turning my toes blue in the delicate heat of salty-cold. Sigh. A part left and a part returned, and I danced in some endless ballroom, spun by the element that he had become as we first joined. Spun round myself, his-self, and these burdens we had carried.

Electrified in his making, I gave out, breaking through into the regions of beyond and climbing high into the terrace peaks. Treasured, I was, not as the golden spinnings, or opportunist’s fortune, but as the new found hope, the lush layering of his potentiality, the vibrating connection of forever.

I had found him and he had found me, two starseed children set upon their master’s lap to rejoice in the heavens.

Yes, I wanted him. I wanted him more deeply and more widely than anything phathonable. I wanted him to break me and imprison me. To control me. To bring down columns from the sky and erect them in a box around me. To be his willing captive and told where and how to be. To bow down in recognition of his bounty, and nibble off anything that stumbled my way.

For I no longer cared where I stood, for whom I stood, or why I stood. Instead, I had rather hoped to sprawl out on the ground and be fed to the soil as freshly born seed. To be sprouted in his presence, again and again, into the newness he brought forth effortlessly.

Here I wanted to rest, as his space, and his escape, as his free prisoner, enchanted in the rhythm of our vibrations, sped into the dimensions of reality; over and over, reopened for his devouring.