Belly of a Star

my practice of compassion

Left and Broken

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peacepeace 2

LEFT

I’m searching for the right
way, when everything is
left. Gone is the roadmap—the arrow.
That pointing guide: swallowed.

Left is me. A tied up knot of existence.
Reality shaped into shapes; hangovers of
dreams. Trapped in the knowing of
not. Endless abundance. Sorrow weeping
joy. Tap dancing round layered stage.

Platforms tip. Emotions guised
in stellar bows. Prism raindrops,
fall. Tethered thoughts, shout. “I do not. I do
not. I do not . . .” and then I do.

Lapping up the
sunshine that dribbles down the brain. Am
I fantasy emerged fantasy? Endless
mirrors beseeched by endless mirrors? Where in,
am I? I tell you, “I know not,” and then I present this
something I ought be.

A speckled semblance. This
tip. This part. This poking, ancient-ache
awakened. As I bleed. Out. Out.
Out. Charismatic child grown. Ancient wonderment
pierced. Chiseled woe, giggling.

Laughter
begets tears. Tears beget hope. Hope begets this: naked,
naked, naked, torn, beaten-winged . . . some
one. Gratitude’s songbird. Tiny twilight feathers sprinkled
cross your landscape.

This ravenous, unified touch. Down.
Down. Into the right zone. The right
way. When everything is left.

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BROKEN

You sit there unbroken, whilst I am in pieces. Shattered in spirit.
Filled in with light. Sprinkled in love’s sunshine. Touched. Pierced gently,
in the way spirit surrenders.

I am dancing beneath the moonlight. Beseeched by your caress. Lifted in thought. Touching down in the daybreak, and retreating at dawn’s crossing. A nightingale expanding into forest deep. Soaring above roaring sea. Dipping into velvet sheets of clover, where calm river flows through.

And I dance, swirling the colors of self—like silk scarves, newly dyed, kissing the stage for the first time. I twirl: blue, red, yellow, aquamarine. Full spectrum. Round and round and round. You watch. Unbroken. Smiling. Whole. Sitting there in recognition. Laughing at my shapes. Covering my scattered parts with rich tree sap. Pinching the outer regions into recognition.

I bend. And you lift. I fall. And you carry. I turn. And you come back, ’round the other way. Appearing in the corner, where the need is most. I kneel. And you beam. I swarm. And you collect. My honey, my calling, my ecstasy. You dance in me and through me and around me, and come out again. Before returning to this place you call yours.

And I, cannot imagine your infinite seams. Though seamstress, invisible, she smiles upon. Lifting and wishing me home. And I am there. Underneath the sheets of the universe. The stars, my beckoning meal. Munching down, as bear to comb.

Ah! The dance begins again. And you catch me, there. In the place of union. Colors bearing down on colors. Rising into a storm of rainbows. Thundering prisms shower through. And I spin—shattered. Fissured. Chiseled through to the core.

Laughing through this endless stream . . .  of . . . broken.

Samantha Craft, May 2018

 

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