Belly of a Star

my practice of compassion

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Of Stone and Silt

Of Stone and Silt

They sit in high castles
And think to come down
That to stumble, will be
The proof of their crown

The center-mark of burden
A lone leaning scale
Between that and the other
They seek without fail

With a tempered knowing
They fashion fine rope
To build ladder of escape
To move beyond moat

A journey in reverse
They set into motion
From depths of wanting
With thoughts on the ocean

On thought and on logic
Of how it must be
From stumbling down
Alas to the sea

They gaze at invisible
Bowing down to nowhere
Descending castle true
As if some cross to bear

They’ve invented below
While escaping castle might
Blinded by doings
Of getting it right

Thinking stone after stone
Where foundation be not
Only pebbles dripping
Marking out: forgot

Still, they lead forward
Their misery at bay
From the sky to the ground
As if they must pay

With grasping intention
Escaping up high
With rapid thoughts of safety
Released and gone: bye

And with all that passes
They think on above
Of castle, of squire
Of true morning dove

But while on their journey
This quest to find earth
On notion of venture
And promised rebirth

They forget where they touch
In this time: named space
Forget the last stepping
Don’t recall their last place

This falling of sorts
Masking safety between
Not above, nor below
But where few have yet seen

Invisible to most
The seekers still go
Claiming entrance in reverse
From the cliff to the cove

When in truth, ascension follows
In pursuit of the few
The ones already hollowed
By broken, by blue

The innocence rising
As downward ones descend
As the chosen stumble up
The light of heart begins

Out of place of reaching
To retouch internal calm
From the flip side of thought
To reopen beyond

As ghosts above meander
Their dissension of ought
Thinking on promises
Aimless wanders of naught

From the skins once shed
Into skins newly built
They breech a beginning
Best birthed in the silt

Samantha Craft, 5.23.19

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The Well

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The Well

I am the well, beyond
Baseline, sparkling chasms
Encapsulated in teardrops
Fragmented rainbows that speak
On reflections of you
Heart split, chambers imprisoned
Beat, as one, no more
Hopes, cast away
In cherry-blossom-dancing sky
A brilliant blue, against
The blue of us
Pronounced missing
Such all-encompassing rigid agony
That centers bow at soul’s home
And with penetration, reminds: life
The living, the journey, the road
Leading back, onto what finds
Me, this charismatic pang
Dressed in cashmere softness
Pink again, as if promising
For resting place, of comfort gone
With echoes of when
Sings thee, a voice like rose-tinted silence
The knowing that existence is
Yet, still sleeps in growing light
Stretching vines, and forgetting beams
Not beneath, nor beyond
But in this one, who stands ravished
In deafening woe, highlighting self
With a fragrance, unknown
Some shimmering tastiness
Without taste, a tongue reaching to glimpse
If had eyes, to bleed out
This endless game named ache
In the substance of lost, I am
This that is forced surrender
Be that it may, carved
Inch, by breaking inch
Very made in light
Called upon, shattered
The dove wings circle
Enveloping rest, they whisper
Feel the wholeness of sacrifice
The glorious, intensified rupture
Birthing, new skin
Scales of stories in ebony caves
Crimson strokes rewind
The past, tale spinning tale
A comment set upon itself
The well below, existence
A deep reservoir for thy drinking

Samantha Craft, 5.24.19




By you

I am gifted

I am gifted with seeing—the eyes of a seer pried open

I must look even when I wish to close


Clammed shut I hide, I run, I weep

In the corners where none could find

If I was different

But I am not

I am not

And thusly I am

This window into you

This cloaked hindrance wanting, needing

To hide

In the corner

These thoughts

Thoughts, which are, not mine

And I hurt, not for me, even as it feels of me

But for the thousand ones searching

Wanting, needing, dying

I hurt for the ones who cannot

Whilst I can

I remain in this world

To be that which is naught

Some carrier of broken dreams

Bringing light into the darkness brought

To me

This scattered, nothing girl

Who wavers back and forth between want and not want

Who is all at once here, and then, all at once gone

Into the corner

Hiding, craving to be less open

Less aware

Less filled with knowing

That is from somewhere beyond

As I am just a girl

Trapped between two worlds

Unprepared, yet prepared

Lost, yet guided

Broken and re-broken, until alas I have no choice

But to heal my wounds with words

Brought out of the corners

Where I hide

Where I remember

Where I long to be less alone

And remembered

As one, who has lost her way

In the wave of truths

Brought onto me

By you

5.20.19 Samantha Craft

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I think of you and your struggles
More than you know

I might not see your face
Or know your name
I might not remember what you do
Or from whence you came

I might not follow your steps
Or recall your colorful tales
I might forget what you’ve accomplished
Or in which ways you think you’ve failed

But I think of you and your struggles
More than you know

I might be a friend, a shadow
Or an enemy, true
I might not say everything right
Or believe as others do

I might not care enough
Or hide far away
I might hate myself at times
Or believe it’s all okay

But I think of you and your struggles
More than you know

I might scream this is annoying
Or let out a sigh
I might make claim to a funny
Or lead some to cry

I might not say enough
Or go on and on for days
I might slip into silence
Or act in peculiar ways

But I think of you and your struggles
More than you know

I might get it wrong
Or strike an odd stance
I might sprint beyond
Or forget that last glance

I might ponder a long while
Or toss it aside
I might forget all my manners
Or forgo the ride

But I think of you and your struggles
More than you know

I might change a mind
Or cause one to blame
I might take a hand
Or be victim to shame

I might never know
Or ask one to tell
I might be off track
Or perhaps even yell

But whatever we do
Whatever we might
Whatever your struggles
Whatever our plight

Know this to be true
From the center of heart
I think of your suffering
And it tears me apart

Samantha Craft, 5.15.19


Dedicated to my online family

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Dancing Words

When I get triggered, since very small, I fold into a world, like a butterfly covering herself, into the depth of my mind and imagination. It is dark and uncomfortable. As if returning to the now-broken chrysalis from whence I was created. From there, the angst, and agony, and pain of this world, and the confusion of human nature, particularly selfishness and cruelty, pulses through my veins. I bend, I twist, I ache. I stay there hours, days, sometimes weeks, until I recenter and find balance in my authentic self and remember my inner truth. Then the world starts to come back. Then the words start to come back. Fast and clear. The collective unconscious, if you will. And I am then propelled forward to write, seemingly without choice. I bleed out the poison. Only when the words touch air, they transform into the wind that pushes me out and back into the world I love, the one of light, truth, and service.

Sometimes life hurts so much, it can only be described in dancing words . . .

Dancing Words

I weep for naught
No thou within this weeping be
No element of fair
To pair such wicked torment
No beloved to catch
Tumbling pieces
This broken, scattered
Grave of thee

Hooded trumpeter lands, anew
His white-dust reservoir beckons
Piercing claws retracted
Shining sword to once-closed eyes
Sleep! Awaken! Light! Emerge!
Birthed in disproportion
As angel’s prayer weeps through

Tender flesh announces arrival
Opens and reopens, a homecoming of ripening
Vast canyons exposed in midnight air
Wounds licked, longings long
Stretched out, seams splitting seams
No needle doth repair

Haunting questions spar with answers
In equal magnitude, memories heckle ado
Sweet tormenting rhythm, squashing tune
Eradication announced
Torrential winds bowing down
Begging the winter wave rising
Stop! Alas, to begin without end

Logic beds feathers, alone in their room
Erotic plumage dancing round
Master tailor’s needle, sprung
Crisped from daylight’s fire
Set up high to open sky

Drenched, widow raven sits in once-virgin white
Wings plucked, taken, merged in spinning black
Till morning comes to mourn the bluebird broken
Her gentle song carved out of throat
Carrion painting crimson branches
This phantom life of who

Samantha Craft. 5.20.19