Belly of a Star

my practice of compassion

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Rest My Lover Sweet


Rest my lover, sweet

Behold the temple of shelter I bring forth

Evaporate into my ever-welcoming softness

Rest upon my armored chest of endless embrace

Soothe your woes with the weavings of dedicated safety

As I lace my protective fingers through your delicate thoughts

Nestle in my sincerity and bring forth the whole

Of your weeping mind


Rest my lover, sweet

Behold the dedicated embrace I offer

Bear down your troubled truth

In endless streams of heartstrings

Birth into my stronghold the delicacy of your days

Outstretch the ancient avenues bleak

And allow me to catch each drop

Of your weeping pain


Rest my lover, sweet

Behold the abundant kisses I place

Your dampened cheeks renewed

Emerge unburdened and unafraid

Tainted ghost tears resolved

From my baptismal waters

Dip and rise as final fragrance freed

Of your weeping secrets


Rest my lover, sweet

Behold the devotional cradle I bring

Let timeless mysteries unravel

Fairy ribbons dancing

As I inhale your palpable purity

A vulnerability announced and devoured

Inching into nectarous casing

Of your weeping body


Rest my lover, sweet

Behold the caresses I lavish

Where ecstasy meets fantasy and nightmares dare not enter

Far from harm’s way

Demon memories shaved away and countered justly

My sword hoisted as sign of my delivery

Forging through as gentle giant in heavenly forest

Of your weeping spirit


Rest my lover, sweet

Behold the towering warrior I am

Breathe in the light rising out of this hollowed space

Lapped in the kindled-fire hues

Reflecting the heat you inspire

The appetizing scent you bleed

Assigned guardian

Of your weeping heart


Rest my lover, sweet

Behold the arms I spread

Bird to flight

Open the book of me

A child to leaping pages

Grant permission to put an end to empty words

Your healing right, laden with the salvation

Of my weeping love









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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 mind, he would be trapped still, 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 determination: a 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 unbreached, of substance removed and surrendered by the essence of naught. ‘I am that I am,’ he rang out, a 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 lathering of dignified love.

May 2018, Samantha Craft




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My heart

How it weeps

Beating, beating, beating

Lapped in smiling sorrow

Standing on the outside

Of closed wooden door


Aged echoes

Pounding, repeating, rewinding

Chipping away

As axe to birch

As birch to splintered reminisce


Cavernous ache awakens

As if never spent

As if never seen

His vivid river breath

Blown into hollowed alcoves


Familiar ebony caves

Imprisoned within

The evergreen, towering timber

Strangled in familiar entanglement

Choking vines of ivy, masked

Some shrouded ecstasy


Dampening moss surrounds

Suffocating coverlet

And I rise

Once more

This delicate songbird

Breast to neck, plucked blue feathers


Beaked holdings of ribboning ivory

Starch-like, in its dawning

We wait

Two begging mosaics

Still blindly pounding


At the other’s door





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Left and Broken


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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.

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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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




I seek a reflection of purity and refinement, of chiseled intention, an instinctual driving force fashioned from a universal foundation of love. What is not derived from love is derived elsewhere, outside the landscape of freedom, entrapped in fear.

What is not love is fear. What is not love is self-serving. What is not love is greed. What is not love is habitual attention-seeking to mask that which is unrefined.

What is not love is to burrow reeds in a stagnant water valley of shame, of shattered blame, to build castles of shifting sand in the shadow of rising tide. What is not love is to think one mighty above the growing flames, to raise flags amongst the heat and refuse to see the approaching cinders. What is not love breeds ignorance, intolerance, and the perpetuation of rigid goals, to drill plans into the brittle bones of innocents. What is not love is a vision of danger, to lance ears with spectacles fashioned in blades.

What is love casts out the dark shadows of children cowering and leeches burrowing. What is love blows free in clear air an ever emerging adobe to spirit, a gentle, whispered uprising of hope and serenity.

I seek what is love and love alone, from the intention of love, from the foundation of love, and place of love. I seek that which is equal reflection, eradicated barriers without hierarchy. Those that gather as invisibles beyond the hypocrisy of invented truism, of invented word.

I am a refined version of light, without obligation or room to be taken temporary captive of needled words. I know not. And in my unknowing, I am unraveled and set beyond the bellowing walruses, warped from overfeeding. I am what I seek. I shall emerge empty and take feathered-flight from the evolving space of rummaging soul that seeks recognition at my side.

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I am but syllable broken

Into sound

Sound broken

Into memory

A retiring present


Distant shadow lands


Cloaked in thought

‘Cross flickering flame

Of ivory light

Of birthed droplets


Golden foundation


Of Him

In merriment ways

Bent past the hourglass

Into inwoven eternal

I please Him


Leaping into my weeping

Tempered with compassion

And solidified doubt

Faith unraveled twice

Fortified in humble adobe

Brave winged essence


Thy vessel takes courage from thine


As seedling plucked and planted

Scattered amongst the violet midst

Of who was and what was


Still yet to be




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I am not just kind


I am not just kind
I am aware
I am aware of my thoughts, my motives, my inclinations
My doubts, my worries, my fears
My loves
My woes
My struggles
My hopes
I am not just kind
I am open
I am open to my frailties, my flaws, my imperfections
I am open to new ideas, new ways of thinking and experiencing
I am open to radical change
In myself, in the world, in another
I am not just kind
I am wild
I am wildly compassionate, a fierce defender of the voiceless
A reckoning to the lonely, a chasm to the fear bound
I am wild in my imaginings, creation, connections
My loves
My woes
My struggles
My hopes
I am not just kind
I am strong
I am powerful in my convictions
I am powerful in my abilities
I am powerful in my attitude
I am strong in what I choose to take in, and in what I choose
To leave behind
I am strong in my determination to be the best I know to be
In my realization that I am enough
And that we are enough
I am not just kind
I am finely tuned
I am tuned with the precision of decades of introspection
I am tuned with eons of acceptance
I am tuned with the grace of self-dignity
My adobe is the musical reef
My loves
My woes
My struggle
My hopes
I am not just kind
I am a fortune
I am a boundless treasure, transmuted from the darkness
Upheld from the dungeon reserves
A fortune to be found and returned
To that which is
My loves
My woes
My struggle
My hopes
I am not just kind

Samantha Craft, December 2016