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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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
True
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


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Uncloaked

Uncloaked

The opinionated folk deems his self more worthy than the next, more educated, more correct, more substantiated in his tethered-viewings. He is the man who ties himself to his beliefs as marionette to the puppeteer. Surrendering his last performance for the making of a hopeful sequel.

He stands on the cornerstone of his own reality, perched on a soapbox made of rubbery-soles; erect in his being, creating hurts, as he plucks out the feathers from those deemed ‘wrong.’

He is the judge. And his seasoned-eyes seek out justice for self, and for self-proclaimed truths.

He creates chaos through the subconscious quest to establish an enemy in order to make himself the victor.

He seeks out that which is wrong to feed his own tattered ego.

The more he builds himself up, the more he merrily tears the others downward into spiraling nonsense.

He latches on to one truth, and then another, exchanging viewpoints to suit his individual needs. Adapting his ways to suit his desired outcome.

He eradicates plans and schemes, even as he sees this not as so.

He is blind to his own ways, and thinks himself clever and keen.

He has an eye for truth, and establishes his world as so. Truth begets truth and all else in dangerous makings of others’ minds.

He knows himself, inside and out, or so he thinketh . And in thinking in limited scope, he believes he sees the world about him endlessly.

He is the maker of mankind and the destroyer, and he sets himself on high while wearing a robe of futile-humility. Though, buried beneath the cloakings are the mere wobblings of brittle bones.

He erects flags of righteousness in his name.

He is the enemy of spirit, as he claims his views worthy and right.

He is the enemy of self, as he hides in the shadowed sands, head buried to the reality undone.

He builds and builds an illusion in order to feed and feed that which is established upon as self onto self.

He becomes that which he wishes, and has opinion for all that does not fit into his gently spawned parchment.

His arrows are as ink on treasure map, pointing thusly to where the answers rest.

He knows, and he knows naught, and in so doing he believes he is the wisest of wise.

He layers himself in the latherings of riches, sought in the grounds of others’ burdens.

He is neither miser of gold nor pauper of the trenches; instead he is both. Combined, as the one collecting and discarding. Scooping up in ‘veracious’ heaps that which serves his truth, and throwing out that which does not.

He cannot see his weary ways, and instead labels the rest unjust and wrong, except the select few that follow his way. His light shone bright in the ability to feasibly proclaim his truth as collective truth.

He is not satisfied unless others see him, others hear him, others lift him and validate his existence.

His way is made the only way. And the others, though innocent they be, gather around him as sucklings to his tainted nectar.

He nourishes them with lies—his own.

He lures them in with a sense of belonging. And then, too, they become as him: stagnant in their youth, nurturing nothing and no one, and taking as they please.

They satisfy self to please self. They play with self to please self. They collect and establish more truths.

Until the beggar returns—uncloaked—he is made burdened with entrapment; invisible, trumpeting his drum. Pounding out the horned owl’s screech. Demolishing what is, in hopes of fissuring all that is the entrapment of mankind.

Formidable-forbidding. A lingering, unsurpassed longing, to surrender his making for the unmasking of the man beneath the cloaked resilience.


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Strings

Strings

Bending. Bending towards humanity.
Upside down and twisted. Sideways. Backwards.
Hello. Hello, out there. I wave.
Casual-like, faking the discrepancies lining the walls of my interior.
Wallpaper: aged, peeling, unwanted.
Caution to the wind, I sail outward, into the blue societal corridors.
Painted bleak by ill doers masked in golden-tainted grimaces.
Castaways, alike, we gather into cylinders of being, turning inside the encapsulated thoughts.
Syringed through penetrating drops of nothing.
I am not what they preach, nor say, nor whisper in the cornered room gone viral.
Tentacles forward, burrowing through the broken skin, tantalizing the soul with promises.
Undone, again, in the region born from goodness, now made bitter-sweet in its giving.
How I long to climb the mountain high and scream out the bounty brought onto us—the widow’s heart eternally mourning for the lost child named innocence.
How, if given opportunity, I’d purge the demons from them all, and dance upon the grave called fear.
How I’d rip then, apart the hearts donned black.
Forging, grasping, into the misery found there.
Stand then, we would, upon the cornerstone of our calling, without the stage bearing down beneath us.
And speak no more of these times.
When darkness held the strings to emptied puppets turned asleep.

Samantha Craft, 2014