Belly of a Star

my practice of compassion


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heart’s song

In the break of slumber
Thine eyes open
To black-feathered beauty
Sunray’s preamble
Trickling through ebony dark

The first call
Before first call
Silence sings
And dawn song echoes
Treasured daylight
Brought forth

Ribbons waving
From etched beak
Melodic fragrance uplifts
The chasms of nature breathes
The prelude before note
Adrift in honeysuckle
Boundless sky

Floats
A gentle gratitude
A gracious yearning
A blossom heart blossomed
A surrender sweetly surrendered
The last step brought back
Slipped between sheets

Heart song bumping in the overlap
Broken and re-broken
To bring forth deepest yoke
Nibbling its way in drippings
Forging a path of glitter-gold

All shattered weeping wrung dry
Longing’s longing
Announced in the rising
His platter of lickings, good

Lapped up
With hungry eyes
With starved gratitude
Of last crow awoken
Carry forth the new dawn

Samantha Craft, 6.30.19

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I Feel You

 

I Feel You

I feel you, a surging river, effervescent bubbles tickling my soul.

I feel you ‘rounding, serpent tail, intertwining thoughts.

I feel you resting, head buried in the rhythm of my heart.

I feel you catching, with ears open, notes of knowing, to listen once more.

I feel you hunting, the traced outer regions, where earth meets spirit.

I feel you looking, into the sunshine, in the splintered dark.

I feel you etching, into someone new, a rebirthing of flames, one from two.

I feel you maneuvering, my pages, thankful recognition.

I feel you touching, in the center of my being, tap dancing in step to music.

I feel you entering, one foot in, propelled, and then cautioned to return.

I feel you fearing, a warrior, wrapped in misgivings, the cons of journey.

I feel you tiptoeing, kisses to forehead, tips to spine.

I fell you questioning, to delve in full force, no holds barred, unable to stop.

I feel you ricocheting, joyfulness unraveled, recognized friend.

I feel you emptying, giver to giver, the silver streams of who you are.

I feel you pounding, my threshold awaiting, as the clocks turn back tomorrow.

I feel you plunging, as steer to doe, nature’s slave, populating passion.

I feel you spinning,  my hand in yours, lost on merry-go-round.

I feel you plummeting, a skydiver bouncing, through heaven’s clouds.

I feel you returning, to sheltered harbor, a sailor no longer sworn to sea.

I feel you moving, inside and out, everywhere I gather, justly spread out whole.

I feel you guiding, these words as maker, lessons in the drum of holiness.

I feel you beating, an undeniable rhythm, a captive to ecstasy, a pain like no other.

I feel you living, right where I scribe, moving my fingers, as weaver to loom.

I feel you echoing, reading these words aloud, edging your way into love.

Samantha Craft, 6.9.19


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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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BY YOU

 

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

Myself

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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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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I am not just kind

dancing

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


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Opinions and Dust

dust

When someone complains about another sharing an opinion, that, in itself (the complaint), is an opinion shared. Almost everything we scribe or say can be deciphered, at its core, as an opinion. Viewed in a specific lens, the act of criticizing someone for sharing opinions is hypocrisy. Most of what we say is predetermined by a side we have already chosen or box we have placed an idea into. Most of the world divides into good and bad, pretty and ugly, middle ground or extreme, acceptable or not acceptable. Nothing spoken is truth, when all is based on short-lived, contradicting, ever-changing factors. Few live in a place of neutrality. Few see past the illusion. Our outlooks are based on choice and circumstance. We are susceptible to prior perception, biological factors, others’ viewpoints and interpretations, and memories, and even our capacity to remember. What we take in is slivers, what we pull out from the slivers is specks. Furthermore, our outlook is a reflection of where we are in life at the moment. Are we content? Are we in mourning? Are we worried, anxious, terrified? Are we threatened, vengeful, cautious? Are we looking forward to a happening? By default we are influenced by the collective. And then, logically, the few, those who see these words I scribe, who abide by this perception, and then proclaim it as a possible truth, are then, themselves, by their very act, hypocritical. For how can one proclaim there is no final truth through the vessel of a truth? There is no final answer, no final right, no one way; and still, even this, these words, are empty. That is why some spiritual practices explain to take what is needed and leave the rest. Or to forget all that was taught. To avoid the hypocrisy. Because at the very end, when concepts, when words, when sounds, are broken down to the bare bones, there is nothing but dust.