Belly of a Star

my practice of compassion


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The Tip

will you write
on me
on my skin
felt-tipped words
of adoration
‘I love you’
around belly
‘I need you’
around hips
‘My one’
inching
down sides
of neck
‘My everything’
at the tip
of lips

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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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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Had I

Had I way

To break you free

From the trappings

Of your mind

To wrap my might and pull

And create a safe haven

For your harbored grace

That I would

 

If I was granted shield

From the darkest winds

And amulet, from wise woman passed

In my tempered chivalry

I’d seize the forest by its very roots

And decompose every sapling

Of threatening timberland

 

Had I remedy, true

Brewed of love, and love alone

I’d venture forth

Frothing, as wave reborn

And crash

The ghost-tainted nightmares

Unraveling bitter discord

With unbridled clarity

 

If magic key

To stoic door

Emptied falsehoods

From caverns deep

I’d trample in

Enraged stallion

Through foreboding halls

To rebuild your view

 

Had I one precious wish

In all the days that be

I’d kneel to bring home

With gentle fortitude

Unbroken and erupted

From internal flame

The one who is you

My perfect soul

 


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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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Loved

Loved

I am afraid
In the deepest part of being
Alive
Where my breath was formed before lung
And my sight before eye
In the rewinding of self back to the start of then

You remembered before I spoke
Before word
Before any utterance became known
A waking profound
The winter-birth of greatest summer
The moon shadows over the serpent’s light

You saw as none other
You touched
Where none had dared
I, fair maiden turned
Into the very silky rich
Assaulted
Surrendered
In your presence

Capturer, stood as captive
Sacrificed into slivers
Fed to the dandelion flame
Burned anew
I loved
And impossibility was given hostess
The last pages of searching wiped clean
By your delicate coming

I trampled
I galloped
I milked myself dry
My riches your honey
My whisper your name
And in this I recognized my own folly
Opened bud, vulnerable
Pierced
Without choice

For forever
I would remain
A part of your biding
Abiding by your grace
Your holding
The manner in which endearment
Claimed each shade of me
Your very own
Creation


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For His Devouring

I am what you are not and you are what I am not; his whisper came into me gradually, unopened and free, with no demand for attention. And I shivered in a place I know not of, pulsating rhythms cascading up the linear compass of my reality.

Listen, he spoke, his voice a broken stream carrying my essence along, not alone and not together, yet formed in a union of mystery, blended into some buttery goodness of taste to be. Had I not seen him, I would have believed his spirit to be housed outside this realm, in another dimension of time and space, perhaps aside the stars of the ocean or within the makings of the mountain’s ribbon wrapped through eternity.

Blended, yes, the word echoed in my mouth, pressing upon the pallet of self. Wishful, I was, becoming something familiar and unfamiliar at once. Penetrated by his form and existence.

Rest in me, I thought, truly in me, amongst the hidden parts, unburied and surfaced long ago, made way for your entrance. Come into me, fully, pulsating with the vibration that is you.

He did, before my thought awoke, a talisman entering for my protection, and I, in turn became his space, the occupant dipping into what was before as recognizable and delightful.

Though unknown, he was, he was known, a ripple brought forward from before, cascading into the rivers poured out. I wanted him, not as one aches for lover, but as one aches for self, a representation of all that was and all that will be, and more so the stamping of the moment, when all stood still, and at last I could embrace this life.

Alive! Breathing in the someone we became. Breathing in his rapture. His dignified grace.

His needs, though deeply hidden, emerged, just at the surface of me, and I could feel, as one feels his way through the darkness of familiar, the edges of where he led. Guiding me to his own tasseled secrets, hung up and dangling in the star-center of his soul, of what had to be his region, the very valley where he lay.

I rested there, in the glacier melted; the waters moving between us as paint fluid, though stagnant in a way I had craved for centuries. Stuck in some universal pattern of awareness.

I liked him here, in this place he had undone for me, and me alone. Liked him as I liked the jelly-jangling joy of a babe. I reached in then, and dripped with his sweetness, tantalizing flavor.

I am, he spoke, again, shivering me with the causation spun of his desert words. Parched, he began, drinking me, taking what he’d come for, enticed by his own appetite, enamored by my wrappings. Unraveled, the walls collapsed and all about was light. Every variable molecule un-spun and resting in the bath of illumination.

Breathe me. Breathe me. Breathe. The tide came, turning my toes blue in the delicate heat of salty-cold. Sigh. A part left and a part returned, and I danced in some endless ballroom, spun by the element that he had become as we first joined. Spun round myself, his-self, and these burdens we had carried.

Electrified in his making, I gave out, breaking through into the regions of beyond and climbing high into the terrace peaks. Treasured, I was, not as the golden spinnings, or opportunist’s fortune, but as the new found hope, the lush layering of his potentiality, the vibrating connection of forever.

I had found him and he had found me, two starseed children set upon their master’s lap to rejoice in the heavens.

Yes, I wanted him. I wanted him more deeply and more widely than anything phathonable. I wanted him to break me and imprison me. To control me. To bring down columns from the sky and erect them in a box around me. To be his willing captive and told where and how to be. To bow down in recognition of his bounty, and nibble off anything that stumbled my way.

For I no longer cared where I stood, for whom I stood, or why I stood. Instead, I had rather hoped to sprawl out on the ground and be fed to the soil as freshly born seed. To be sprouted in his presence, again and again, into the newness he brought forth effortlessly.

Here I wanted to rest, as his space, and his escape, as his free prisoner, enchanted in the rhythm of our vibrations, sped into the dimensions of reality; over and over, reopened for his devouring.