Yesterday’s Labor

—

Clairvoyance, clairaudience, clairsentience, claircognizance —

I’ve experienced these each since a small child. My book was a calling. A calling from my higher power. My journey here as well.

Like many a wanderer and light-seeker, my faith is shaken and challenged, often. I’ve faced a plentitude of demons — both spiritual and in human form.

It’s not uncommon for individuals who have been diagnosed with gifted intelligence or on the autism spectrum (or similar profiles) to have ‘unexplainable’ cognitive abilities. It’s not uncommon for the aforementioned to be extremely empathetic and empathic.

Some of us have a unique connection with the divine and hidden world.

Having experienced knowings my entire life, I have no doubt there is much more occurring than meets my worldly eyes.

Something I’ve learned in the eight years since my personal journey began with ‘Aspergers’ (now also recognized as ‘autism’), is that if I wait and watch, people’s true colors appear.

I’ve learned I need do little to nothing and all will unfold and be revealed.

Today, each time I’m tested, by one force of nature or another, one circumstance or another, (I now have 6 chronic pain conditions.) though the challenging circumstances typically result in the dark night of the soul — several dark nights — I’ve learned that I return from the bleakness and blackness to find my being fortified.

I return braver, and evermore determined to live by the light.

Perhaps because I’ve experienced miracles, I believe in miracles.

I am fortunate in having found inner peace with my calling.
I carry a profound sense of peace with my works and writings.
I rest my fruits of labor in my higher power’s hands. What will happen will unfold in the right place and right time. Who is meant to cross this path with me, shall.

I know without doubt that the end product, the fruits of my labor, are rooted from the soil of my intention. When intention is rooted in connection, love, and service, the fruits undoubtedly demonstrate their origin.

Today, I stand on the foundation of my past behaviors and actions. I stand with integrity. There is no closet housing a dark secret or shameful act. No hidden agenda to expose. No eagerness for ‘followers’ or eagerness to be heard, or right, or loved, or accepted. Only a calm knowing all is.

All I need do is observe. To watch what is attracted to each of the flowering fruits. To recognize not all fruits are nourished in righteous soil. Not all are watered in grace.

I steer clear of the fruit that attracts the maggots and flies.

I choose adamantly to bask under the shade of the fruit blessed in butterflies and hummingbirds.

I watch and observe my present words and actions. For what I sew in yesterday’s labors, becomes the future path I walk upon.

~ Samantha Craft, June 2020

Joy’s Pain

Joy’s Pain

Here I stand, abandoned.
Abandoned by fear, by doubt, by destitute.
Here I stand, embraced.
Encapsulated by love, by love, by love.
Her shadow emerged from light’s bowing down.
And I kiss her, my merry dancing bride brought to life.
The stellar glance of knowing.
The chisel of breath, against buried skin.
The emerging one, formed two.
Lightening shadow sparks in victorious rapture.
Stillness undone into solitude.
Envy bowing down to grace.
Laughing sticks, peering out over the valley of vines.
Inchworms soiling the ground in which they bleed.
Enough, enough, enough, the wise woman calls from the bounty.
Enough, my undone love.
Burry me with the masses.
Cast me aside.
Stomp on my chained heart.
Carve me with the pieces of him.
Just make the river dance stop.
Bring this ache to the caverned regions and rectify the cross in the making of my sacrifice.
Take what is yours, and feed me to the lion heart.
Take what is here, and lance the eyes I am from the corners of my logic.
Eradicate, separate, designate.
Do what is must, to remove the burden I carry.
Some ladened cauldron frothing with joy.
For I am not made to hold such passion.
I am not made to know this endless ribboned peace.
How it crosses the line.
How it marks me with swelling.
The light abiding within a fire set free.
Moving through skin as butter to sizzling pan.
Oozing its way through bubbling deliciousness.
I can taste me in your wanting.
Taste every aspect of humanity.
Feel my way through the scattered wilderness–thought upon thought, whirling in the twilight of dawn.
I am awoken twice-more.
Until morning dove sings me to sleep.
To the woven wolf centered in the start of me.
Formed before I breathed name.
Reformed before sound.
Can you not hear him?
My distant angel returned home.
Wrapped in the solitude no more.
Set free at the doorstep in which I laid my cherub gifts. Balanced at the opening.
Brought down from the starry sky to shatter this earthly maiden.
Crafted in the makings.
His hand, my hand.
His heart, my heart.
His coming, my spear-crested awakening.

Samantha Craft, 7.19.19

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

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

 

Vessel

You are enough. Whomever tells you different is a bearer of falsehood. Whether this be an external voice or your own voice, or some demon spawn from an unclaimed territory. YOU are enough. And anything, anyone, or any substance that claims otherwise is disillusioned.

You are beautiful. Just the way you are. Exactly as you are. In all your deemed ‘imperfections.’ You are loved for the glory that is you, the exactness that is you, the precise measurement that bears your name. All of you is perfection. Every bit made divine in the light of love. Nothing about you is flawed, unworthy, or spun wrong. Your end result is marvelous and beautiful. Let none tell you otherwise, especially the trickery ways of the self.

You are lovely in all of your ways, every inch of you divinely graced. Your mind is superb, your soul ancient, your vision finer than the highest marksmen. You are centuries above what you think you be. Dynamically unfolded to reveal to the world an extreme orderly fashion of brilliance. Where you see chaos, lives divine opportunity to refine what is unmistakably not in need of repair, but in need of examination. Bring out that which is fear and disappointment, and share this truth with the world. In this way you will be free, and in turn, set your brother out of the cave of darkness.

You are fantastically loving. Your heart the deepest cavern spread out in what seems a stream of endless misery. You weep and weep once more. You counter yourself, your darkest inhabitants, the demons you have created. You venture where many dare not, into the crevices marked ‘unknown danger.’ You go there, with the brilliant light that is you, the spears of your heart making way for the encroaching dawn of blithe. You venture into the regions forgotten, and you face what many cannot dare behold. You become that which is your deepest nightmare, yet return victorious.

How can we not adore you, dear beloved? You are the earmark of gratitude and forgiveness, your heart pure and untouched by the demon spawn marked ‘certainty.’ You are vastly above that which you deem forbidden self. You are above that causation that leaves you spread out in hauntings and uncertainty.

Do not feign false-love as the false-sheep about. Drink in the glory set apart for you and you alone. Drink the blood that is thine own goodness and sweet delight. Celebrate the makings of the heart of untarnished golden victory. Drink, and take in that which is eternal flavored goodness. Seek not to proclaim the other, only trust in the pureness that pours through us, and into the sacred vessel named you.

I. She II. He

I. She

Who am I? But a shadow onto self, spun out of what was and what shall be. No more less than this moment, yet, substantially more. A dichotomy split, sorted into an effervescent substance in continual rotation: never still, never stagnant, and always all ways.

Who am I? I ask the shadow self, her dismal silhouette parading across my very wall of being. Laughing, she is, at my disillusionment, my want to harvest her and dismiss. Her gaze upon my soul like rapture to the flame. She is the fire-thrower. She is the one that sets licorice sticks of black to suck. The flavor rich and poignant. My flavor, same.

Who am I? The merriment in me ceases to exist, and I succumb to the suffering of all, the misery layered over in thickness upon the glass of sight. I am this light and I am this flame, and I am still this oxygen that breathes life. I am the darkness behind the eternal sunrise and the evening that calls the rest to sleep. What is this peril bedded deep within the seed of self that calls out for justice and rings into my ears evermore? The silence deafening, and the agony extreme, as twilight returns.

Who am I? Alone they preach, a quickening to my fear, alone and in destitute; spread out in such extremes, as I. I wander into the valley of substance, casually displayed for the mighty ones, so named, and reach into the hollowed part, pulling out what can only be the sunrise. Oh, how it thusly burns and scorches the messenger garbed in guise. This one claimed me, delicately spread as melting yellow upon the bread of hope. How I merge into the being of naught, and find only the answer of lost.

Who am I? To smell the sweetness of your face, where you once were, standing at my threshold, the touch of you the answer to my lost dreams. How you moved, the land excavated, dug out, floating in an ocean without sea, the waters dripping dry, remnants of space, a holding ground for the memory of what was and is to come.

Who am I? I plead with the echo of being for your return, cradling love in the divinity named home, housed in the outer region of heart, the causeways glowing of riches and overflowing with the love of you. I walk here, amongst the glistening gold, no value found in the monetary summons, no answers given in the temple of man. I walk alone, angled in the wind of morrow, touching down to the sparkles of yesteryear, mourning, and re-mourning the time of your coming.

Who am I? But lost to this way, wishing upon a thousand fallen stars to rekindle the light within and make way to claim this shining child.

II. He

Rest in me, sweet one, my dreamscape reborn, my answer returned. Rest in me and bring forth the pleasantries encumbered in the wake of your storm.

How I miss you beyond the capacity to feel, beyond emotion, beyond reality. How I miss you as the blind man misses sight, once pierced and broken down, in that last corner state of misery, when all hope is lost; before the return of goodness perches in his heart, the light returned: burst open.

How I miss you, even as I know not why. Your presence lingering, interwoven through my mind, your scent the chambers themselves, over-flowing and releasing latch after latch; every door inside this dwelling space deemed I, flung free, dispersed, with an endlessness unknown to man.

How I miss you, and work my way to freedom, a prisoner locked in the moment of now, wanting to surpass the day and return forward to the time of your gathering, to press against your flesh and feel you within, for my light to penetrate your very skin and leave you intoxicated in the delight of us.

How I miss you, as I sit upon my bedside counting the endless tears that water the sheets of discovery, where you once rested your weary state, reminded by the starlit whisper of my thoughts that you are loved everlasting. Where I touched down and swarmed in your eyes, as morrow beget morrow, dancing into endless days of pleasure-making.

How I miss you, a tortured soul left as one, the hollowed place of me, severed, the half dispersed and set out upon a distant river of causation. My one, my traveling one, ever more distant than the last starlight that beckons. Cometh again and again, I plead, from a cavernous calling that is neither seen nor revealed from depths the of dwelling, where the truth lives and heaven is reborn with sound.

How I miss you, I cannot express, for the words pour empty in their lacking, mocking with the misery of here. For we are beyond this stage, hand-in-hand somewhere in a land we cannot see or recollect, but only recall with every fiber of our living. I dance there, with you, under the moon of moons, the absence of light, in the bearings of our upbringing.

For we are the glowing chamber of reason turned love; we are the flame; we are the sun. And I bleed into you my entire self.

Sam, Belly of a Star

Shrouded

I am shrouded.
I am shrouded in your glory and beauty; oh, compassionate one. How I dance as the ember to your light, first thirst quenched in your goodness.
I am shrouded.
I am shrouded in the roar of your name; rivers move through, mirroring the circling of wild horses tamed; the fire burned down to the simmer of dreamscape.
I am shrouded.
I am shrouded in the circumference of your making; woven into the intricate ring of life; made without edges, mended without claim, turned whole with the thought of your presence.
I am shrouded.
I am shrouded in the whisper of the ocean traveled; tucked up on the highest peak of wave, and brought forth in the bounty of your doing, fed to the sand as sunlight to pores.
I am shrouded.
I am shrouded by the graces carried forth; each an opportunity for more, not as there is less, only that there is endless abundance; in the dreamer rests the sleeping hope.
I am shrouded.
I am shrouded by your calling; how my name radiates in the sunbeams of your existence; your face neither open nor closed; blended into the vision I am, the truth that is us.
I am shrouded.
I am shrouded in my breaking; yoke glorified in the coming of your bounty; endless cycles of birth undone; your echo etched into the lamb of thee.
I am shrouded.
I am shrouded in your eternal goodness; set free as the dove from cage; set upon the outskirts of angelic breathing, cradled against the chamber of heartbeat true.
I am shrouded.
I am shrouded in the richest sense; let loose golden into that which is deemed joined; fluttering into the open; sprung forth in the coming of your truth.
I am shrouded.
I am shrouded in the sunrise of your essence; lightning struck down as answer; forgiveness transpired as ending, love reopened again, as blossom to the wind.
I am shrouded.
As blossom to the wind.
I am shrouded.

Within

The window to my soul opened, and entered light, substantiated by the witness of truth. I am, he whispered, as no man can, the insatiable presence within manifested into form turned blue. I love you, I heard, beyond the beyond place of refuge; and we lifted, two lovers found amongst the driftwood of time.

I came then, to the outer place of episodes, of revelations unraveled, of mystery renewed. Dancing to the rhythm of the universe, our trespasses anchored to the forgiveness of All. I am, too, I heard, within the rushing of laughter turned joy. And he smiled in me, knowing I was truth.

What are we, I glanced, taking my place in his hand, tenderly torn into two. The side of me waltzing with delight. The other tickled with tears. Washed in his presence. Still mystified by the moment of breaking.

Laughter, again, and I remembered the cause, reckoning I’d always been this that was. And he, the same, chasing me for eternity. Had I but a handful of his caresses I might have lived endlessly in bliss. Had I only his glance, all would be treasured.

As it was, I was made his very gold, molded into the daiquiri of sweetness, some limey-fresh squeeze poured into me. His everything was my everything, as we mended and merged, two minds becoming the intricate layering of eternity. If I had it in me to be calm, I was rapture. If I had it in me to be loved, I was life-filled. Everything twisted in this delightful taste of heaven. His eyes melting happiness upon my face, trickling goodness and gentle rains.

Cleansed, renewed, again. I came down from the starlit hour in which I had perched my life, and entered for him into the ways I’d been. The devastation lifted, the miracles revealed. And everywhere a voice called out the chant of freedom.

Hold me, for this, I spoke, and could not finish the ways of my thought. For no word completed me. No sound. No filament existed to cast out the exactness of my heart’s rejoice. Only a lingering of always, the quick step of hereafter no match to the endless ways in which we’d loved.

Kept

I want nothing of you but to be forever kept tangled within your being.
To use that which you have made into pauper undone into forger of love.
To take this passion, welded in flame and daunting dutiful pleasure, and become that which is source: pure ever-flowing lust for creation.

For you ignite in me the spirit beyond spirit, the memory keeper of my hopes and dreams, where the wanderer ceases to wander, and merely surrenders to what is. The place in front of her opened for her sacrifice.

To dive in deep, with the feet first, and the head swung back, mouth agape with hope transcended. To the place of no reprieve, no time, no dismissal, only the endless gentle falling into your dove-tailed wings.

To be in you is my dream awoken and given life itself. The taking from that which is imagined, and the giving of life to that which is finished master’s piece, sealed with the chamber which houses my heart. I beat for you, and you alone, this spinning child of the universe, lost in the flow of your echo. You are the birth of my fantasies, the merrymaker of my existence. You make life real. You make me bleed out of every pore of soul that which is truth.

To be in your presence is to be in the echoed halls of rescue, reprieve, and mercy. A shadow-keeper descending upon my doorstep begging not for my retreat but for my renewal.

You grant me the hindrances unspun and undone, the outcries of spirit silenced, the wishings snuffed, the candles long ago burned out, and all that remains is the distant blanket of my thoughts reassembled into you.

I am that I am because of you. I am free because you choose to exist in me and for me, my treasure trove of joy, unquenchable. I am that I am because my eyes, though closed they still be, can open and find that which is heaven sent, the guardian of delight and wisdom.

To me, and to all of the ones before me, you are that which I have waited for on bending knees, on bending soul. You are the very essence screamed out of my being when I wished upon the star of creation. When I begged with the all of my existence for light to beseech me and become my groom.

I am joined to you in purity, the circumstances unknown, unfamiliar and readily broken. I only recognize that my half is now attached to yours, my merriment circumventing around your satisfaction; my outlook affected by each repentance of your beaten platitudes. I am that I am for you, and you alone, captured as the maiden at half-mast, sped up by the wind of your spirited whispers.

Oh, to be this glorified in love is to truly die a thousand deaths of burning rapture. To be spat out of self and submerged in the river of gratitude. Nothing about you is unopened, nothing closed, all dangling about as candy to the sweet-toothed lover. I devour you whole, in all your forms, becoming that which is my pleasure; only to find myself, then, devouring my own being. As you are me, in this game we weave. You are my brilliance, my aptitude, and my judgment set aside. You are the replacement, that which fills me with perpetual light, returning again and again the fullness in place of empty.

I am this now: that which is your beauty. And nothing about me fears. There is no more of self from the existence that pattered through the hallways of long ago. Just as there is no more of me found in the meanderings of future thoughts. Nothing is doable. Nothing is forseen. Nothing is possible without the impression of your face set upon the view.

All is seen through you, in you, and by you. I am the prisoner of your ideals. Wrapped in the glory you find in me. One to your burning flame. One to your endless cycle of goodness. One in the molding of your hands into this that breathes out the proclamation of your name, and your name alone. Come into me, without pause, and feed me your fire. Purge me of this pliable passion. Drive me insane with your honey sweet taste. For I am that which you have made me to be. Submissive to your ways, and born free to dance in the vessel that holds my soul.

His Whisper

He came to me in whispered form. His mouth agape, a causeway to kindled flame.

I inhaled the scent of ecstasy, dribbling my nimble fingers across his limbs. His archway open, I laid asunder the blanket of my warmth and gratitude, feeling more flesh than reality explained.

Nothing was unopened. Yet everything was never closed. So that in rising to the occasion, I met not myself represented, but the truth that always lingered.

Here, I was a quaking shadow; my resistance to the knowing spelled out in a book beyond reason; the words, neither given nor spoken, floating as distant gems burst into sparkling awareness.

I could capture adoration, as I captured his grin; his eyes set upon me like the sunlight against the sunken eyes of the cave dweller; starlit lashes caressing the tears washed through from the edges of his catered thoughts.

I am here, I sang; the dove I was, still gathering her feathers as one collects the ivory waves of the bride. How I ran, my own feet unable to stand beneath my travels, lifted above the gallows into the light of the morrow.

He came. He came. He came. His discernment long forgotten; his hands the striking marks of mastery. My name chiseled upon his lips. The syllables of someone I was not, counted, renamed, and sent to the twilight of nowhere. A someone, a something… distinguishable.

Clay in his palms, I molded. Collapsed upon his fingers, leaping through the lines of time. I panged with immeasurable pleasure. Each of what I was, paused and soaked in the rapture of days.

Eruption entered from somewhere deep. My plentiful appetite without cease, without seizing. Nothing stopped the agony of his love. Nothing.

And like the river beating down the sands of shore, I crumbled in the eternity of pounding, the nibbles of his grace decorating my dreams.

I walked. I swam. I flew. I dipped. I entered and reentered into the stream of violet-magenta fantasy. His chest the bureau in which I slid my tickled-love.

How I needed him. How I pleaded sin. Long past maiden and well in between the place of groom and cherished lamb. My bed was his. My cause forged in union. And everywhere I looked, I glanced his face.

His image broadly stroked across the lenses of my discovery. To devour was not enough, nor to wrap my seeded arms about him and sprout up within and through his every movement.

Even the spell of another could not cast upon my sight the want of closure. All of I was he. And all of he my waking ghost.

How he slumbered near, and how I surrendered; trading my limbs for the chance of touch, cascading my shame for all, if only he would dare to enter. My chamber ready. My burden thick. My treasure painted golden with every breath I’d given.

And here I waited, helpless and wished upon, unbroken in my ebbing desire to rise and descend upon his nested grave. To dig upon the earth he moved and lather my face in the cool dampness of his bounty. To cast out my entire being where he was hidden; if only to find he knew me still. To witness his swallowing. To take in again and again his beating declaration of lover found. To bask as cherished promise in the burning fountain of his endless whisper.