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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SUITed

SUITed

What is this human suit that traps me
Some far away creature
Demolished of self
Half broken
Half whole
A part missing
A part found
Here and there
And everywhere
I am scattered

Scattered like the wind spins inside me
Scattered like my heart beats my thoughts
Scattered like the ocean pounds my doorstep
A haunting calling from source unknown

Stop
I call out
Stop
I mistake for help
There is no help
Just this place
This hell
These trappings
Of my human suit

Stretchy skin that doesn’t fit
Surging blood that doesn’t sit
Changing, Shedding, Evaporating
Feeding
Eliminating, Pulsing, Edging
Creating
Dying, dying, dying

Scattered like the wind spins inside me
Scattered like my heart beats thought
Scattered like the ocean pounds my doorstep
A haunting calling from source unknown

What is this human suit

Feb. 2019, Samantha Craft


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The World is Broken

The world is broken, and I am a shell, forging through the shards, legs through holes, with opening, stepping over brittle bones, a walking egg

a moving embryo, forgotten in harsh land.

The world is broken, and I am a shield, stampeded through the armies, in warrior’s wrist, with leathered-timber, clashing against talismans, a symbol

a shining glory, protected in fierce combat.

The world is broken, and I am a youth, hunched in the corner, sockets of tears, with memories, slashing tender flesh, an innocent

a weeping dove, folded in lost man.

The world is broken, and I am a woman, launched on platform, voice of need, with determination, professing victory, a leader

a gentle dweller, enveloped in light.

The world is broken, and I am a watcher, pierced by dwellers, swords of greed, with blindfolds, screaming jesters, a danger

a sworn enemy, tarred in horror.

The world is broken, and I am a lover, diving in waves, rivers of lust, with longing, merging ecstasy, kissing bride

a charmed doll, swept in morrow.

The world is broken, and I am a passenger, hitching a ride, clinger of hope, with caution, whispering warnings, a knowing

a sweet someone, caped in caution.

The world is broken, and I am a seamstress, sewing a tale, tailor of cause, with rhythm, creating patches, a covering

a downy blanket, spread in truth.

The world is broken, and I am a bard, bleeding an immortal, seer of agony, with temperance, trembling syllables, a note

a humble beckoning, scribed in grace.

Samantha Craft, 6.9.19


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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.


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Where The Crow Feeds

Where The Crow Feeds
There is a bitterness instilled and growing. A habitat of woes poured through the grout-laden tiles. Sacrificed as brine burdened tears and inched toward desert ground below. And here is where the crow feeds. Nestled against the marrow remains. Latched onto feathered-whispers meandering stretched out corridors. He caws. Cries out and pecks the places he exists. Broken, hallowed and shamed into boney crumbs. Comes again, the agony dance. A thousand droplets drenched cascade through victim chambers, round the bowels and out into the essence of darkness. Evaporated with each pressing. A salt-lathered stain against tainted black. Beak to bone. Talon to ash. Weathered door creaks opens to an endless echo of isolation. I am this shattered bird. I am this proclaimed prey. Slathered in likeliness, prancing round the corners, where burden lives. Shifted into form anew, turned into unfamiliar, still carrying the weariness of loss. I hear him clawing at the pieces below. Beneath the marble crushings—how he weeps. How he mars the destitute of his own hallowed out regions, emptied beyond starvation. The pool of self, shaken, moved and unmoved by worlds forgotten. Edged back, he endures, counting the ways in which his agony survives victor, in which his piercing eyes pierce that which is about, lavishing the view with what seems as bleakness awoken. Terrible he is, in his misery. But terrible worse is the way in which ‘what was’ has returned once more. Again, he calls out from beneath the remnants of fragmented substance. Devastated in a state of weary forlorn. Forgotten by self, and still there, in his sheltered state. “I am here,” he sings, from beyond the trees winter foliage, drenched in muted grey. “I am here,” the song carries, far above the collapsed sky. “I am here.” And his tears swallow themselves—one upon the next—tumbling gems catching the wind. If only he could see enough to lift his tethered eyes. If only he could hear his own song, seize the dying shell, and rise once more through scattered bones.
Samantha Craft


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As Above So Below

self

I know what I am not but not what I am. I know when to stop but not when to stop starting. I can inch my way into the middle and get stuck in the molasses of neither here nor there. I don’t know how to swim upstream without pounding pain, and instead, in alternate route, float downstream away from the waters where all else abounds.

Somewhere I have forgotten myself, and I search to find her, thinking I have arrived, only to once more find I am at the backdoor looking into what was and thinking I had known then.

I cannot remember who or where I have been, anymore than I can visualize where I am going. I am lost, in a time maze of confusion, falling upon a self I cannot fathom or detect.

She is there, in the shadowed-tunnel, collapsing and reborn into another, faster than humanly feasible. She is multitudes unopened and reopened—an anomaly in form. To be and not to be. To care and not to care. To unravel into the very depths of reason and peer down into the pond of ‘me.’ Only to question what it is that stares back with such disregard and wonderment.

I am but enough and then I am unequivocally lacking, never measuring up to the enforced standards absorbed from the path I walk. I clamor for explanation and find a thousand books untouched, though in some fashion taken into the realm of reason. I can feel the words: the spoken, the whispered, the silenced, the ones that never came and ones that never speared the element that is I.

They make me. They form me. They penetrate me into something I know not. Clay to my mind. Dirt to my heart. Scattered residue of earthly wants and needs. Goods that I am neither capable of grasping or acquiring.

I am this existence that the observer watches. Reformed with the passerby. Morphed into their reality and then left, unscattered and splattered, broken and unbroken, in a pool of endless duality.

I am what I am—yet only for a fleeting moment; a chance to take glance towards the outline of my palm, the beat of my heart, the opening of a billion universes. Everywhere I am, and at once I am alone. Isolated. A loneliness no less difficult to explain than the essence of what I have become. ~ Sam, 7/24/15

universe

Of She…
She mounts, as the tuft ribbon, torn
Riding the circumference of questioning
Mind turned, trembled-wavers
Across endless cause
I cannot, I can, I will, I shan’t
And over the mountain terrains
She treks
Feet, aching soles
Upon beaten battleground
Heart opening to the chasm of reason
She is, and she is not
Twisted and reborn into
This something new and un-new
Opened and closed
Reexamined and brought into the light
Distraught and brilliantly aware
Carrying the global basket, woes
Torrid tears racing down bones
Outlining, this shadowed-speaker
Born into prism
Walls, resurfaced and reshaped
Made into what almost is
Until fleeting moments weep away
Left idling, still,
In creviced thoughts
Of what has come
Fragmented semblance
Slivered whispers
Claimed identity
The torrential gathering
Of she
~ Sam, 7/25/15

painting

universe