Eyes On The Weather Forecast

Eyes On The Weather Forecast

Presence is but a balance beam,

the thin, or ever expansive line

dividing past and future

in a measure of breaths.

It’s slippery if not gritted

and we tend to count the steps

we think we have left

over the strength of our legs,

over the snowflakes landing

on our upturned palms.

Can you marvel at their melting,

stay with them whilst they pass away

and soak into the skin which remains?

Can you appreciate the sky

as it waters your present

or are you so busy avoiding the cold

that your fingers burn

on an imaginary fireplace?

Smoke The Peace Pipe

Smoke The Peace Pipe

You have never truly held yourself

until every part is loved as truth;

the overwhelmed, the undernourished, the misaligned,

you are always unfinished business.

So kiss each with equal pleasure,

lips better spent on self affection

than speaking of self loathing.

Welcome home each particle of your being that never really left

but was silenced by the unenlightened mind.

We, wild spirits, being all at once in this one life time,

found here like some long lost siblings, my everything alive.

Home Is Where The Spirit Goes

Home Is Where The Spirit Goes

You are not so separate from the source

that any connection must do.

All start as bricks and mortar

but some become burning buildings that bury you.

This incarnation is a circular room

with an infinite number of doors;

stop paying attention to the pretty patterns on the walls

and place your damn fingers on a handle.

Practice the gripping

then practice the letting go,

then place a foot through the frame

into all the versions of you

this world is yet to know.

Standing Ticket

Standing Ticket

It becomes part of a spiritual practice

to take one’s shoes off,

leave life’s dirt at the door

and find grounding for the body

through soles of the feet

meeting cold, hard floor.

The glue that binds us to the present

whilst infinity shows up to greet my soul.

The source of the indeterminate.

It’s a universal concert

and I’ve got a standing ticket.

The place I go to be everywhere at once

by going nowhere at all.

X Marks The Spot

X Marks The Spot

The seats we sat on,

mine precariously, cross-legged but not comfortably,

balancing the weight of something both new and nostalgic,

the way you took off your denim jacket,

the way you fidget with your wristbands out of habit.

The cups we drank from,

yours plastic, mine ceramic.

I think they sensed the flush from our skin

when the ice in yours melted,

no attention paid to how they tasted.

We all knew, me and you didn’t show up for the coffee.

The ground we walked on,

mindless pacing yet purposeful.

Were our steps in time,

following the trail of crumbs through our past lives?

I’ll mark each stop with a cross,

treasuring the map that sends us round and round in buried circles.