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?

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.

You Needed To Hear This

You Needed To Hear This

Enough now,

lay down the weight which you carry,

nobody is owed the heaviness of your soul

and there are other ways to find justice

without holding on to the hard places.

Enough now,

this burden of proof doesn’t belong

to the heart that knows the truth,

whose body shattered into pieces

reflecting someone else’s shame.

Enough now,

name what hurts and let it be,

these wounds may be deep

but do not silence their screaming,

they were never the enemy.

Enough now,

who said you have to do this alone,

healing comes collectively, like a universal truth

and love, it’s time to come home.

You’ve been gone long enough.

Saviour

Saviour

I do not want me,

my brain rejects every organ of this body

and bleeds out acid rain.

Joy ran away,

caught a boat across the ocean

now I’m stranded on the bay

with a raft built from rotten wood

and a single bullet

to either bury myself where my soul breaks

or shoot for an SOS.

I’m stuck rooted to the spot,

like a dead weight drowning slowly in quicksand

unsure I rate this life high enough to save it

as the storm cloud approaches along with my fate.

A lightening strike splits the clouds,

allowing space for the heavens to open

as my own hand reaches down.

Groundwork

Groundwork

I would like to rely a little more on myself

and not see hope as a chore,

like eating healthy or being kind to my anxiety,

something other than just coping

when lack of sleep slides into the bed beside me

and swears he’s the only intimacy I’m worth.

Can I place a hand over where it hurts,

yours or mine, or both together,

allow scars to touch bare skin

without lying about their origin,

my longings and wishful thinkings,

mistakes and misplaced trust.

Of the things I find hard to accept,

the most difficult is knowing

how the next steps require

I must let go of them all.