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?
The mid-night sighs in silent service,
awake with unfinished business
thirsty for hope
but never to be quenched.
Thoughts desperate to make sense
will catch on everything that was never heard,
what we smoothed over to forget
the dark side of the moon.
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.
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.
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.
this burden of proof doesn’t belong
to the heart that knows the truth,
whose body shattered into pieces
reflecting someone else’s shame.
name what hurts and let it be,
these wounds may be deep
but do not silence their screaming,
they were never the enemy.
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.
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.
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.