This love is going to kill me,
Each remembered kiss a slice
to my heart, drawing rivers of words,
to exsanguinate on pages upon pages
of never-ending, ending.
Love bleeds like a sorrowful spring
and yet I keep defending, defending.
Tonight is a night to embrace the lover
to rattle our shells from our ocean’s echo
and stir like soul winds wound
in contrapposto… An inhale cedes
In a sigh sweet staccato.
Within the offset sheets of folded rose skin
cured as parchment, pages to be opened
A torch casts shadows on the hearts wall
The rose is illuminated by and all
born from the light of creation.
Impregnated by dew, grape swells to a drop
to burst and roll down the blade
of the vintner’s sword into the goblet
O tiny red ocean, O fermentation
release me now, the ransom is paid.
He said I’ve plucked many roses
from countless bushes
Placed them in fine crystal vases.
But you are a garden
and I, to die,
have been placed within you,
In placeless places.
This one catches flight on anothers breeze
so many cross winds to the sea
This one leather, that one caramel
to be brindle, to be softened
Kun fa’yakun, kun fa’yakun
Be, so it is to be.
Oh God, I hate this distance,
that keeps my mouth watering.
Watering for Thee.
Wherever they are gathered,
they are sure to draw attention to themselves.
They are unable to avoid the same eventual malady
but their symptoms are beautiful to behold.
They are painters of great landscapes,
yet challenge painters to capture their colors.
Their greatest moments come during their downfall.
And our rejuvenation comes with their rebirth.
They are the harbingers of memories
of when we climbed among them.
Yet they harbor children in their earthy smell and dampness
before they return again to the earth from the pyre.
They are from various branches of the same order
and keep their life force locked in large cells,
Which escapes as the year wears on,
eventually killing the jailers, and battening down their homes.
But were they not to die,
they might never be born.
Were they not to mingle in the eddying winds,
they would remain quite content ,
but all the less noticed.
Regardless, wherever they are gathered,
they are sure to draw attention to themselves.
Humans be humble, lest we forget
the wonder of tree leaves.
A gift is fragrance out of breath
fled from the abode of the urn
seeking respite of a wayfaring vessel
within whom, it makes its return.
Be not daunted, open the cover,
Draw deeply from spirits fathomless well
Oh, water bearer for the soul of dry parchment,
A river of words erodes the truth a mountain can tell.
Lo, winds of wisdom for the seeking leaf
Softly turn its empty pages
Stir them not, but deliver the stillness
Spoken through the love of inner sages.
Leap not, be gently drawn
Oh, sojourner, not so soon,
Soft, the precipice waits for you to cast
From the abode of your own perfume.
Those who give, journey on
Deep in the heart of others who are given
And when the page seems dark, find the spark
When the flint of the lover strikes the Beloveds frizzen.
Big changes propagate from the slightest shift….
one small pebble will unsettle a placid pond…
parted lips can divide a nation…
Change within is the dance,
all around us is music
And we are the musicians…
Change is not an effect,
it is the cause…
play your own music, Mystic!
And everything dances around you.
(To change your life, you must first live the change.)
The map to your heart,
is in your heart.
So where are you going?
Be still.
The Light in mine
Of which you seek
Illuminates Yours.
Seek the One who points your soul
toward love’s direction.
He is pointing at you.
