Open Surrender

Where beyond do words lie

to grasp open meaning;

scattered past

fractured

beat in bluff visions

where singular truth was thought to prevail?

From literal bonds breathing relief –

minds breaking thoughts in open surrender


cradled eternal, by symbol beheld

Unnamable Fullness

– expanse rounded felt.

heat / anticipation

Foresights of burning

or love

open sensing

fragmented minds

to hearts tender entwined.


Sweet


fearful weaving

thoughts into wishes –

the open heart’s call.

Radiate

(call out)

where may it find soft

counterparts dreaming

to draw in a pair;

two dream-likes together

embracing each other by futures set bright.

Feel it, in essence

(this potent, shy vastness)

close to perceiving the real and unseen

to all that caresses the flesh

and the blood which through it hot runs –


heated for love which so close to it hovers,

heated, expecting, the touch it will bring.

‘Where are you?’

tears running, hot hearts crying out

feeling so close to the object’s desire

that subject in yearning through heat to form brings.

When Dancers Return

Born fire by night

thick air in crevasses filling

swelling,

bodies up close

faced with desires brought forward once more,

the sweet lust for life brought back to us all.

Movement by breathing

open and oozing

carries off bodies

through heat of the work,

the heat of the foot work,

(humid and thick)

sensing each other and seeing relief.

Moved back into feeling

the im(pulse) of life in spite of it all

returning to grooves in a heart’s open call


driving stiff bodies

in thick and hot air

flaring magnetic, by fire ensnared.

The Absolute Inseparable

I remember the day I realised my body

– what luck to find it attached to my head.


Nobody bothered to teach me to live in a body

– only that using the head would help.


I seek now the absolute from within this here body

(human experience from dualism saved)


as mind cannot dwell without body

neither is body truly separable from its mind.

How futile to seek hypothetical vacuums

where rational reason is said to exist.


Abandoning vacuum for the human lowlife:

body to mind

as mind is to feeling

and feeling back to the body and mind;

circular schemata a center connecting

penetrate through to link each one up.


No separateness in totality, and no isolation

only varied dimensions indissolubly linked

where as soon as we deem one more than the rest

we are lost on pursuits of confusion, at best.


The absolute inseparable

as thoughts from the body and feeling rising the thoughts

learning sensation to create sense therefrom,

that absolute center where futures still grow.

Summer of Love

Wild flowers out finding

space in cracked concrete,

taken by running

hot then wet torrents

through people so tender

sunned back to life from

winter caked in the heart.

Summer of love

with strangers’ smiles beaming

back

heart’s open feeling

love and desire

out

spilling and healing.


Seeds of wild flowers

the nights dancing sowing

coming to life in intensities filling

breathing life-love

in blood winter still holding

breath in two chests

by wild winds caressing

moving it warm

to hearts that crave pulsing

the flowering hearts of two wild ones so found.

Facilitated heart return

The shape was bad
and now it’s trying to stitch itself back together, poor thing.

Looking scared

from the inside out,
expanding in breadth.

Don’t leave your heart lying around,
because someone just might snatch it
and forget to return it
even after they’ve had their share
and no longer need it.

❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

Call it back –
has it been missing?

What does it say when it returns?

Love-Grief

My heart throbs with wisdom

of a thousand moons weaving

past into future

, now ,

moment deceiving

, holding totality ,

, holding all being ,


being through feeling alone

(is it pulsing?)


love-grief, and all that’s between

the self-reaffirming

surfaces gleaming

(grief cannot be where love was not prior

and I’d rather grieve love

than neither at all)

Love-grief fills us with being

pulsing cells feeling consumed

drunken with bliss, formidable after

arriving through all which one sense

and so heavenly drawn.

Speak out to me lovers, the language of grief

through hearts broken throbbing

, holding together ,

held together by light

of all the stars in the heavens above

together to shine

in love-grief’s might

boundless in depth

as the height we may rise

together in bliss and sorrow combined

embraced by this vastness

and by it brought back to life.

Learning Love

A caged heart once

forgot how to love

loosing its skill under

thought, distance and time.


Who and what deserves love?

The world is hardly the place for a person with principles;

an environment where the ugly proliferates

and acts of kindness and love are treated as risk

but no risk is seen in losing love,

the lifeblood of the world I want to see.


Love lives deep in our being

so deep in fact our surface stiffens

– use it or lose it –

and lost it we have to calculating minds

which sever mind from heart

and elevate mind beyond recognition

in a world that needs heart to survive.


We claim that love comes,

treating it as granted inevitability

when in fact love is a practice;

to be practiced in each gesture,

word and the treatment of others.


We are trapped because our love is trapped

in structures that tell us

how to love one another,

who to love, when to love, for how long

what appropriate love is and what isn’t

and where love belongs.

Everywhere!

At home, in the street, in school and at work

(did you recoil when you read this?)

(did you recoil at my image of love which differs

from the twisted idea of patriarchally sexualised love

which we hold as the only Love?)


We must un-twist love,

reshape and form ourselves to its untwisting

so it may flow through us,

– the great torrent –

which flows through each of us

should we permit it.

The Spider

Waiting.

For what?

Hanging like spiders

blown by the winds,

the waves

against which we plan precarious futures,

spinning out webs in the ebbs and the flows,

spinning out webs,

spinning out.


First Wave

Second Wave

Third Wave

How many Waves?

Still hanging, the spider

blown by the Waves, the gusts,

sharper, becoming

sharper still as our loneliness echoes

louder and louder with each passing month.


How many months has it been again?

The texture of time at this point so foreign,

priorities different

from the momentum of lives we once had,

the forces disturbed, seeking new balance

negotiations at play

between what was there, now impossible

and the possible not yet there.

Not yet.

Individualists in insular cities full to the brim,

crowded, spaced out, further still

by the vastness of this solitude

grappling with our totality,

grappling with it more than before.

Is the spider still there?

Is she alive?

Is her thin string still holding her,

rocking along

with the

First Wave

Second Wave

Third Wave

How many Waves?