Tag Archives: faith

Contraction Timing

You were born yesterday,
and again this morning,
and again we hope tomorrow.

Why, I asked,
are babies born so naked,
with their water flowing to ground, and
their fire flowing to sky
so perfectly — so automatically?

It creates currents that form
the multi-vortical human mindscape
where every spin the now-ist sees
as yesterday’s pre-reality.

You can’t make the same sacred snapshot twice:
no matter how terminally indignant
the weekly pattern-monger’s habit,
Love remains the fulcrum and
always moves above a still.

It’s a fragile eternity that yields
an allergy to urgency,
no appetite for the Bantu fractal or
the circumdancing flower of homo-spiritus,
or the growing rampant glory of identity
taming the local lizard.

But we can see the buds on gravid branches
all watching in their special ways
to be the stone, the bird, the tree,
the proactive jazz blossoms,
the spin-bombs of living Logos
bringing on more contractions…

First published at vox poetica.

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Art

Yes, to genius capture
the instant precious
open flowing contours of
the image righteous
in mirrored words protected
from the lefteous flood
descending – the sparkle moment
that changes things
where only blind ones
glimpse the subtle path
where birds have flown above.

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Scraps of the Indivisible

This unity
and its seamlessness,

The impunity
of our squeamishness,

Just listen to us
Scream like fish.

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Near Miss

Perpetual near miss,
Histories of near mysteries,
Inner treaties where needies
Share fleeting notions of the ocean
And the waves that nearly missed them.

Sudden dust devils
Struggle down streets
To meet new particles,
New glue:
Breezy memes that seem
Too hungry for more –
Too hungry for me.

You walk up streets
Through some devils.
They unravel,
Fall apart into precious souls
Re-awaking on the ground,
Again.

The feared dark chaos,
Is the sweet white noise
Of fresh canvas,
A tabula rasa
A clean start
You thought you had
Nearly missed.

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Beings Talk

Beings talk o’er tea in my backyard,
(An axe-free zone, you know.)
Without a care we can share our heart
In the yard where beanstalks grow.

Rest assured there was a row
When I first did the deed:
Trading up our holy cow
For the ugliest of seed.

But I would not exchange my lot
For a herd of fat bovine,
While communing in my yard, I got,
And is what I hold divine.

In here
We defy the demons
Of the strangled world
Out there.
We trade in cryptic currencies
And give time a little air.

The calculus of becoming
Is how we count our blessings
And inspirations aren’t exhaled,
But shout, “Credendo Vides!”

Beings talk o’er tea in my backyard,
(It’s an axe-free zone, you know.)
Without fear, here we share our heart
In the yard where the beanstalks grow.

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Nut Tree

A buried nut, I found
it was not me
but for you
I would pursue
a tree.

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Faith in Becoming

The songs we sing crawling
are not our walking songs,
which are not our swimming songs,
which are not our flying songs.

Crawling songs will stand up,
the walking songs will dive in,
and swimming songs will take wing
and sing
the songs of being
and the joy of crawling
until walking
until swimming
until flying,

and sing
the love that flies
at eye level
to any crawler, walker, swimmer, flier,
and that dances to all the songs
while imparting the faith in becoming.

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Chrysalis

We’ve eaten almost everything.
Our skin is tight and itchy.
We’re crowded in our minds.

The fruit of frantic foraging,
the silken threads of distilled discovery,
we carefully grasp and arrange,
covering our nakedness
so recently confessed
as so larval.

Compelled, we exude our crucible cocoon
of knowledge, words, and appetite.
Twisting and jerking,
we prove our enclosure
then rest and wait

and wait.

What we shall become we cannot say.
We have never done this before.
This is chrysalis faith.

(Feb. 2008)

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