Listening

September 26, 2016

forest

Uncertain

Cricket points to space

Trees sway sleep

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inspired by a fellow blogger/writers’ recent post

 

 

I like darkness; the more the better. I like it to be so dark and so silent that I actually start to look over my shoulder every few minutes. I like having fresh cheese, tomatoes, salsa, guacamole, bread and wine laid out on a table in front of me for lunch (I miss you San Francisco lunches). I really like a cup of coffee with a cigarette, yet, both speed me up too much… and then I don’t like it anymore.

I like when Charlie, my cat, grazes my arm with his wet nose. The silence after midnight. I like walking around after midnight, when most are asleep so the need to speak ceases. Weeks at  Dharma Ocean; especially when in silent mode for days on end; I also like leaving Dharma Ocean after weeks of brutal meditation (with a sign of weariness and relief).

I like the smell of seaworms; yes, I can still smell you. And yes, the books still smell like you.

I like the feeling of books being in a perfect straight line. And I too, like the sound of a door being closed slowly. Foods that have the texture of skin; the smell of my fingertips after rolling a cigarette. Eating snow, sleeping in the mountains, people that don’t suck and convincing people who do that they don’t have to suck. I like waking up still in a dream, so connected I can taste and feel what was happening. I like the way Charlie just wants to sleep and purr; no other motives.

I like staring at my kids when they don’t know I’m looking. I like staring at my kids and annoying them when they know I’m looking. Getting lost in the woods. Taking the train somewhere unplanned and unknown. Left Hand Milk Stout, Amsterdam Shag tobacco, the smell of an apartment the morning after a ton of sage has been burnt. I like biting my nails ( it’s so damn satisfying). Riding my bike downtown with no destination or direction for hours.  A giant glass of milk with a plate of french toast.

 

I like ending things.

In the depths

February 12, 2014

night

Telling a story made of lies

to bring about awe and surprise

Does the three seconds of laughter justify

the ingrained solicitation?

Now that the crowd has lulled

what next will be revealed

to fulfill ones’ empty need?

Or is it just the opposite?

Is it a covering over of the uncertain and the unknown?

For true death comes from surrendering the cyclic process of thought.

Pushing away all discomfort and uncertainty; aggression

Pulling and grasping that which makes a sense of security; passion

Endlessly oscillating, thinking it will bring about happiness; ignorance

Is it not below the current where stillness brings about clarity?

In the darkness; the disorientation; the fear…

In the depths where stainless love has always been.

Entrance

February 6, 2014

Are these grooved things not fit for better things?
They that tell a lifetime
Speak of evolution
Are they to be employed by illusion?

Twisting and turning
Bending and burning
Forging and fusing particles of the past
This dust cannot take form once more

And if this Vegas show would once more perform
surely its sights and sounds would betray

These distant images arise not from depths of clarity
But  are summoned by the minions of longing

How true the air is striking the skin, now, at this perfect hour
Waste no more and wash these gifts at last
Let dust be dead as it is

Are these hands meant for disabled clutching?
For enduring the ritualistic death that fear brings about?
Let joints breath again and open to the world
Sounding pulsing instruments of awakened life

These beautiful extensions of love and gentleness;
To reach out
To touch
To pull oneself and also another upright into liberating posture

How true they move when the heart pulsates through these veins
How true the air is striking skin, now, at this perfect hour

Still places

January 30, 2014

Fix the light bulb at night

sampling midnight air just right

fur-covered explorers striding elegantly about

while skin speaks with eloquence

 

Red, red embers attract the wind

the end of death, breathing begins

bright blue lover with a beautiful caress

emptiness granting romance

 

Altering to remain the same

counting cracks on the ceiling again

flow of heat showing all the lost places

flow of love, perfected spaces

 

Flowers bend a knee

notes made of dreams

a time without memory

a place made to feel

 

 

 

This is my house

September 19, 2011

This is my house

I will not dust and tidy it up

Nor shall I leave weary lamps lit for someones’ chance stopping in

The paint is cracked and worn, but time will do that; it is natural

     I will not apologize if it does not fit in, does not function to your standards or if the appearance is lacking “happiness”

   It is filled with all sorts odd things that you will not approve of

   Things that surely will offend, petrify, terrorize and most certainly chip away

at your sensible, civilized ego

     But it is also filled with wonders from all the ages

     Things that human beings have desired from their birth of consciousness

     Stories that will inspire, swoon and swell a forgotten heart

     Caverns of darkness and unexplored fathoms of time and space

You are always welcome here, my dear friend

But just remember one thing;

This is my house

Sisyphus

May 25, 2011

Half-self.

Striving to multiply

the brilliance of the sun

while our energy binds

the beauty of the night.

Submitted to One Shot Wednesday: http://onestoppoetry.com/

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