when I live from my soul

when I live from my soul,
I hear only a gush
of a simmering silence,
coursing through every pore,
I feel only the call
of a resplendent cosmos
spark these resting limbs
and firefly thoughts,
I see only the changing frame
of a mysterious window,
open to the wind,
light and dark,
I smell the mud and wood
of a wild and simple home,
raised on a warm bed
of dead skin and bones;

when I live from my soul,
I tear open this throbbing heart,
to bare it all and walk on,
even as it bleeds,
with everything I own. 

on fire

the winds are gone,
the clouds are gone,
the birds are gone,
the rains are gone,
the trees are gone;

but the sea she stays
still in the distance,
roaring
with every breath,
with the silence
of what was,
of what could not be,
of what is,
here,
on fire,
between earth
and heaven.

everything has a voice

listen

to the brush of breath
against every skin,
and you will know
how everything has a voice,
singing through
those silent pores 
standing guard
like loyal sentries,
speaking across the void,
from skin to skin.

art for heart's sake

sometimes
what is needed
is not display,
is not a warrior
with ammunition 
to destroy 
what must die,
at some cost;

sometimes 
what is needed
is art,
is an artist
diligently at work
at his craft,
breathing life into 
what lies in his hands now;

the true warrior of heart -
making art for heart's sake.

white rose

your words
touch me
with the silence
of morning dewdrops
lying still,
yet awake,
alive to the warmth
of the first kiss
of a new day,

your words
take me
into the deep folds
of a white rose bud,
blossoming into
a soundless sound,
and a devotion
that cannot be bound
to the contours of her skin.

they stay

I watch myself
hold on
to some things,
even as I let them flow,
even as I let them go
like water
through the creases
of these palms,
they stay
like the unseen skin
of a water drop
cleaving to this human skin,
not willing to go,
not because
of a persistent love,
unwilling to die,
but because of its wetness,
its essence,
distilled
from its glory
of wanting to be
nothing,
in everything.

wings, fire, earth and sky

in one moment
of perfect alchemy,
of wings, fire, earth and sky,
something called a bird is born,
to forge a heaven on earth,
and an earth in the sky.

source

sometimes,
water has to meander,
get lost underground,
disappear into thin air,
freeze in its tracks,
lash out with its pinpricks,
melt into a firm hearth,
explode into frenetic bubbles,
making their way
through an unseen door;

sometimes,
water has to hang heavy
in a thankless shroud,
work itself through the grind
of every ebb and flow,
rest in a faithful patience,
on the lonesome edge
of a single blade of time,
catapult through an emptiness,
with no map, no semblance of sound;

sometimes,
water has to look
all around for itself,
in everything not water,
even as it moves home,
over and over again,
only to return to
that home,
the source
it never left behind.

same

I woke up to a grey sky
and birdsong wrapped
in wet leaves,
the smell of salt
melting into a drizzle,
the touch of home
in a wandering breeze,

all same.

no matter where I live,
what I do or not,
some things nameless,
hold my heart
and everything,
in a soundless sound.

empty shell

the wind was up today
as I stood
looking out into
the sheets of darkness
folding over
the once green earth,

emptiness -
a shell that speaks
of a life lived to the hilt,

what was once alive,
now gone,
leaving behind
empty walls,
and empty floors -
an empty house,
with nothing to hold
but the wind picking up
with his sprightly dance
around the dead;

and then,
as if listening
to the slow churning
of my gut,
he suddenly paused,
looking into this hollow womb,
watching the hairs
stand on end
on this jaded skin,
combing them gently
with his careful caress,

breathing a new life
into this empty shell,
where dreams nestle
in a hammock,
cuddling against a blue sky,

and coaxing this empty house
into a freshness,
to dream a little more -
of children laughing
and skipping,
of squirrels collecting seeds,
and birds talking to the trees,
of people chatting
over mundanities,
and fighting over precious things,
of old folks reminiscing,
waiting to die
and move on
to other things,
into another
empty shell
where life waits
in a timeless curl
of silence,
of a joyous remembrance.

two solitudes

two solitudes
sitting together 
side by side,
looking into
the charred silence,
hands clasped
in a love
that knows
what was spent,
dusted and wrung out,
with a zest for life,
meeting itself
at the crossroad
of what was,
what is,
and what could be,
in one pristine breath
of a life,
lit among the embers
of this stony silence,
chiselling our skins
into one
now.