for a morsel of life

sometime ago
I wrote a poem
on hunger,
the hunger I knew -
the hunger of eyes
always searching
for something
among cracks,
the hunger of hearts
yawning and closing
to be filled
and emptied,
the hunger of skin
baring itself
to be stroked
to its sensibility,
and the hunger of spirit
smitten by a delirium
of la la land,

until I came upon
this hunger -
of hands
sold to the soul,
itching to work,
to feed stomachs
churning,
calling,
for a morsel of life
lived simply,
with grace,
and an impeccable devotion
to what gives,
to what is -
their lives.

Transparency

take my worldly form
if you will,
strip me of its many colours
and uncommon textures,
skin me and digest me,
feast on the flesh
that's given me this form,
so you can reach my bones
and the marrow
that's the fountain
of this earthly blood,
that has forgotten
how and where to flow;
and then, lay me down
upon your warm bosom,
empty and lucent,
hold me close,
like a chiffon shroud
moulding itself to every form,
with no form of its own,
lying bare and ready
to be draped,
folded and pressed,
to be washed over
with every hue and stroke
flowing from the brush
of a skilled painter
who has in his bones,
known and felt
devotion and love. 

Devotion

pour yourself
into everything
you feel, say or do -
not to fill yourself
or another,
but to be the river
that doesn't know
its fountain,
or the banks,
or the ocean,
and simply flows
to a call,
engraved in the palms
of the raised hand
of God.

The Flame

the fire is stoked
inside of me,
she rises and dances
with the billowing winds,
drawing ancient souls
into a sacred dance
of shadow and light,
around the flames
of devotion
of her burning heart.

I’m not an Artist, I’m a Devotee

and when you asked me
if I was an artist,
I looked into myself and smiled;
and my eyes were led
to the gifts of an ordinary day,
to the vastness
and nothingness
of the sea, the sky,
the sun, the stars,
and all of creation,
that never speak aloud of their art,
but quietly go about their daily business
possessed by an unflinching devotion
to themselves, to each other,
and to Life.

Invocation

and when my fingers moved
across the silent white,
to draw your frozen form,
I felt them reach out
on the wings of a prayer,
across those miles
of emptiness,
to touch your face,
your eyes,
your heart,
as they touched me
and became mine.

and I set my own house on fire,
a house, not built
with bricks
or stone or wood,
but a house built with fire;
and so now it burns
more brightly than ever,
like a sleepless candle,
on a full moon night,
so I can dance around it
like a dervish moth
drunk on its own love.

Freedom

 

a lone bird

etches its story

in the blue wilderness,

held by the wings

of a boundless sky

and a devoted earth.