Skin to Skin, Heart to Heart

and when you speak,
I feel the world
come alive
under your skin,
throbbing
with the waves
that rise and fall
with my skin,
as I drop into
the silence
of uncharted depths,
drawing me through
their smudged creases,
now spiralling,
free falling,
into the abyss
of a love
that can be felt
only skin to skin,
heart to heart.

There is Something in the Silence

there is something
in the silence
in the kitchen,
while I stand there
chopping, stirring,
pouring, swishing,
tasting, smelling,
reaching for, or
putting away,
what's needed or not;

I hear the dry rattle
of paper thin wings,
that belong to
a golden dragonfly;
she was circling the light,
as if she knew
when to close in
or move out and across
invisible walls of light -
now resting, now dancing,
now changing course,
encircling herself
in that strange silence;

there is something
in the silence
in the kitchen.

The Blind Painter

and I watched him closely
as he painted
not what he saw
with his shrouded eyes,
but what he felt
with his empty heart,
as the canvas came alive
with unnamed colours
to fill my senses,
and his broken art.

They are Yours, not Mine

and all along
I thought
these eyes,
these ears,
these hands,
these feet,
and these breasts
so full of love,
were mine, and
belonged to me;
until I found
they cannot see,
or hear, or touch,
or feel themselves,
nor give to me
what they cannot
give to you;
and in that moment
I saw how they belonged
not to me, but to you -
an offering
of a life well-lived,
and how I used them
to see and feel you.

Looking

and as I looked out
of the rolled up window,
I saw people on the street
walking into their histories -
in their awkward, scurry,
in the dragging of their bodies,
in the hunch of their shoulders,
or in the heavy set of their jaws;
and I wondered how different
their stories would be,
if only they could
listen with their eyes,
touch with their ears,
smell with their hands
and see with their feet.

Walking Home

I know the way home.

I can see it
through
the blinding fog
of heavy darkness
swaddling
my trembling self;

I can hear
the drumbeats
of my heart
moving to
a crescendo
with every step;

I can taste
the sea-salt air
that stings and riles
my rusty form
steeped in beliefs
steeled over time;

I can smell
the vestiges
of my old self
after a moulting,
ripping the fibres
of a blood-stained past;

I can feel it
in the contours
of my innards,
filled with a rush
of fresh blood
proclaiming a new birth.

Yes. I know the way home.

I am there

Watch me
in the leaves
as they begin
their silent dance.

Hear me
in the sacred sound
that flows from
the striking gong.

Feel me
in the hairs on end
as they stand
as if in a trance.

Smell me
in the roses
as they reach to touch
your longing heart.

Watch.
Hear.
Feel.
Smell.

I am there.
Even when I'm not there.