Old Things

I love old things -
milestones of moments
frozen
inside moments,
used, bruised,
knocked around -
stories of survival
and resolve,
that sit now
by themselves,
on freshly painted walls,
and slow rocking chairs,
pickled in air-tight chests,
or seasoned like old wine
in dark forgotten closets;
suspended in moments
of holding their breath,
for that quiet celebration
by little hands -
where the lines
of the heart
and life,
are still being drawn.

DISTANCE

DISTANCE

Sometimes feels like that insipid horizon that never arrives; a road that is endless, lifeless, weary and often deserted, or a shimmering mirage that keeps us thirsting for that indescribable elixir that will quench our thirst for life.

Sometimes, it is walking on the edge of a ridge, a closeness that is filled with both a sweet anticipation, an unnerving thrill and a terrifying fear of wanting to take that next step into the dark.....the one step that can make us fall or fly, rooted in the knowing that we will be okay either way. 

It is that nameless, invisible longing that drives us to flow on no matter what... with the occasional pauses for a well-earned rest and the passionate bursts of a powerful life-force that we feel within, a never-ending dance of stillness and movement. 

It is an estimation, a judgement of what can be, based on what is, that comes from knowing deeply that there is that invisible hand and voice within holding us, pushing us, even when we are on the verge of giving up.

It is the 'space-less' space between the present and the future, that are both constantly changing and forever meeting....the river that journeys on through changing landscapes, not knowing how or where it is going to flow, but knowing that both its death and life lies in its merging with the vast ocean. 

It is the journey that we all make from an unfathomable beginning to a nameless, formless end - like the leaf that falls to the earth below, like the dew that vanishes with the rising sun, like the sand that is sifted and washed as it rests by the shores after a grueling journey downhill. 

Distance is the emptiness that is both full and empty at once; full of something both haunting and powerful, and yet empty of everything that is meaningless, a readiness to be filled up afresh over and over again. 

It is the pull of ocean tides that gives us a sense of timelessness; it is what drives the cosmos in an endless mysterious dance that we cannot even begin to understand; it is what moves us to build and breaks walls between people and nations; and gives us the room we need to nurture ourselves and grow with each other. 

It is what dreams are made of; the meeting ground beyond what is, for that magical rendezvous with ourselves and each other; the ground that allows the destruction of what is not needed, so that what is needed can flow in and through. 

It is the container that holds both the in-breath and out-breath that sustains all of life. It is a call to live life and meet death wholeheartedly, in every moment.

Knots

and I sat one night
with a ball of knots
trying in vain,
tugging
at elusive
loose ends,
until
I gave up
and saw
that every knot
was made from
the same string
that held them
in place.

Opium

wading
through darkness,
blinded by tears
that sting
her exposed innards,
she rests awhile
upon an empty sky
blackened
by the fires
of hate
that raged,
and ravaged
her womb;
all is taken now,
every scrap
of thought
consecrated
to memory;
her worn out eyes
close awhile
and remember
the primordial dance
of exploding stars;
as she lays her dreams
upon wayward clouds
beneath a new moon night,
and where solitude
is the opium
of her precious broken heart.