First and Only
The seekers
first endeavor
is itself
One boat
may stir the whole lake
Before thunder or lilac songbirds. When there existed hues indescribable to seekers of the Tao. A jar of gold-like honey kept rolling out of reach. So I live here now. Soles to the ground, palm to my chest.
How much does solitude add? When my first self is at hunger, less of me finds it. It is like a river attempting to outrun itself. Yet water can be added to its path. Again and again I fall for love and its seclusion.
The Return
I.
I arrived here
before I was
II.
It is like this every time
III.
And being a bridge means
putting my mothers prayer in the cracks
Jewels in the light. Shimmering. Glittering. Baked in gold, simmering. Hand to chest, to arms to face; the becoming of light.
If I put my heart upon your heart,
would our blood flow with conviction?
Hidden objects in the eye of the beholder. Less and less truth, only shadows of truth and reflections in faces. Like phantom faces in nearly every picture-or the soul of one in many bodies.
Long ago, the drink of gold within my cup was nearly empty.
It sometimes spilled and I would become the floor to catch it.
Little did I know, I am made of gold. I will always have enough.
So much life
exists unbeknownst to me.
Like the Tao,
truth is.
By the door to oblivion I set all that is precious. Someone once walked through and lost their self. I am afraid of leaving nothing behind.
Beyond darkness, there exists something much more inhibiting;
loss of self or a second birth.
The sound of prayer
strikes me as your
first lover.
You and the Holy One
as you chase oneness
-and oneness is always near.
But she could not fully meet you
and now you lay,
your head to the Western Wall
praying for reunification.
Your beauty is
like lilies in a pond
blessing everything
-the angels become shadows
to bless me unaware
Be rid of excess
and become like a forgotten poet
If only to remember your self
An angel approached sunlight
aching to become its warmth
yet warmth and light are not the same
Is it the rain
which washed away my tears
that becomes our drinking water?
The weight of a poem
is a leaf
on my shadow
-yet it affects me.
Three hands
of self, love and fear
come gloved in gold
-not made of, but dressed as
Is this a decision or a choice?
If I met my self of yesterday
I would tell her
how quickly the day had passed