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Saturday, November 11, 2017

the way to achieve a dream

the way to achieve a dream
is the the way of the wise mother
who weaves star dust
in the soft cocoon of her womb
until she births the seed of love.
she watches it grow
as she waters it with her tears
"bless you, my child,
your roots are safe in the ground,
your wings are safe in the heavens",
she whispers
while she dreams of forests yet to become.

the way to achieve a dream
is also the way of the hunter father
who speaks the language of trees,
follows the trails of stars
and is faster than the winds.
for he is one with his prey
and never forgets to bow
to the majesty of the prey's warm blood
as it dies and melts into the soil dreams are made of.
"bless us, mother
with the fruit of your womb",
he whispers
while he dreams of skies yet to become.

the way to achieve a dream
is to embody it.
it is your unique path,
and you are already on it.
for the wise mother
and hunter father
are both inside you.

*for Jayesh




Friday, November 10, 2017

Caterpillar

I had lost myself
and my flesh had failed
to shelter this forgetting.

Inside my heart
a tiny egg began to hatch
birthing a tiny caterpillar.

It was no small thing,
since caterpillars are very particular
about the heart soil they need.

This soil was cracked
with grief and sorrows
and the caterpillar thrived.

I learned from her
about my heart
how fickle and fragile it was,

And yet how it nurtures
without ever depleting
without ever complaining.

I became fond of my caterpillar
the many skins she shed
to grow and grow.

The soles of her many feet
softened my heart in their throb
till it became moist.

Then, one day,
she weaved herself into a hole
and disappeared.

My heart broke open
and a butterfly emerged whispering:
"I have found myself".






Tuesday, October 17, 2017

Contract

white sheets of paper
with tiny black words
black captive birds
crafting a gilded cage
made of promises
attached to your signature
still bind you to agreements
your soul no longer wants to keep.

make your inventory
of unlived lives
and choose which birds
you are willing to set free
and which sheets
will go on adding
to the story of your past.

make a bonfire
and watch them burn
old agreements
of how you would be good
and obey the rules
pay your dues
and show up on time
give away the thing you own
and enrol your children
in the same binding system
that has clipped your wings
and caged your potential.

yes, watch a new kind of bird
rising from the ashes
it is a terrifying thing
a white sheet of paper
a blank canvas
with no written rules
other than the integrity of
who you are becoming.

imagine a world
of no contracts
where trust and integrity
are the only safety guarantees
where you give your word
and allow it to unfold
beyond any sheet of paper
and every human you know
and every business they may own
does the same.





Tuesday, October 10, 2017

Renewal

It is in the smallest of deaths
where life is renewed:
The tips of your fingernails
manicured away
still echo the scratch of ecstasy
on your lover’s flesh
shedding sunkissed skin
uncombed hair
and unhatched eggs
blessed by your moon blood
unbroken yet by
the seeds of life.

It is in the closest of deaths
where life is renewed:
The  feathers of your tiny bird
buried away
still echo the flutter of wings
longing to lift
the weight of caged potential
as you kneel to mourn
another loss
and you bless the earth
that swallows your bird
to sow the seeds of life.

*In memory of my daughter's bird who passed away yesterday, to bless her grief in losing a friend and dealing with death for the first time in her life.

Saturday, September 23, 2017

My hands won't bleed

My darling,
It is difficult for me to soothe you today.
As much as I wish to find the right words, the right gestures, I feel powerless outside your cage.
I reach between the bars and stroke your neck and elbow. I feel the tension in your body as if it were mine.
Let me carry this weight for you.
You may trust me with your intentions, with your fears, with your exquisite gifts.
Do not get me wrong.
I do not intend to save you.
I see how you deem yourself captive, yet I also see in you the power to set yourself free.
The gate is always open and I have been standing here in the doorway since the beginning of time.
I hear you calling out for me, looking for the great escape.
‘Save me’, you say.
‘Take me away’, you yearn.
‘Shine your light on me’, you sing.
‘Light the fire in me’, you instigate.

How can I explain this to you in plain words?
I am not the poet you are.
I am only a man.
I am your man.
There is no ‘away’.
There is only ‘here’.
And here is where I stand, naked in the spot light, with all of my own betrayals weighing me down.
The fear of generations.
I am calling out to you, see me as I am.
Allow me in.
Let me steer the wind for you.
Make space for me in your heart.
Accept my humble compliments of your majesty and beauty.
Accept them without humility or pride.
See yourself through my eyes.
You are for me the sum of all women.
Woman of Grace, hold my gaze in your light.
Woman of Wisdom, speak to me with your voice.
Woman of Peace, forgive my forefathers cruelty.
Woman of Ecstasy, touch me with the essence of you.
You are not my mother, so do no attempt to mother me.
Nor am I your father, so do not seek solace in my attention.

Let us acknowledge each other for who we are.
Let us see each other, hear each other, feel each other and taste one another until the boundaries between us fade.
Let us melt in communion until words fail to provide meaning for who we were.

So, when we return to the world, the illusion of our cages and burdens will also fade away.
When we return, we will carry each other’s heart within our own without binding one another to any cage.
When we return, the world shall have already changed to shelter our love.
We already carry the seed of that world.
I promise you to never let you forget.
That is my gift to you, my darling.

In the meantime, I will stand here, outside your cage and reach out to you.
For when I touch your shoulder blades, my hands wont bleed.

They will rejoice.

Friday, September 22, 2017

You are welcome

If I were your home and you came back to me,
I would hold the space around
you with all the fragrances and colors
that make your eyes shine
and your arms soften.

I would open my doors for you
and crack my windows open
so the air would awaken your skin.

I would squeak my floors under your steps
so your feet would hear their own music.

I would sit you down on my lap
so your body may curl
and remember safety.

I would shower you with my warm waters
and quench your thirst with my cold waters.

I would offer you my walls and handles to lean on
and my soft pillows to foster your dreams when you sleep.

I would reveal my hidden corners to you
to keep your secrets
and light a fire in my heart
to cook your soup when your are hungry.

I would make the rooms for the things that you do
and keep your time and your silence.

If I were your home and you came back to me ,
I would whisper to you, over and over:
Welcome home, my darling,

Welcome home.

*To Kasia, for teaching me that opening my home is opening my heart

Tuesday, August 29, 2017

Coming home

Coming home is not this walking
through the door of your house
after the long journey
from mountains filled with wonder,
is not even this sitting here again
on the chair that carries the memory
and shape of your body,
but is the subtle whisper
of that tiniest plant in the forrest
connecting my skin to yours
in the invisible web of life
that shapes the memory
of all things.

Wherever you are on your journey
of homecoming,
however weary and tired
from all the luggage you carry,
still heavy and unpacked,
know that any breath you take
shelters the possibility of a thousand doors
opening your heart to that whisper.
Once you hear it, you will come to know
that we are already home.