Moth

there is a moth fluttering
inside of me
ebbing and flowing
with the fire of breath
like a winged torch
rising from below
igniting the soles of my feet
in her blind throb
yearning to surrender
and receive the cooling touch
of earth

the wind blows
into her ashes
with the lightness of being
that scatters her past
in a whirling tornado
of grief
connecting land and sky
darkness and light
roots and wings
in the in between
where rainbows are born.

Hands remember

Be still, my hands, be quiet and
cease the endless fidgeting
on shriveled keyboards
and depleted canvases
where words are scarce
and colours are blind.

Be still, my hands, be good and
refrain from quivering around
deadly sharpened pencils
and blackish charcoals
that tarnish your nails
and creep under your skin.

Be still, my hands, be reasonable
for in your incessant seeking
to hold and touch other hands
to conquer the untouchable
lands and seas and trees and rocks
I fear I am loosing myself.

Oh, lord, there aren't enough pockets
not enough cuffs nor gloves
to safeguard these hands of mine
from the daunting unknown
to hinder their longing
and appease their thirst for truth.

My hands reclaim
their kingdom of touch
for they are more than
an instrument of getting things done
they are an instrument of grace
and within their grasp
lies the key to freedom.

My hands remember
the touch of earth
the touch of wind
the touch of rain
the touch of fire
but most of all, my hands remember
the touch of love.

Liberated Voice

Free your voice
like you would free a swallow
captive for so long
that she forgot
how to fly.

First you open her cage
ever so gently
for the squeaking sounds
make her quiver
with fear of an unknown sky.

Then, you whisper to her
come out, little bird,
don't be afraid to take off,
I am right here
to catch you if you fall.

You touch her broken wings
and dust off the ashes
of her burnt feathers
'from this fire you shall rise',
you sing.

Free your voice
from all spoken things
from shame and disgrace
from all tunes of sorrow and loss
and just become the song.

Then, your voice shall rise
with the choir of creation
to draw in and fill up
the sky with the sheer joy
of being alive.

The book

I am an open book

as is my heart,

stained with black ink,

unfolding my yet unwritten pages

under your gulping fingers.

Touch me,

leaf through me

feel my hardcovers

to find all the hidden cracks and holes.

Inhale

the promise

of my inner lands

and oceans

and winds

and skies.

Exhale

the ashes

off my sheets

and the forsaken knights

and their crusades

and their valor.

Write

your own stories

in the empty space

between my thighs.

Shut me down

and throw me away when you’re done,

put me on a shelf

to be worshiped

by a hundred hungry eyes.

Then, one day,

pick me up again

and open me in reverence,

Oh, that sweet day when you shall discover

that how I start or how I end

does not matter much to you anymore

for you will have found yourself

inside of me.