CPoetry

Love smiled at you first. all It ever wants you to do is smile back. ::: i feel as though my ignorance has just been cracked by a whip! tears are not a manifestation of sadness, nor fear, nor joy; they are an effect of acceptance! a result of unadulterated awareness! a natural byproduct of presence! an incomparably crude outcome of disarmament to the moment. ::: allow yourself to succumb to the stillness like an African lioness. allow for the thoughts to carry themselves away in the dry, hot air. allow your surrounding environment to become a place of insignificance. allow for the all encompassing absence to be the single phenomenon that comes between you and the antelope of being. allow the stillness to settle into your fur and the bones of your teeth. hunting is not necessary if you simply allow  the antelope to come to you. ::: love as a word is short, impotent, and excusable. love as an action is outside of language itself. ::: an Irish farmer had three sons. the farmer and his son

my friend, you say nice things to me. you say i have been a miraculous stepping stone on your way, but i cannot accept this accolade; you are your bones. you are your foot. you are your heel. you are the muscles in your foot. you are the nerves in your foot. you are the muscles in your leg. you are the nerves in your leg. you are the weight of your pelvis. you are thought in your mind. you are action in your body. you are the will in your heart. you are  the step. i am just a stone along your path. ::: gratitude is the acceptance and recognition of the true and simple significance of a thing as it belongs to its beholder at any given moment. ::: if it were not for the cycle of rain, there would be no precipitation of the past to water the flora of the future. ::: never crown yourself as king. cease to endow yourself as a queen. for you will sit atop a glorified chair. become gluttonous and sedentary. complacent without a care. your actions will be next-to-none. adorned by life

cresting four o'clock, the November sun paints an amber hue... and highlights the yellow leaves on the yawning willow spray. photographers coined this moment in time as "The Golden Hour"; the intricate dance of color, shadows, and light copulates with the senses...opening hearts...sewing serenity. one bears witness to a collective softening... a drawbridge of defenses that lowers one chain link at a time. it is coined "The Golden Hour" for something more than enhancing the foreground... it exists for lifting the veil of vulnerability. ::: the longevity of a genuine relationship relies not on a set of common interests nor on shared emotional histories nor on similar childhood upbringings nor on reciprocated feelings but on a road of unrelenting, wholehearted, acceptance. ::: a person who embodies presence in his or her daily life has difficulty recalling the events of that day. why? to recall places one in the past; truly present people are terrible at telling st

take the first step with benevolence. take the last step with benevolence. and all other steps in between. ::: open your window! open your door! let the day in and see where it takes you... ::: there is a small piece of the sun in All of us. ::: those who are grateful count their blessings. those who are truly grateful make their blessings count. ::: remember this, remember well. this is a lesson of which to tell. the guise of anger is clandestine for fair affliction Affliction hides.

top yourself off with a ribbon; you are gift to the world. ::: i found myself wandering the Lowly Place. where it creeks--- it groans--- light banished from Its space. wandering gives way to confusion. a drowning abyss covered in seclusion. destitute. resolute. another black screen with no credits rolling but an enlightened heart hears the faint bells tolling. ::: Reports on Self-Forgiveness BODY REPORT 3/5/2017 When I am cut... When I am bruised... When I am broken... When I am starved... it is my autonomic duty to signal pain before anything else. I have to remind the person that I support that I am in danger. And by my being in danger, my person is also in danger. Once the pain is expressed, I also have an autonomic duty to heal. For example, it begins with an inflammatory response. White blood cells and platelets rush to the scene of danger. They say, "Thank you pain. We'll take it from here." Pain responds, "Ok, thank you." I am tender for awhile but not hu

old hurts feel like home; they were---they are a familiar presence. intoxicating the senses like a familial soft-baked cookie just out of the oven... yet they are still hurts, no? ::: long were we sick in the throws of a social pandemic. this viral pandemic has only made the latter plight nothing but more lucid. ::: in every gap of pain is an opportunity for love's influence. ::: place your hand into the striations of light and shadows. the back of your palm will then become a mirror; it reflects the truth that we are all a herd of zebras migrating through life, grazing on grasses of experience, and following the rains of adversity--- painted in stripes of shadows and of light.

 it is not about the "where" but about the "going". ::: there never was nor ever will be a greater currency than itself manifest as the forms of family--- of friendship. ::: "tell us the story of The Three Fools": the first of the fools was a mountain guide from Nepal. growing up in the high elevations had expanded his lungs and darkened the skin on his face. he knew the summits of these mountains like the hills of his knuckles. so innately aware of their alluring beauty, he was also aware of their precarious stillness; each one of them a guillotine of ice and snow-pack ready to drop to the head of a perfect vibration. although their stillness was purposefully disrupted by mountain rescue teams, the fool was all too wise in knowing not all mountains were so naϊve. on a cloudless, sunny morning, brisk air enlivened the colorful prayer flags watching over the climbers like angels. the fool and climbers were talking through the steam of their coffee when a th

each of us is a song, a melodic symphony of harmony and disharmony, love and heartache, certainty and uncertainty. each with a beginning. each with a middle. each with an end. but we, too, are the composers; in our hand, is the power to wield a masterpiece.          so i ask you then---          what will it be?          a rendition?          or an original? ::: there is something nearer to you than your fingerprint--- branded nearest to your being; when one knows of true presence, one might cry at the sight of his own soul. ::: you are the sun and i, the moon. we are different, but we are complements; you make me shine, and i allow you to sleep. ::: remember, when our toughest mountains are conquered, they become jagged hills, sizable mounds, large elevations, dime-sized dots pinched between our fingers. persistence, perspective, and time due conquer the toughest climbs. ::: i drank from the Fountain of Folly. the slurred speech of my heart knew better than to love with its eyes close

as the forest receded like the tide, a vast, deep quarry welcomed the wanderer. "Who let's his face be revealed from the forest?" i am a wanderer. i want to leave my homeland. "You speak the words of so many before you. What is is that you carry?" i am carrying stones from the quarry, from you. i was told that in order to cross your bridge that leads to the bigger world, i must give back what was taken from you. "Wanderer, you have been given foul information. You must give back what you have held on to for too long. There is a reason I remain hollow and no one has crossed my bridge." why has no one crossed your bridge? "You carry those stones much like you carry anger, resentment, jealousy, and narrow-mindedness for those who have hurt you in your past--- those who continue to hurt you now--- in your present. If you wish to see the bigger world, my fair wanderer, you must do one thing." what must i do? "You must forgive each stone you c

"Stillest is we, stillest is we," says the oak trees.           why not can my           be stillest in me? ::: there is a harmony in balancing the forceful opposition of reaching further and staying grounded. no one knows this better than the trees; reach without your roots, and you fall. choose the security of the soil, and you never grow. ::: "there is a reason you cannot see me with your sight. you cannot see me because of my light. this is my goal--- to turn you away. a ceaseless farewell--- to lead you astray. for i am but a mirror--- reflection of day. i am who you are--- in your truest way; there is a reason you cannot see me with your sight. close your eyes now. there i am! there you are! right here. see it now? this place, the nearest star." ::: click-turn-ignition. "ready to go! ready for today!" crrrank. crrank. crrank. crrank-gurgling-spitfire-POP! thumb-thumb-thumb-thumb-thumb. "i'm up". melancholy's morning feels a lot like

the bells of the broken bridges sound throughout the city. travesty! tragedy! bricks-batons-tears of glass! catastrophe! the yoke of oppression bares a heavy load. ::: atop her cast iron throne, to those that behold her--- she is blind. with a sword held unwieldy it is the scales of which she holds strongly. every mother knows the first gesture of love      is a cradled touch.      she was told her virtue need no vision. for what is just, weighs truthfully. ::: we are all plants that need to be pruned; remove the death and dying from ourselves so we can rejuvenate the life within our living.

the place where the hummingbird cries. the place where the willow weeps. the place where the lily pad lies. the place where the tears of all it keeps. there is a watering hole where a thousand sorrows are kept. it reserves the many years from all those whose tears have wept. but for those who are wise, it is an oasis dream. they drink compassion's thirst, to quench an arid love's scheme. ::: "Son, you must kill this man." the soldier displayed an about-face; a back turned on hate leads one to the Surrendered-Place. ::: we are all helpless infants suckling the sickly teat of the Ego's yearning. only until we abandon this faux motherly care will we then starve to death and be reborn again.

"This water is filthy!" "Love has traveled the long, dirty gullet of the aqua duct." "Take me to the source!" ::: shed your clothes of temperance and take me. take me--- pull me---in---with treasonous hands and the predatory sight of dilated desires. ::: i see soot under your fingernails. that ebony, charcoal dust. you claim our love was short-lived lust like the speed at which paper can combust. drop your guard to the spark plug of trust and the coal you carry can endure and burn brightly---burn robust.

there is an Intelligence that knows unto itself, that is unto itself, that does unto itself. and for that, we are most ignorant because we intellectualize that it is us who are most intelligent. ::: i surrendered; i quietly accepted all that is, all that was, and all that could be. it was in this moment of defeat that my heart chose not to run but to dance in the rain. ::: it was not the slinking state of suffering that willed the forceps of compassion to bring the worm to the comfort of the cool mud away from the blistering sun-beaten gravel road. it was the understanding of thirst, hydration's dry tongue reaching for the hope to be Here--- to be well--- to be living for another dawn. it was not an act of heroism. it was an act of shared commonality.