CPoetry

"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.

let go. do not befall to attachment; do not make a heady bow to that serpent--- to its coiling strength. are we not all blue in the face? let go! if you expect it to be the first to let go, another coil will form. let go. ::: bare and infantile. the first sentence of a novel. when it is, in fact, novel. raw and so fragile. a splintering crack in a dam. when it is very worth, a damn. do we are dare read on? do we dare break open? ::: your kisses; cravings laced in goose down feathers; the soft boots of an astronaut gracefully bouncing across the surface of a place. a showing of impressive marksmen ship like that of an indigenous warrior--- familiar with the land. 

they each carry a paper crane in their sleeves. they harbor a caged bird for me--- a message. each one of them are different with a different face--- a different outreaching hand. only at the end of the road do they reach below their sleeve and let the crane see day. only when they know i have understood the message that lay beneath the folds of its feathers, will they then set it free. ::: is love not the sixth sense? for without it, how would we discern between what it is to what it is not? ::: there are two options: you relinquish fear, so life may show your self-truth--- with the expectation of living it. you admire fear, so death may show your self-truth--- with the expiration of living it.

and so, let yourself be still within the storm. ::: are we not all walking through a house of mirrors? as we attempt to seek the reflection that moves with our own, dust continues to accumulate on each surface, and amnesia has sickened the hand that holds the cloth. ::: no longer can this pain be toted. no longer can this chain be wrought. no longer can this shame be vilified. no longer can control be caught. no longer, no longer, no longer. no longer is i whom you have got. no longer may this string be taught. no longer can sight see what was sought. no longer can love be as it was not long ago for me as this love is now forgot.