CPoetry

why does love disparage me still? in my feeble attempts to unveil more truths possessed to its name, love contends to make yet another mockery of one of its children. my ego---lapsed from the embrace of its being. why does love disparage me still? ::: the young girl who is Dawn, she holds in her bosom the stillness of Night and the light of Hope's infantile fortune. ::: i cannot think how helpless i am in my defense against this moment... the waiter is whistling to himself in this diner, and i am hopeless against deafening his song; the moment takes me along the folds of his tongue with what carries across his lips. so suddenly, i have returned to the present; it recognizes me like an old friend. ::: amid the ceaseless flexing and partitioning of spacetime, i was approached by a star. this star held in her face the violence of the Big Bang, and the serenity of illuminated resilience. long ago did she escape the safe asylum of the nebula to bare witness to the debauchery of the univ

dark, crimson roses speak to me. clandestine with their whispering words. conspiring thieves attempting to swindle precious rubies. their thorns coil around my ears bleeding a barbed-wire pain with their whispering words--- they tell me--- "The cemetery is paradise. Let's take a walk." is there a Universe or namely God that can come between the stem and the thorn of the rose? ::: a heart of resiliency is the offspring of the actions and sustainment of hope. ::: there was an old man who they called the Quarter Man. he lived a modest, quiet life in a small farm house on the outskirts of town. he was not a religious man, nor was he particularly spiritual, but people admired him. he was a wise man. he carried with him, a quarter, everywhere he went. people in the town would often seek his advice or came to him for temporary refuge. most of them would come to him with afflictions of the mind--- delusions, fears, worries, grievances, and so on. each time, he would take a quarte

the heart points in the direction that seeks it. ::: has life turned your soul to granite? with every two efforts forward, you find three enemies have set you back? tell me, are you your only helper? you might argue you have  help, but often there is a lack of allowance to be  helped; a kite cannot fly against the wind; for Pete's sake, let out your line, and allow yourself to be lifted and carried with  the wind! watch your soul erode to the weightlessness of the clouds. ::: we tend to fear our story untold, so we attempt to write the next chapter. the amount of confidence possessed for the character of ourselves in the future is--- inflated, ineffectual. oftentimes, it is our inner pages the must turn first...

you impart wisdom, clues. sprinklings of serendipity. tumultuous seas to fare. stones of enlightenment that await a step; you are my destiny. ::: when do we decide to stop hiding? when do we unfold our petals into the light of another? must there first be an exchange of trust? could it be the solidification of loyalty? might it just be intuition? or is it a simple yearning to be understood? all of us---starved for one to read the anthology of our lives and not walk away... the common plea for the recognition that our story is worth telling. ::: how long will you carry your yesterdays? how often will you plant your tomorrows? how far will you live away from the present? how soon will you allow today to bring you home? ::: the harmony of the human spirit left when we intellectualized the whole of the self is more "easily" comprehensible when partitioned.

walk with acceptance. talk with curiosity. love with compassion. laugh with joy. listen with empathy. feel with presence. ::: the astronomers and philosophers faced the night sky. the common worshipper faced the rolling clouds. the painter faced the blank canvas. the writer faced the empty page. the child---the sandbox. it is only when we face ambiguity that we release our state of consciousness towards freedom to invite a greater inspiration. ::: why care for the garden of woe? for what end do you desire as you till the soil? was there ever a fruit that did not spoil? why care for the garden of woe? for what love do you desire while you tend these seeds? a famished heart is the greatest of needs.      you can continue     to nurture this woe,     but love thyself,     and new seeds will sow. ::: does the honeybee abruptly drop onto the petal of the flower? it settles softly. delicately. be gentle with yourself and others. ::: so is that what it feels like? the infantile sun touches th

"Grandma, what's that?" Sweetheart, this is a garlic clove. They're delicious! " Can I try?!" Well, you can---if you want to, but grown ups usually mix them with other foods--- and they're kind of spi--- "I'm brave grandma---I can do it!" Ok then, if you insist... The boy bit into the clove, chewed a few times, pinched his face, and spit out the clove. "Pew! That's disgusting! I need water!" The grandma laughed watching her grandson guzzle water. Believe it or not, this is one of your grandfather's favorite foods in the whole wide world. "Why!? It's so gross!" When you get older, you'll learn to like it. I cook with it not only because it's delicious, but because it reminds me of your grandfather... I smile every time I prepare it. "I'll never eat that stuff again!" Preparing freshly chopped garlic takes some work, and for that reason, people often buy the garlic already chopped. Usually

love let it be forgive i concluding sigh renew i resilient sovereign fly love let it be forgive i ::: presence is the absence of time, the fulfillment of joy, the remembrance of gratitude, the answer to "why?", the disposition of love, the rhythm of acceptance, the destruction of fear, the embrace of uncertainty, the heed to what is . ::: under the watch of adversity, i was maimed by your healing; burned in the kiln i came out fortified--- ready to be poured.           may it be love that i pour           and tears that i collect. ::: the support beam came from a tree. this wine, from a vineyard. these potatoes, from the sodden earth. these clothes---a factory. but you---my friend---my comrade--- my soul of a soul... i am tiring myself to reason how you came to be; were you fastened from a collection of stars strung together by love? from a single drop of dew in the grasslands of Jesus' lap? possibly an ethereal well? i will run myself wild if i reason much further. ::: o

if there is a mountain that cracks the shoulders by which it holds, remember the mind makes the mount its size composed. why do you think of the highest in the land? when the shear weight of your thought can erode the summit to a grain of sand? ::: Love says, "Space in my enemy. Space in place, space in word, space in action. Space is the absence of me." Love says, "Sit here, next to me." Love says, "You are my own." Love says nothing and holds your hand. "Are you encompassed yet? No? I will keep on, until you understand." ::: if love is a need,     when did you lose it? if love is a want,     why not have had it? if love is a hurt,     why not let it go? if love is a belief,     love is never outside oneself. ::: are we looking for love, or for someone to love us? are we looking for money, or for money to make us rich? are we looking for safety, or for something to keep us safe? the true problem is the looking, the seeking, the finding, the sear

one movement is no more fatal than its countermovement; risk is never within the margins of my wooden back-and-forth. pleasure is the distance of my travels, and life is the complacency of my stillness.          in the heart of the adult          there is a rocking horse.          can i find a fortunate soul          whose horse gallops free                     from its rockers? ::: how do you do it? light a candle on the plains of a tundra? from what source do you draw heat? the imagination of heat. ::: words written from the eyes. chapters written from a look. suspense written from a glance. love written from a gaze. endings written from no look at all. continue talking. i will continue reading. ::: you gave me a daffodil painted, laced, and tainted with rocket fuel. that daffodil rides the furls of Neptune's winds now... but not i. for i learned the language of flowers before i could smell the folly of fuel. ::: "Sir, we were told you suffer from melancholia. Is that true?&

 if the rains of worry find me--- if each droplet of unnecessary, unfettered, relentless, pesky thoughts bends the curvature of my temples and distracts the clarity of my vision, i stop. i remember. i return to... my breath; the lighthouse beacon that reminds me of the impermanence of the thought and of the permanence of presence. ::: those tropical birds eat their fruit, display their dazzling plumage, and see no farther than the sand of their beaches. sunshine and fair weather are their havens. mundanity, fear, stagnation, and utter boredom are hidden by the layers of perceived comfort, opulence, and security. do not seek to be those kinds of birds. seek to be the wandering albatross; take to the high seas of your struggles. fly---better even--sore on the updrafts of adversity's waves. welcome many shades of grey, and host the thunderclouds of pain under your wings. navigate unknown obstacles with your tail feathers. the lightness of your perseverance will keep you afloat, while

i was a lake. but your love carved me into a river; when winter walks between the trees of us, i will not freeze over. my love for you will be moving, keep moving, still moving, always. ::: the silence i long for can be found in the leafless dregs of winter. a widely accessible silence that gives the appearance of rarity within the noise. out here---when i cease my step--- i may believe i can hear my own blood being pumped through my arteries. out here---thought decomposes to feeling. out here---i disappear into ::: i thought i knew of love... never did i anticipate being a light bulb swallowed by the sun. a persistent yearning for discernment showed me a true love will make me a star leaning on the infinitude of space. ::: there are too many open doors in this burning building. the smoke says, Why don't you stick around? it took this burning building and open doors to remind me there is always another exit; there is always a means of letting go. to that---i jumped out of a window