My Heart a Book of Love

My Heart a Book of Love

A book of love, composed by stilted hand
And tongue, stilled by True Beauty’s Blessed Face
Ah! Crippled yet compelled to rise, to stand
And take my heart and blood and make my case.

But ’twere ink blood, and tongue a fearsome sword
I’d be dry, drained before I’d scarce begun
To transcribe my desire and cut the cord
That binds my soul to earth’s dark woeful run.

A  thousand swains, a thousand thousand more
Slain by this tongue become the sword of love
Would give but just a drop of ink, no more
The blood of every poet’s not enough!

Doomed if I write, doomed if I do not write!
Ah Blessed Doom! I yield to your sweet Light.

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The Woman Caught in Adultery

I am thinking this morning of a woman who lived long ago…a woman caught in adultery.

In the very act.

She was dragged by her hair thru the streets, naked, weeping, screaming.

By men of so called righteous character and religious standing (not a lot has changed there over the years, the white-washed tombs!).

She was thrown at the feet of the One person on the planet who had the power over sin, but not as an offering, not to be healed…but as bait.

Objectified and made the personification of their own lust and self-loathing, they sought to use her to trap Him into an act of evil, an act that would join him into their religious system of oppression and abuse and control.

They threw the law into His face, like a handful of glass shards and demanded that He rule regarding the consequences for her.

She lay in the dust, face down, and tried to die inside on the spot…willing herself to non-being but only achieving that wretched state of being filled with her failure to the brim and overflowing…her brokenness, her loneliness, her rejection, her bruises all raised their voices in a cacophony of rage against the fact that she dared desire something better and more than what she had…and what she didn’t have.

Then, she tasted the dirt with her tongue, and realized that dirt tasted better than life and she gave herself to oblivion…

But He just sat there and stared at the monsters who, bloated and puffed up with rage and hatred and religious pride strutted around like erect raping cocks seeking any orifice that they could ravage and leave their caustic acid behind rendering each place barren.

His eyes saw…SAW…and then He turned to the dust and started writing in the dust with a finger.

Oh finger of God you write in our dust daily, you redeem our days with your touch, you humble yourself and draw near to us in our pique, our pride, our hurt and lonely lies!

The monsters were silent, and then again clamoured for a ruling…

His famous words…Let He who is without sin cast the first stone.

We have thrown that phrase at each other in self-justification for our own selfishness, thinking we can hide behind it to do what we want since everyone else has fallen short…

But what He was really doing was claiming the right that is His by LAW!  He was telling these mind f***ers, these heart rapers to get the f*** away, because He was there…the one without sin…and it was HIS RIGHT, HIS PLACE…to cast the first stone.

And then He was silent again…and wrote…

He writes today in the dirt of my heart, in the dust of the floor of my lonely and bereft spirit as I lay and eat dirt and seek oblivion, seek escape from my prison of days…

The monsters got bored…no pain to eat, no life to suck, no hearts to rend…until it was just her in the dirt, naked…bruised and torn…a hot mess of despair.

And then He touched her shoulder, with a hand that would later be rent, His heart already rent for her and flowing to her, and He got her attention and asked her where were her accusers?  Where?

She didn’t even know He was there, they were not there…she didn’t even know SHE was there, or where there WAS…

But she looked up and saw him, and nothing else…

If you want to know the end of her story, keep reading here…

But for now, understand this:  Redemption is real.  It comes from Love, and love comes from the one who writes in the dust, and has since time began.

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No Roadmaps Now

One last post for now

No Roadmaps Now
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You are going the same place
you always were.  We are…
all of us going there.

Blows rain down in cloudburst clamour
We are nails…we get pounded.
“God pounds his nails” the character said.

But it’s in your face now
It is in your gut, gripping and gnawing
Who will you listen to now? The fear? The pain?

Their song is always the same…threats, mocking laffs
Rinse repeat, booga booga boo!
Their voices have no power but what you loan them!

And you need all your power to yourself.  Dare you empower yourself?
Dare you look past the prejudices, the religious fig leaves, the uncertain awkward fears
of the many who swim on the surface?  Their lack does not change the available!!

Look not inside, for there you see
the dandelions…harmless in appearance, but the slightest puff
and they spread thru you…and clone themselves
Until you are no longer a rose but one big dandelion.

Look not around to others…they are faithfully what they are…UNABLE.
you have no roadmap, you have no footsteps to follow
But you DO have a COMPASS…a SEXTON…
Instruments of old to navagate by Unseen and Signifiers.

You have a sigil…but it is called FAITH
So get you up in the morning…sing
Wash your face. Sing
Choose your life today…Sing
Control what you can, and all else hits the umbrella of SING.

Blaze me a trail baby…for I am on the same path.
My body doesnt know it yet.
And along the way I will catch up to you
We will walk together, hand in hand into that night…

but fear not, cus I know the One who has overcome that night
and walks in Day forever
Call out! There is no roadmap baby
Follow your heart…walk on the water!
What is there to lose?

Only fear and pain.

Sadness over how people do not deal with things

I am sad tonight, as I watch the aftermath of someone who is headstrong and stubborn and refuses to actually understand the love they are being given.

This poem is about that:

None So Blind

When looking thru the lense of self you find
A singular defining of your mind
By one and only one stark measurement:
How it affects your fate, your detriment.

Narcissus rules the day and speaks aloud
To push a reasoned balance to the cloud
Of flowry deception and flattering ruin
While pride conspires to mix a bitter brewing.

Alas, all others get reduced to nonce
When glimpsed thru that dread mirror even once.
But in the end it isn’t they that go
But just the selfish, and they do not KNOW!!!

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On Well Trod Paths For The First Time

Walking in well trod paths, lined with costume jewelry, and
Mardi Gras Beads and party favors from last Chinese New Year.
Seeing what I have always seen? Am I?
Tin foil stars and Kmart Christmas ornaments,
and yard sale poems on plywood and velvet.
I know what they all say already……..

…but…wait, whaaa?
What did that one say??
OH!! Pearls, and emralds came from the Universe’s navel!
Wait…what did THAT one say?
Omg…Jewels and riches, and royal clothes.
Stupid me…I walked this path so often that I only saw what I had forgotten I saw!!

Seeing the forget is horrible, void.
But now I have crossed that thin line
and Damascus is in the rear view
and scales are gone
and I am flying, oh god…

Now I can see

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Canyons and Butterflies

Long now have I considered the presence of absence
In canyons…majestic by what is not,
Stunning in what is gone.
And yet, talk and rail and howl, Charissa…
Canyons answer not back, or if they
Do they speak only echoes.
Canyons have changed me, but not I them,
Not I…puny, and wratihlike to their Absent Presence.
Fool! Stop explaining!
Stop handing out Rosetta Stones
To entities which do not care to read
But rather would gather voices and then
Speak echoes.

But then, in the shimmering sunlight,
Flitting by, white gossamer
Butterfly bumbling, bouncing
Break dancing in mid air
Heedless of the yawning gulf
Simply floats over the precipice
And is…itself, singing in flight
Speaking by being
Uncaring who hears, sees or knows
And LAUGHING at the canyon-like boasts of
The presence of what isn’t there being best,
Better than the absence of what is there.
Canyons and butterflies…
My polarity extremes.

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