The soul is like Jesus
Bare feet in both worlds
Everything here has one
The dirt soul
The cow soul
The man soul
The sea soul
The bird soul
The world soul
I think it’s so we never forget each other
One long bridge
So time makes sense
Especially when it doesn’t
I love the way she cries
Only does it when she needs to
She beats the sunrise to her totem overlooking the meadow
I try and catch her through binoculars, but what could be better than my naked eye
Then it occurs to me in this moment why I love her so much
She is what my soul wants to be right now
Thought clouds, one by one, passing by
But she is pure concentration
The weight of nothing but hunger on her shoulders
Not food, but sustenance
I might live my whole life trying to grasp the distinction
Nature’s ceaseless muscle
From these small hours
These dying bodies
Because the Truth is
Fires that start in space never stop spreading
Sunlight is touchable on a horse’s hip
A soft hand always heavies the eye
And we breathe through our hearts
Knowing the notes of a song we’ve never heard before
If I live to be a hundred,
I will be just as beautiful as I am now.
My sun heart will still rise before I do.
My moon mind will still gawk about the midnight of my bed quarters.
My star-fire blood will still warm the bow of infinity that is my flesh.
And my earth belly will still roar into the pregnant silence of all our wanting.
-photo credit, my beautiful sister, Stephanie Donovan-
Leap from your structures
There are animals down there clinging to rock canvas as old as God
Leave the dishes
The clothes on the floor
The wine in the bottle
Your nocturnal predator needs her beauty sleep too
Open all the windows
Do you see it now? I do
There’s a sun ball on your chest reflecting itself
I don’t feel like naming this one.
Call it: in bed with cats, windows open, desert spring, fat flashlight and a beautiful book.
I could force myself to write and God knows I’d mean every word; but all I want to do is feel. My inner body, says Tolle, author of said beautiful book.
So I Breathe. Feel. Heal. Remember. Me. The me that is aware of me.
Through clear eyes. Long breaths. Pay attention to the soft tingling in limbs. That hum of energy trapped in flesh. It’s a gift I think. God cups our essence in our own flesh and if I’m quiet, sober, and soft enough I get to feel it.
Grateful I didn’t throw wine tonight on that deep coal bed of mind made angst that is ego.
Grateful I won’t wake up at 3 am inexplicably terrified and shaking. Grateful I won’t feel sick and depressed tomorrow. Grateful for every day I don’t kill myself by inches. Body and Soul.
Speaking of whom, She, my soul wants me to shut the hell up now and get back to the business of letting her stretch her legs under the moon.
Ha. Reminds me, how does it go? “The finger pointing to the moon is not the moon.”
Turn off thought. I feel, therefore I am.
… Ah, poems amount to so little when you write them too early in your life. You ought to wait and gather sense and sweetness for a whole lifetime, and a long one if possible, and then, at the very end, you might perhaps be able to write ten good lines. For poems are not, as people think, simply emotions (one has emotions early enough) — they are experiences. For the sake of a single poem, you must see many cities, many people and Things, you must understand animals, must feel how birds fly, and know the gesture which small flowers make when they open in the morning. You must be able to think back to streets in unknown neighborhoods, to unexpected encounters, and to partings you have long seen coming; to days of childhood whose mystery is still unexplained, to parents whom you had to hurt when they brought in a joy and you didn’t pick it up (it was a joy meant for somebody else — ); to childhood illnesses that began so strangely with so many profound and difficult transformations, to days in quiet, restrained rooms and to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of travel that rushed along high overhead and went flying with all the stars, — and it is still not enough to be able to think of all that. You must have memories of many nights of love, each one different from all the others, memories of women screaming in labor, and of light, pale, sleeping girls who have just given birth and are closing again. But you must also have been beside the dying, must have sat beside the dead in the room with the open window and the scattered noises. And it is not yet enough to have memories. You must be able to forget them when they are many, and you must have the immense patience to wait until they return. For the memories themselves are not important. Only when they have changed into our very blood, into glance and gesture, and are nameless, no longer to be distinguished from ourselves — only then can it happen that in some very rare hour the first word of a poem arises in their midst and goes forth from them.
By Rainer Maria Rilke.
Poetry making always comes with this song for me: