what about life

what about life is fair
when the thing you began to hate
thinking it hated you
is the one thing you need
is the one thing you are
and you can't see how to exist without it?

what about life makes sense
when we praise the haters and ridicule the lovers
when we hurt on purpose, and heal as a last resort
when we collectively choose death
every day?

what about life do we know
calling to a god who threatens us
denying hearts and bodies
ignoring our essence for polite fiction
deciding
to believe evil and doubt good?

what about life could possibly be fair
when the lovers can find no love
and must watch their names erased from the sky?
one
by one
they avert their eyes

soon there will be no stars left.
and who shall we thank for that?

A brief note on "guarded" hearts

We tend to justify locking away our hearts by saying that we don't want someone else to come along and hurt them again. But sometimes, the real reason is that we do not trust ourselves not to put our hearts in positions where they will be hurt. Other times, we fear that our hearts themselves will lead us directly into pain, and caging them is punishment for perceived betrayal, past, present, or projected. For many of us, the soul-work we need the most involves forgiving, trusting, and loving our own hearts, and releasing them to do what they are meant to - love. It has much less to do with others than we sometimes think.

the witching hour

I was smart about this
at first

Careful
to remain alert
and aware
of the likely possibilities
of the only reality
that I was willing to accept

Calculating
devising rules
(I was going to play)
fortifying myself
for the road ahead
thinking always
of the end of this

Defying
the gravity
between us

But here i am now
recklessly
thinking of you
at the witching hour

And this Wild Woman has paralyzed me
sitting on my chest
piercing me
she speaks the spells of my heart

flies wantonly around my mind
flinging open the locked doors
shining her moonlight
on my secret thoughts

She makes me fiend for you
makes me writhe for you
makes me call to you

And now here we are
recklessly
looking into each other's eyes
at the Witching Hour

the changeling

my soul is not
made of air
she is no ghost
no
figment
she is part liquid
plasma-like and
glowing
like a jellyfish
but
begging to be touched...

she is floating
shining and cozy in dark womb waters
drifting
caught between freedom and form

stretched wide at the crux of metamorphosis
pulled toward rebirth in two directions
laid bare and exposed
she gives up her water to the air
pressed in on herself
she relinquishes it to the earth

she is snake
and bird
sun and moon
fire and water and earth and ether

she is an original
existed before the number
'2'

sometimes wishes to fit in
and enjoy the confusing illusion
but
she must stay as she is
without her there is no catalyst
no connection
no constant

she must remain
forever
a changeling

The New Gods

these Lovers
exist beyond love
in the realm of the Original
in the realm of Peace

mortals pass them by
never understanding
their sacrifice:
to become immortal
they had to give up
being
human

where are the Gods
who used to come down to play?
to live?
legends magnified
by their love of flesh
of life

but these Gods are new
they must practice well
play by the rules
giving all
desiring nothing

They call for our love
but cannot feel it
They call for our love
to bring us higher
They call for our love
because they know love will save us
They call
but remain just out of reach
of our love

we are indebted to their grace
but saddened by the truth:
the best of us made untouchable
because the rest of us could not feel

we are blind
so they give us their eyes
we are grateful
but so sorely miss
gazing into them

tantrika in oil

paint me red
and watch me dance
look into my eyes

see reflected
pools of You
beneath indigo skies

draw me in
then be consumed
made whole by unquenched fire

paint me red
i'll be your muse
and heal you with desire

i wonder if it hurts a baby's skin to be exposed to air for the first time. how cold must it feel?

how odd must it feel? that first instance in a lifetime when one can perceive herself as separate from her source
the moment when the physical becomes disjointed from the spiritual reality
when evidence begins to speak falsely
the beginning of ego

birth must be the reason we are confused our whole lives

we are pushed out
into a secondary reality
charged with finding the first
by becoming it