where breath meets
and light explodes inside.
Sentences become questions
and the quest inexorably changes.
We are changed by this loving.
We are known by our seeing.

 

Loosing history
sand falling through healing fingers
enabling the dexterity necessary
to weave a blanket 
from our unthreaded tapestries.
We cast a new clay vessel
from the shards of every heartbreak
from childhood hence.
Pull down each post from the fence
around our garden hearts,
to become firewood 
that burns with our love,
to fire the pots 
that will hold our future food.

 

This love is not for the feint,
though sometimes the fey.
Not for any part that clings 
to our illusions of separation,
or clutches the familiar wretchedness 
our wounds would bind us in.
We are learning that the only bounds around us
are the ones we've built.
And this bond of love
a tight rope over the jagged sharpness of our jadedness.
We let go
we hold on
we breathe into our weakness 
to remember we are strong.
We practice togetherness
through each tremulous unearthing
of what is sacred inside us.

 


This sapling,
This tree of love we are growing,
watered by tears, prayers, orgasms, and gratitude,
enlivened by our pulling the weeds and rocks from the soil.

Spirit touches this body 
through his hands,
through his lips caressing my brow.


I am a little girl lost in the woods,
and he plants a sign post.
I am a homeless priestess
and he shelters me,
while offering that we rebuild the temple
through our living.
I am simply and fully, finally, a woman 
praying for freedom,
and he smiles and says, "come on, let's learn to be humans, being."

Searching for home.

Upturning stones,

disentangling dry roots

entrenched in unstable soil.

Where is the place to rest this dream-filled head?

Even wildflowers need a well-tended bed.

Even the phoenix has a soft nest,

when she is not busy dissolving

into the flame of her becoming.

These beings intrinsically reside within a belonging

that comes from knowing 

that they are indivisible from that which makes them.

 

Humans are the only creatures that claim to own bits of Earth,

and the only ones to believe in the existence of homelessness

on this garden planet.

This glowing orb that is all home.

I don’t need to own,

to claim,

none of this precious dirt need to be mine.

But I want to be claimed

by a living temple of wood and stone,

a soft nest of clay and earthbone.

I feel the ache of ancestors ripped from all that was known

forced to flee, to roam.

This greed to own

born of the fear of freedom

and addiction to others’ resources

displacing everyone.

Interfering with our innate connection to our fountain,

our taproot, our true source.

I cry the tears of a thousand people

who have buried dreams and children on the side of the road.

 

I want to go home,  

but it’s a place long lost

and not yet found again,

not yet emerged

from the ashes of a history

of aggressive agriculture and possessive war.

We don’t need to own, to claim,

no place need belong to us.

But we need to belong to place.

Some place with space 

for our seeking roots and tender hearts.

 

I don’t want land to belong to me,

I simply want to belong to Her,

and thus, to get Her, to gather, together.

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© 2018 by Medicinal Poetry