listen.

 

It is our listening 

that keeps Goddess playing.

our attuning

that re-weaves the world.

The question: “What am I hearing?”
a prayer for understanding;

a benediction to the curious,

ever-opening, pulsing divine,

that lives in our listening

to the space between 

wood and ears,

between thoughts and breaths,

between the sparkling of our tears:

that lives in the sound.

 

 

Her existing a reflection

of our ongoing attention.

Retention of the essence of life

found through remembering the rhythm,

the rhythm, the rhythm, the rhythm,

the churning vibration

pulsing our resonant heart strings,

that is the sound what lifts our wings:

sound is what lifts our wings.

 

If we could hear the symphony our blood makes in its pumping,

the wonder found in a baby’s birth, in a baby’s first breath,

how rivers sound to each other,

we would know

Goddess lives.

She lives in the sound.

 

 

(listen to the audio recording of Niema speaking this on soundcloud)

finally the tears come like an orgasm,

breaking open the dam.

The next wave of grieving

gently relieving

all that has been heavy on my heart.

Melting the foggy numbness 

that hides agonizing hurt.

 

These days they seem the same,

the rush gush light blast of ultimate pleasure

overtaking everything,

and the warm salty overflow

as my eyes are washed clean by understanding.

Letting go,

surrendering,

a vastly humbling way 

of making love to the Mystery

that only passes through us

never to be owned,

never held in place.

We do not posses love

love possesses us,

if we allow, if we open enough.

It pulses through and around us 

like the eternal ocean,

always one, yet never the same.

 

I taste salt, 

and peer through the moistness

to realize that I am breathing 

with my whole body.

Releasing what I thought I wanted

gives me a moment of boundless majesty.

Gift given,

duly received.

Piper paid

by the ways we say “yes,

thank you, more please.”

 

Gift given.

More than I receive.

We partake in the majesty

when we think in terms of “we.”

 

We are this gift given. 

Most notably esteemed

in the ways we open the portals and chasms

of this pulsing home,

this eternal tome

in which are written the secrets of true cognition.

This patter-patter nothing is the matter,

lub-dub everything is matter

everything matters

everything is a part of the pulse.

 

Rhythmic vibrations of life’s fluctuations,

given, received, as simple as I breathe.

In and out.

Expand, contract.

Life’s primordial law exemplified

in every rising wave and receding tide.

 

Gift given,

duly received.

When we give from our hearts,

we get all we need.

But not by trying to get

Nothing can be bought from life,

not even more time.

Especially if we believe it only moves in a line.

We are not for getting,

don’t let yourself forget,

this life is for giving

and thus, forgave.

Day in, day out,

from birth to grave.

Not a line, this living,

a pulse, a rhythm.

From the grandest star to the smallest cell,

breathing defines every particle.

 

Gift given,

duly received.

What if our gazes continually returned

to the emanation of the inquiry: “What can I give?”

How would we live 

if that question 

began each day, 

each moment, each exhalation?

And inhalations allow us to realize

every breath is a new beginning

of the same old thing.

We are offered every moment, 

this air, these bodies, this precious life.

Everything a gift.

Flowing out, flowing in,

to be given yet again.

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© 2018 by Medicinal Poetry