Saturday, December 21, 2013

Your Song

I learned to play Your Song on the piano.

You know the one I listened to in the quiet dark as I felt your kick beats playing rhythms across my stretched belly skin.

You were just a promise then.

A promise that i would have more than just those notes to hold.

And now I sound them
underneath my own hands.

I play them soft and slow, holding the ones which make me remember strongest.

Remember all those nights together waiting to meet.

Remember you in the warm dark waters watching the candle flames on that early morning in December I first looked in your eyes.

Remember all the nights that stretched long as new teeth stretched gums.

Remember the thousands of shuffled steps taken with your hand wrapped strong round my finger.

Notes I play over and over, watching them string into a melody and then into a song.

And I notice that it is not the notes that are extraordinary.

It is just a note, one of the twelve from the scale I know so well.

No, the notes are exquisitely ordinary.

It is in the way they find each other, the rhythm they kick out,

that something of almost unknowable beauty is created.

And I know this is how you grow, step by step, tooth by tooth,

your melody finding itself in each ordinary step,

weaving itself among the others, playing the extraordinary song that is You.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Tuesday, December 17, 2013


I have seen the land strip itself of its vestments

And cover itself in the color which is the color of all colors when they move as one,

white light they call it

I have seen the white lay itself over

making all the lines and angles disappear
into one curving still mass,

nothing has a name anymore
It is part of the endless

It sparkles in its newness

And I watch as the white lets go

Allows the things their names again
Their colors and their shapes

Their identities
But against the clean of that winter water
They look re-newed

Did their time as no-thing make them more of some-thing?

In this season of winter with its word root reaching back to a word for water

I see how it is this time which nourishes
It is this time which begins all

The first greens of spring and the bursting life of summer and the spilling forth of fall all begin in the white wet,

The seen begins in the unseen
That waits below its blanket of reflected light

And it always comes back to this
The sojourn in the desert
The sitting under a tree
The years on an island
Nights in a cave

It is in the Stillness

In the hearts winter

When we strip ourselves of our status and our accomplishments, our roles and our definitions, the lush and the green

When in earthly appearances we are dead
It is here the life thrums strong in the core

And the essence of what we are can be felt

Here where we are covered in the white light of our spirit
Absorbed into the cool purity of all that is

And here where the waters of our creator reach deep into the seeds that lay within awakening them to reach toward what they are meant to become

It is from here we unfold

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:Santa Fe