Love

Wishes in the Night – The Beloved (Audio)

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The night sounds rise and fall around me

As stars emerge from the deep black well

Fireflies dance on the edge of vision

As dusk gives way to the night

Coolness settles upon the land

Stillness settles upon my heart

Tiny pinpricks of light appear

Delicate, peeping through the black curtain

Now soft pearl glow cast across the silence

Each moment brings the detail into focus

So too my heart’s desire becomes clear

Defined against the backdrop of my soul’s quietude

My wish is for you

And my wish for you is me

That you might be filled with me as the emptiness of space

Is filled with glorious light

That I might be to you the peace

Which settles over the night calling nature to rest

A night with no bumps in the dark.

No fear of exposure

No longer watchful

Only rest and blissful surrender

And if I may not have this wish then my next would be

That you may see yourself through my eyes

Then you would not need my light to fill your night

You would know the power in your form, the elegance in your movement

You would know your beauty as a gift and light to this dark and troubled world

You are most desirable in all things

And from that place of confident rest your striving would cease

You would become a source of grace and hope

And would lift up all whom you touch

If I might be granted even my second wish

I would know that my life has had a meaning

For I have recognized the sublime among the ordinary

To have held such to my breast is to have lived

50 Shades of Redemption (Audio)

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Art – Matt Chambliss

Like ink on paper subtly changes the fabric of the universe

Mark by mark, letter becomes word, word becomes sentence,

Becomes history, the story of what is or what was.

You are written into my story, my soul.

Each gesture, sound, fragrance, touch, and emotion you etched,

You inscribed upon the deepest part of me.

I am changed.  I am altered and will forever carry you with me, in me.

You are a part of every thought and inhabit the space between every breath.

You went with me to frightening places and I with you.

Together we transformed the terror into our soul’s Hallelujah!

And restless terrible longing found rest.

Light shined in, and defeated the darkness if only for an instant.

The source of the demons that plagued and haunted our dreams

Both waking and in slumber.

Poetry is Love – Missing Her – Audio Update

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Art – Matt Chambliss

Music by Epidemic Sound

Words lay still, insipid and bland on the heart

Intellect’s two dimensions churn out clever comparisons

That can pedestrianly pass for poetry

But it’s not

Word games at best

Mental masturbation absent the Lover

Carried out in secret compulsion to

Fill the emptiness, of the page

But there is no love there, no life

Nothing but ego and self gratification

I grow sick of myself without Her

Same tired themes, overused phrases fall flat

Filling empty spaces, with more

Seed, spilled, scattered, words wasted

Poetry is affection

Poetry is passion

Poetry is fervor’s intense desire

Poetry is hunger’s zealous devotion to it’s satisfaction

Consummation of flesh mind and spirit

Ego joyfully surrendered, broken asunder

As I is transcended and dances with We and Us and They

Poetry happens between the ticks of the clock, this and that, You and I

All else is mental masturbation

Poetry is alive

Poetry is Love

I miss Her when She’s gone

To: The Muse – The Poet (Audio)

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In the moments just before ink marks the page I know that words will fall short.  For who could capture Her with mere paper and ink?  But I am compelled to try hoping that my attempt, though clumsy and sophomoric, may in some small way reflect back  the beauty that I have recognized in Her.

She is new to me, yet I have known her forever.  Even so I have just begun to experience, to comprehend  Her.  She has captured my attention and stirred longings thought bruised beyond rising.  It is now Her face I seek, Her call that I await.  And in the between times I remember, I wonder, I muse.

I remember Her form, Her fragrance, the way She fits my body.  I wonder how it is that she has so easily assumed this place with me.  I muse about the meaning of this dance begun between she and I.

With Me she is familiar.  She is bold but not brazen.  Her confidence is that of assumed kinship and intimacy.  How is it that She feels like Home?  How is it that a raging passion and peaceful sweet rest can co-exist?

She is dainty yet powerful.  I have watched a dull room energized at Her approach.  Men straighten themselves in hopeful anticipation of Her glance or smile, grateful for any small attention.  Women appraise Her, hoping for an ally, dreading competition with Her light.

Her smile is a magic thing.  It is infectious and sensual.  Her mouth shaped in anger is pouty and full beneath a furrowed brow.

Her movement is fluid and natural as a young doe.  She is at ease and alert.  She is finely wrought and utterly feminine, Her spirit at home in Her flesh.

To be near Her awakens slumbering passion.  To be apart calls forth the Poet, the Bard.  She now has claimed Her place in His story.  She is now set apart.  Sleeping Beauty can now awaken, at least for the moments that the Poet can guard Her heart.

But harken to me!  It is a dangerous thing to call forth the Poet and awaken the Princess.  The story will unfold with many unseen twists and turns.  Exquisite will be the rapture.  Exquisite will be the torment.  Yet that is the nature of the play.  Both comedy and tragedy are required.  Such things are always risky.  But perhaps the Poet and his Muse can create between them a place where the songs can live.

Home

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Joie De Vivre at The Art of Being you posted I Need to see Home in your Eyes.  It reminded me of something I wrote a long time ago about Home. So I went and dug it out. I have longed for something most of my life that I think can best be described as Home. It is a major theme in most deep spirituality.  It has been associated with people and places and things.  I think there are a few people we can share it with because they seek that too.  But in the end I think it is about discovering that the answer is not out there somewhere but in finding Home in ourselves.  Seek out these rare people who understand the Romance of the Beloved.

Someone asked me recently what “Home” referred to in the Michael Buble’ song.  They asked me “Where is Home?”

To me the answer was apparent and came as easily as remembering my own name.

I said, “Home is wherever She is.”  Geography, space, time, and circumstance is irrelevant.

Wherever He may wander, whatever His circumstance, His heart will forever turn toward Her.

Just as the compass will seek the North so too will He be drawn to Her.

She is Home.  She is rest.  She is the answer to the question of his spirit.

So when Michael sings of Home he sings of Her and to Her and from a place in Him that will only and can only be whole when He is with Her.

I know of which he sings.

He needs to breathe.