Beloved, Mine,

 

spiritual_gate_by_Patrick_Flies.jpg

Beloved, mine,
The days fly
off their spool
like a delicate tapestry
woven from time
that unravels
while sleeping.
Upon waking,
the approaching sun
reveals you there beside me.
I feel a quickening of my soul,
a transcendent drive
to consummate ecstatic union.
I reach out to you
and find you reaching back to me
with delicate hands
and soft touch.
Our lips press.
Our hands caress.
Our bodies entwine.
I enter with intention,
complete in your embrace,
and fall into your eyes.
With every press,
every stroke,
every shared breath,
we reach ever higher.
Our sounds,
like the Song of the Universe,
rise to the Heavens
as the heady scent of us,
like incense,
drifts beyond the atmosphere,
carried by cries of passion
that commune with the Divine.

I turn myself inward,
to see you from within,
and find you looking back at me.
Through your eyes
I see eternity.

We are One.

 


Image: “Spiritual Gate” by Patrick Flies

After a long day

Buno.Lemos

It’s okay, Love
It’s okay
Lean back into me
Let me wrap my arms around you
Rock you gently
Kiss your neck
Silence the day
With wordless passion
As we watch the Moon
Now round and full
Light the clouds that gather
and will away the worry
With love

 


Image by Bruno Lemos

Smile

orion_by_Liu.Yu.jpg

I’m not sure when I scribbled this poem on a loose sheaf of note paper (now in the “Final” file along with empty cans and banana peals as all illegible scribbles later clarified end) that suggests there was at one time more to it. Still, it stands on it’s own as a contemplative piece.


Smile

Fall
Through memory
Catching on the web of it
Hurtling through the thick of it

Down
In to the past
Hanged on every word of it
Passing through the heart of it

Hurt
By the act
Bleeding with the pain of it
Shooting past that part of it
To someplace better

sometimes
I find
that stepping to the side
of the ongoing ride
to watch it rolling by
while I
frozen in a space
about the size of nothing
and staring
at the slowly melting something
leaving just the core
while the unreality of it all
falls away
just makes me want to smile

 


 

Image: “Orion” by Liu Yu

3:33

333

It’s 3:33 am. The witching hour.

There’s a lot of nonsense that goes along with numbers. Especially repeating numbers. Among the nonsense are some very few truths.

Truth #1 – 3:33 am is too damn early to wake up – I don’t care who or where you are, this, I believe, comes as close to a universal truth as I can imagine. Right next to “stubbing your barefoot toe on a raised piece of sidewalk sucks ass”.

Truth #2 – 3:33 am is the witching hour – This truth is best taken with a grain of salt or, if you have high blood pressure, with a graham cracker and a glass of goat milk – Historically, it is the time when the veil between worlds is the thinnest. When dreams are best shared or traveled. When the spirits of other planes are most easily contacted. Don’t ask me why this is, I have never found a reasonable explanation, but it is the time when most serious occultists do their most serious work. It’s when I do my own work, like this piece, and other… stuff.

Truth #3 – Waking at specific times or noticing specific times when glancing at a clock is a way for the subconscious (read: NOT angels) to pass messages to the conscious. We make connections to these inferences and interpretations in our waking hours and our subconscious, which is a far better keeper of time than we give it credit for, tells us, “Hey, Nimrod, look at the clock. It’s 11:11. Time for a change. Maybe get off yer ass and follow through on your workout goal or something useful, eh?”

I get that number a lot.

So here it is, 3:33 am, or it was when I first woke anyway, now it’s like 5:20, which is 4:20 somewhere, which is a whole different number, and to be honest I’m a little confused because I have never (consciously) agreed on the meaning of 3:33 so I have no idea what message my subconscious is sending me except this: It’s too damn early.

 

And now it’s too late to go back to bed… maybe it is witches.

 

Back from my nap

It was a long nap. I guess I was tired.

I am slowly waking to the momentum which has carried me in its wave like a deep cradle of forward comfort.

The deep house thump and guitar of “Imprints of Pleasure” by Tube and Berger are wobbling my walls as I formulate an attack plan, “keep, leave, throw, burn” as I look at or touch or point out and then mentally check off books, drawers, boxes, blankets, window coverings, clothes, and then follow through with garbage bag, box, side glance, or burn pile.

The list is massive but manageable. Conquerable.

Within days all I have done here will be memory. No one but I will ever recall it and over time the memory will fade. It will become colored by experience and perception and intention until even I will not know the truth of it.

Memory is like that. It so often hides truth in its recalling but so seldom is the truth. It is simply our recollection of past experiences colored by present experiences.

I imagine I will look back to this time with some wonder; how did I do it? How did this happen?

I know those answers. That is to say, I know today’s answers.

Tomorrow it may look just a little different.

Keep. Leave. Throw. Burn.

Very much like packing.