Mystery once again

These years are a vice grip
A black hole with dark energy
What does it matter what is to come
When all I can see is your eyes
No longer tearing me to shreds

The light warms the sinews of my grief
Spinning out of this gravitational chokehold
Holy is the one who perseveres
In the ambivalence of one’s nightmares
Crouching in the corner of the unknown

Give me a chalice to warm up
I am a traveler in this desperate glow
Gestating a feeling where none survives
Hungering redeemed in my roughness
Belonging to nothing other than a gift

Deafen me with your silence
I am a tornado burnt out and deep
Rattling the bones of all that is willing
Mastering the elements of this primordial longing
Until all is a mystery once again

Whistle

Confusion drips from my fingers
I chew off my leg in the trap
This is how it’s always been
A kettle ready to boil should
Just whistle-whistle-whistle
Until the air is fractured
By its own gravitational force
And I can taste the blood of centuries
On my squalid tongue

Narrow

April and my head is still
Full of obfuscating snow
What do these mounds tell me?
That you cannot rush words
That even once blinded
The king cannot see
That in this vortex of independence
I am tethered to a single idea

There are times I would rather
Cleave than cling to the confusion
Of my startled sensibilities
Just to find myself anxious
To leave the confines of my home
For an everlasting bewilderment
Of solitary persuasion
At the shores of the sea
I long to enter

What doesn’t exist

Just a few feathers on snow
One tipped with bloody flesh
Crime scene scrubbed clean
A modest deception for
The magnitude of what was

The cells whisper
As they crumble into dirt
Eaten by the gluttonous flow
Of Nature’s own preference
The rustle of hunger to be awake

What is it that doesn’t exist?

The light that flows forth

This is a short essay I wrote for the online writing class I am taking. It’s about this yoga studio in the woods…

Prakasa

Photo credit: prakasayoga.com

It’s tucked deeply into the woods, so that you can hardly see it from the dirt road. Occasionally, when the angle of the sun is just right, you catch a reflection from a window and follow it down a narrow path beyond the trees to a ridged tin roof atop a weirdly-shaped squat structure: a rectangle in the front rear-guarded by what appears to be a slightly taller circular building with horizontal slit windows just below the roofline. It’s the strangest thing that you’ve ever seen, and you have to get a closer look. When you get near, you see that the building is stone, Romaine-lettuce-green and not circular at all. You pull the heavy oak door open and go in, take off your shoes and, through hinged narrow double doors, pass from the square anteroom into the sanctuary, stepping over a threshold made of Goshen stone bathed in white pebbles.

It has twelve corners and, hence, twelve sides. A glass cupola surrounded by a patch of yellow, and radiant heat floors of Italian cork invite you to lie down and look. You do. The rough walls are painted rich eggplant and the ceiling below the cupola is sky-blue with an occasional wispy cloud. It turns out that six tall slim windows, taking advantage of the Southern exposure, balance the small rectangular ones tucked into the Northern side you had noticed before. You lie in Shavasana and look up at the cupola as the clouds rush by, each one passing only once. You squint and close your eyes, the awakening spring sun boring right into your face now, your skin warm for the first time in months, and inhale deeply. Then you remember how once you were able to hear the rain – really hear it, without the need to name it first – harsh, loud, overwhelming, like a sob. And you wonder whether perhaps you might be able to hear, taste and smell the sun now if you could just wedge yourself into this moment, disconnected from your past and from your future.

Your eyes closed, you’re coasting on a light wave, becoming a quantum particle with its fields and entanglements. And you have to smile because life just doesn’t get any better than this. Your life, the one you’ve always had, that’s always held you. Right here.