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Posts Tagged ‘bliss’

 

 

 

No, this time Shame suggests

you take the driver’s seat,

and though you’re nervous at first,

it’s so fun—your hands

on the wheel, your foot

heavy with bliss—you split

the scene so fast

that Shame begs you to pull over,

leaps from the car, then tries

to hitch a ride home.

Meanwhile you speed

toward the sunrise as it

crooks its long pink fingers

at you, tugging on the hood,

making the whole world

blush. Yeah, you think,

it’s nice this way.

Out the window, the birds

are just beginning to sing.

 

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a glimpse of bliss

knowing myself as starlit night

and wild expansiveness—

no coincidence my ego

wasn’t there to enjoy it

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She starts with marigold.
She pours the paint into a cup and selects the fattest brush.
The paint drips all over the floor as she moves toward the canvas.
She doesn’t care about the mess.
She drags huge pulls of marigold onto the blank, stroke after stroke after stroke.
There is no pattern, no purpose, no why.
More paint, she says to no one, more paint!
And she opens the ochre, the navy, the pomegranate, the plum.
She forgets about cups and pours the paint
directly into her hands. Then it’s hurl of paint, smash of paint,
fist and smear and splat of paint. Long slow pinky fingered tease of paint.
Puddles of paint. Great rainbowed pools.
She rolls in the paint and then rolls her body against the walls, the doors,
every inch of the virgin floor.
Every part of her is color now, and there is nothing
she’s not ready to touch.

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Very, Very Quietly

IMG_0415

I did not choose
awe today, but the big
pink sky chose me
and steeped me
in fantastic joy—
a drenching of miracle,
an overdose of amazement,
a wild indulgence of bliss—
oh such pink! layers
of rose and deeper rose,
and I did not earn it,
did not first prove my worthiness,
did not beg nor kneel nor fast
nor renounce my name
nor pull the strings
of the lyre nor sing,
all I had to do
was step outside
out of my own way
and open my eyes
and let myself
be gifted.

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Three Wonders

bliss stands
in the center of the field
sticking out her tongue
laughing her head off
that I can’t see her

*

scent of quince—
how many other great pleasures
I never considered

*

dry river bed
not one rock
out of place

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angel trumpet haiku

amdist the weeds
waist-high datura
one scrap of bliss

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