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Posts Tagged ‘communion’

Anywhere at All

 

 

 

I find the silence

between your words

and set a cushion there

and close my eyes

and find stillness in that quiet

place in you

that speaks to that quiet

place in me.

Within a single conversation

we’ve shared communion

a thousand times—

is it any wonder we cry

when we say goodbye?

 

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One for Your Glass

 

 

in me a wine

I want to pour for you—

each sip made

from a thousand tiny bells

still waiting to ring

 

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on the shores of you,

finding a place through the overgrowth

where I can let fall everything

and slip in and

stay

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One Whirled

 

 

 

travelling it together

this brush with forever—

galaxies in every step

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A Lesson in Metaphor

 

 

 

The stone, the couch,

the sink, the tea,

the broken glass,

the garden peas,

 

the knife, the cloud,

the thick red clay,

the ant, the weed,

the wheel, the cage,

 

the whale, the weed,

the scorpion’s sting—

we are the same

as everything.

 

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Ritual

 

 

We should have each other to tea, huh? We should have each other with cream.

“Lovecats,” The Cure

 

 

Perhaps you don’t like tea.

Perhaps you don’t like cream.

It’s not what’s in the cup that matters,

though of course there’s the lovely

unfurling of leaves and the way

that the water accepts what

it’s been given. But no.

It’s not about the tea.

It’s the ritual of the pouring that matters.

It’s the sharing from a single pot

and the all that is said and

the all that is seen as we sip.

We can fill the pot with water.

We can fill the pot with wine.

All that really matters is

that we take the time to sit

together and slowly drink—

we, two separate beings who

are choosing at the same time

to accept the same thing into ourselves.

It’s a little bit like love.

 

 

 

 

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for Heartbeat, oh my god do I love you women

 

 

each time we sing

I forget everything

except the original joy

of being one small voice

in one great song

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the dark is    less dark

and the shapes    of the world

reveal again their    singular shapes—

I know they don’t really    lose their lines in the dark,

but I like to imagine    all those newly

illumined    silhouettes

have spent the night    blurred, puddled

into one    immense darkness,

forgetting    for a while

that they have    any lines

worth    preserving.

It is enough    to make a woman

wish that    the light

would never    come

if that is    what it takes

to make us    all remember

how arbitrary    they are,

these boundaries    we like

to call    ourselves.

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Heartbeat singing at the Dolores River Festival, June 2014for Heartbeat

Here, rest in my voice
on this note we share.
And when you breathe,
I will carry the song.
And when I breathe
I know you’ll be there.
And this is how
the song goes on.
And this is how
we disappear.

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As salt dissolves in ocean, I was swallowed up in you beyond doubt or being sure.
—Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks

Glisten and wet lick
and thick river scent—
that is everything.

Swords. Shields.
Stories of who did what
to whom and when—

and all those hows, whether
divine or horrendous—
gone.

Even these words
you and me
reduce to vacant syllables

in the face of such
movement, such shine—
I could never explain but

it rushes in so clear
that whatever
we once thought

of as other is here
in the clamor
of snowmelt, here

in the river birch
waiting for green,
here in the shove of tumbling

breath as we realize wave
and lose
all we were sure of,

lose the path
that got us here,
lose even the loss of it.

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