(beneath all that)

somehow i thought it would be difficult

singer songwriter

painter performer artist

the pictures never looked like me

young and handsome, muscles lightly dancing

in shadow and light

effortless, easy, those youthful bodies

not what i saw in the mirror.

she hangs onto the microphone like a lifeline

he bends his head in awareness

of dozens (someday millions?) of fans watching him

Sing of love and hate

heartstrings playing out on the steel strung guitar

(did they ever mean what they say?)

it never looked like

me

And then

I drew

pictures of myself - visions

i keep holding microphones

close to my mouth

(i don't think i was remembering you)

And now this body

it keeps changing

I keep looking in the mirror

where did it come from?

hips protuding

collar bones, rib cages

(skin loosely sagging)

and suddenly i'm 16 again

except i was never 16 then

awash in shame and self-doubt and hidden

by the mountain of flesh

and a haze of mental processes

too deep to really call out

didn't even know

i wasn't here

didn't even know

what lay beneath

all that flesh

Eat:

eggs, butter, cheese

meat, vegetables, beans

not too much

just enough

we are just enough

i am just enough

enough to stand

enough to sing

from one valley to another

across the great divide

into your mind

to that piece of soul

that is only here briefly

precious eulogy

beneath your silliness

precious beauty

beneath the doubt

faith striving

in the curve of the hips and the intake of breath

it is not so difficult

afterall

these little cards

a pile of business cards

loosely gathered together

dreams sketched out

in the shape of names and titles

that mean nothing to everyone

but something to someone

hastly scrawled phone numbers -

a change in business, role, location, identity.

they were pressed into my hand

(sometimes i had to snatch them)

a hope a promise a thought a question

will you save me/ please work with me/promises/ really, i don't know

i could organise and re-organise them

in the past i've hung and sorted them

trying to understand and comprehend them.

where do they belong?

There may well be a Great Employer

but do we really all work for her?

i know these are blessings

these attempts at difference-making

bits of thought - what little phrase to make them remember

(donate call me do business get out of their routine)

strung together at the end of meetings

all the same size

directors and interns and musicians

these restless moving cards

easily caught by the shifts in the wind

or stuck into a drawer and forgotten

moving between us like gifts - burdens

he said they were the signs

of blessed unrest

shifting shaping unrelentlessly making

an emergency response for Gaia's flailing systems

these little cards

which so inadequately describe the shape of a life

no matter how richly decorated or conceived

but of course

we are so finite - only our souls

can possibly travel beyond our selves

these little cards

i would weave them into a pattern

but they keep changing

and i keep loosing

which card really

represents this - my - reality.

the making of an instrument

i asked

to be made an instrument

of thy will

thy peace.

they say

be careful what you ask for.

now this instrument -

what is it?

am i to be a tuba?

such a peculiar shape, you make me

curling me around myself

opening up here

closing down there

the heat of the fire

where i find myself

the smithery the pounding of the hammer

not exactly easy

but then, i asked only

for simplicity

is there not a softer gentler way?

hot coals in the mouth

earth torn assunder

torn mother from father

be of this world

not of this world -

fear not -

surely it is i not you

who set the path so steep.

maybe next time

i might be a fiddle.

gentle careful smoothing

i wouldn't mind

not quite so much pounding

hole-punching and harsh blowing.

or perhaps just a hand

to hold

in wonder

at your great symphony.

Somehow I am still

spread too thin

too many pies too many fingers

I've only got one hand

I am only

finite

Somehow I am still

caught in those old bonds

where nothing comes together

nothing builds

the ship is not leaving the harbour

just taking a tour of the bay

Somehow

the conversations are so familiar

yes we love you

yes we want you

no we can't pay you

Somehow

I'm not saying

What I really want

Systemic self reflection

empty and meaningless

Somehow

I need to change this fundamental

this core

way of operating

back when

there was no separation

somehow

i need to coalesce

the Self

it has to come together

or maybe just

a sliver

to shine on

just a bit

to flourish

just a few plants

planted far apart

so they can grow

somehow somehow

wherefore art thou

my dearest how-about-some?

may the ostrage grow eagle's wings

the great transition is -

not just not-only-not-technical; it's not just social and economic and political: we're talking about spiritualness. if we don't speak to the 'spiritual' aspects, people won't be empowered to do what needs to be done - and then they won't know how to become guideposts to others as they travel this unchartered journey.

ach, what was that?

- pause -

I should start again.

Get off my high horse.

Let me speak for myself.

Let me try this way:

i need to see this (movement?) as a spiritual (movement).

its really my own doubt that calls for such a prayer.

i just don't have enough faith

in myself or others

to believe

to really believe

that we and we alone can do this.

i need to believe

that there is some kind of a greater force

swirling within this 'movement'

i need to believe

that we are called forward

that we have now, here, an opportunity

to live out a dream reborn

to develop as full human beings

flourishing thriving supporting learning;

that climate change

and these other systemic catastrophes

are just

a ramification of a spiritual transition and I

can have the opportunity

(grant me the capacity)

to remove my ostrage skin

and grow wings big enough to catch the wind

and that these hands

may stop their relentless typing and reach

towards yours

(I can not do this alone)

may i learn

vulnerability and strength,

self-referential and interdependence

to be as

the spider on the web

the web on the leaves

the leaves in the canopy

the canopy - lord protect this canopy

from the chainsaws below

this transition:

grief and shining the light on hard places

compassion anger sadness

lost and -

found.

'great transition moments':

taking us beyond ourselves

lay aside egos (gently, the masks are so fragile

once you take them away from the warmth of your face

they become brittle)

so we can shine.

Moments:

we were standing outside on the balcony

brief and chilly and no real needs

(except perhaps the oldest)

staring at the rising concrete mass

neither of us pretending anything

silence together was enough

Moments:

letting go of beating heart and churning breath

that followed the weekly accounting

refocusing on the bright blue sky

the chance (still!)

for another step towards

who i am called to be.

Moments:

Two men leaning towards one another

Heads of movements

Two countries, two narratives, two different pathways

can they speak to one another

grappling for words in a common language

Can they work together, circling round, cautious, looking -

Where, where is the entry point

and the woman in the middle

gently questions them towards

common ground

we

so imperfectly and marvelously human.

can we intertwine such spiritual matters

into all our analysis?

can we serve ourselves bread

fresh warm and substantial

well formed

soft on the inside

to be broken

and shared

this simple bread

from the body of a living

trembling

feverish

earth.

give us this day.

i called you beloved

i called you beloved

and then i left you

and now i walk

in smoke-scented nights

where airplanes fly

but i stay standing; haven't gone anywhere

i stare

at the empty bedroom

and wonder:

what is the shape of a life?

how have i gone so long

without finding

what i've been seeking

(of course

maybe i have.)

they say

the soul likes wholeness, integrity

was i wrong

to call you beloved

when i knew i would leave you

how i dreaded the day

i would hold you close

beg you in my mind

to not make me do it alone

this separation

wanted you to do it for me

but you, naturally, would not -

how could you leave me, who called you beloved?

there must be a place

in the dance of my life

for such contradictions: pulling close and pushing away

beloveds

that i choose not to marry.

There must be a place

for me to choose something other than contradiction

a dance that isn't a 'yes but'

this push-pull

is sending me toppling over

i need to listen

to the deeper drummer.

there was once one

who said i was not enough.

no one else

stands a chance

till i experience otherwise

and sufficiency

is hard to come by in an age of austerity

abundance

feels like someone else's life

and yet -

the soul can heal all wounds

by living fully -

i called you beloved

and i meant it.

on our last walk

by the sea side

i don't recall the conversation

but your touch smell breath and the moon

that seemed to rise for us.

and maybe that night

and our love

was enough.

i'm not asking you to come back.

I'm just saying.

beneath the contradiction

lies a paradox

and beneath the paradox

a mystery

and beneath the mystery

a love so wide and deep

even the drummer

is filled with the swirls of silence

and the ocean of Light

can carry both of us

home

the moon is close tonight

the moon is close tonight

or so they say

i can't say i see much difference

maybe the moon rise was something special.

during the moon rise i was eating, body tired from walking the beauty of the clarity of the day shining through me, the beauty of the clarity of the day shining through the moments of despair there have been

moments come and go the darkness the fear

the pattern repetition

sand and waves dancing against the walls of the soul

crossing bridges i know we will but in the meantime i'm staring

at excel spread sheets and somehow

there is enough but no extra: I am squeezed

but the worse

is how familiar the bondage

chains tracing the sand as I walk in circles

pattern repetition

too many times

just barely enough, or not enough i become convinced that i am

not enough

its that old fear

closing in on the rays of the mystic bliss of the early morning sun

and the mystery

the mystery of our belonging here

so close to the moon

we are so close to the moon

i walk under the splendor starlight and drop down and kiss the ground

where deep below

the soul stirs and grows

a fire in the chilly march air

it took a long walk and the fresh clearness of the bright blue sky

to clear through me

remind me to re-member

that i'm pattern-changing

working with the deep roots of the soul

gently disentangling them from their rocks

that they've wrapped around

hinting that

actually

there's another direction to grow

there's some fresh water

over there

over there

listen -

but from the depth

the moon feels so far away.

so i keep walking the dark nights

hands reaching to moonlight, feet chilly on the frosty greens

trying not to shine analysis' light too brightly

upon the sleepy depths of what grows in clay.

it needs to rest, those roots

let the spirit do its own work

give it space

to grow close

to the pull

how can a moon pull such tides?

how can i doubt

the perfect rhythm of the universe

that we can be pulled

to right relationship

so the patterns

can create life

(the spread sheets can balance

there can be enough

there can

be

abundance)

at the edge

of shores and seas

the moon is close tonight

may it pull me close

closer to the magic

of those bright stars

and those deep ocean rhythms.

then somewhere

if love is touching the soul

and hate is the cave i built long ago

and peace

is dancing with devils to the music of angels

and dependency

is the sweet tasting wine

that will make a gutter of me

then somewhere

between heaven and hell

there must be a middle kingdom

where souls become laughing walking flesh

and flesh shines

with wrinkles and callouses,

scars and blemishes.

they say that balance

might come in between

one thing and another.

but so too does confusion.

if you've built your house of straw

on the delicate act of balancing

on confusion

then tipping and turning

may not land you right way up again

and the 'fuck it'

sounds like serenity

procrastination like self care

and the different pulls

like something worth listening to.

if love is real

(i know for you it is)

then my soul is already held.

if hate is a cave i built myself

then i can move into a new home

and the dancing devils

can find another partner

then somewhere

between heaven and earth

we can wash ourselves clean

in slightly muddy

but swiftly flowing

waters.

old again new again

here again here again the fear is here again

i built a house of straw

and then showed the wolves the secret way in

they didn't even have to

mighty huffs and puffs

to blow it down.

here again, here again the fear is here again

because now it matters

what i say of myself

now that you are gone

somehow

it matters more

what i say to myself

without your comfort

the responsibility of it

of the weight of myself

body: hips and ribs and breasts

emerging

i might as well be 17 again

for all that i don't know my own self

stare at the sky stare at the mirror

underneath the skin, oh blue

for all the sun and the slow spring

stirs the quickening in me

i might as well be 23 again

unsure of everything countered with

blind confidence

- i don't know its not possible

new-old body

new-old single-ton

coming into the bed alone again

(but tonight you won't be joining me later on)

is it the same flowers on the same tree

no the flowers are different

the year is different

it has not yet been spring this year

the tree has not yet blossomed this year

what you remember

was before

before this year

that flower

on that tree

has never

before bloomed.

lost amidst the pattern repetition

even as i'm carving new lanterns

destroying and reforming

breaking down and building up

going in and going out

cycle circle spiral climb

the ladder

the dna holds only 4 amino acids

and an infinite number of possibilities

let me work my way up

build up a house of earthy-brick

up to this new creation

again

separation problem-ations

i seem to have this problem

with clear lines, closings and appropriate linear thinking

never coloring inside the lines

tweaking the poem a little more

re-writing till the breaking of dawn (and exhaustion);

tally, just a little longer, by his side(after

he said he needs to go make a cup of tea)

an extra five minutes in bed; just

one more question at the end of class - listening

longer when she suddenly starts to tear up, never

mind i said i had to go. even

the bathroom

door is hard to shut, much less

lock and toilets

are rarely flushed;

laundry left to dry for

days the invoice

never put in that

last email had

a string of emotions

we both said we had

tied up for

good.

No wonder, really,

that your leaving

(er, me: separating)

took so long

and is still so long

in coming into becoming.

Is it the Mystery

this dualism and blurring

or just the reaction

of a child

whose father

was always leaving

even

as he journeyed to no where,

(black-pit-soul-descending)

nowhere

at all

i would but weave

i would weave you

gracious one

around me

inside and downside

the sparkling golden threads

the thin silver metal band

the curl of soup-smoke, smelling of thyme and rosemary

that you grew

the clasping hand

around the inner thigh

searching

i would weave you

ancient singer, mighty spider woman

like a spider weaves her net

for prey and the prayer of many tomorrows

for children, and the continuation

of certain types of dna-pattern recognition

for the possibility of evolution

i would weave you

oh maker of flowers

into my hair

i would weave you

lady of the ferocious gentle rivers

like reeds into a basket, a wall, a safety net

a boundary between

myself and that devil

who would have me stop

all that i start

jump

every ship

change

every direction

till i go only into the vortex

I would weave you

oh great silence

into the harsh speaking of

sharp swords and battered shields.

i would weave you

if i could but know

which of these many threads

was Yours.