Puff of Dust

Mind is chewing and spitting out

that which it doubts.

Not because it is untruth

but because it undermines

the glamour of the ego.

It says: this is dull, boring,

devoid of fun.

But when these ideas

are held up to the light

and seen for what they are,

they vanish

like a puff of dust

because there is nothing there

but the dead skin

of the separate self.

And, beyond that,

a blanket of peace;

a canvas

on which all form,

all colour,

is splashed

and alive.

Not dull, not boring;

ever-present and open

to all expression,

without dismissive, judgemental thought.

The ego sees neutrality as boring

but in that hollow

is the infinite potential

of the moment

in all its splendour,

no matter how ordinary.

Riding the Edge

Riding the edge
Between consciousness and creation,
Stillness and action,
Being and doing.
Not one, not two. 

Along that edge,
There is an opening inside me,
A letting go and stepping,
Each moment,
Into the unknown
Of the next. 

I don’t want to live
Tired and dogmatic,
Going through the motions. 

I want to awaken to life
And devote myself
To its flowering
And unfolding. 

I want to open,
Like a window,
The sun’s rays
Streaming through me. 

Through pain,
Through pleasure.
The dust motes
Dancing in the light. 

Call of the Cave – A Pantoum

I hear the call of the cave
World’s colours grown too bright
There’s no one left to save
Only the inner blood red light.

World’s colours grown too bright
I retreat into the shadow
Only the inner blood red light
Golden field lying fallow.

I retreat into the shadow
Drink deep from the well of me
Golden field lying fallow
Dancing sweet to the spell of me.

Drink deep from the well of me
There’s no one left to save
Dancing sweet to the spell of me
I hear the call of the cave.

The Wild Inside Me

The wild inside me
lives on the edge
of the stream
where gnarly roots and bracken
dip their toes
in the water.

I follow
my shaggy wolf heart
down
to the rocky crevices
that run
with the mountain’s medicine.

Black fox feet,
all muscle and movement,
awakening to the call
of the poetry
that beats in my belly.

Down here
there is no time
but the present.
And the arrows
that show the way
are drawn with twigs.

The rushing brushing music
of the waterfall
carries my thoughts
to another lifetime,
when I was always
in this:
fully immersed
in the cradle
of life, death and rebirth;
cycling its deep meaning
into my bones.

Heart

The art inside me
throbbing life
through my veins.

In your presence,
the carousel pauses
its whirling.

Colour and shape
sharpen into view.

Here I am.

Thank you heart,
for your patient humility.
While I go off galavanting
through the noisy thicket,
You await:
silent, precious;
my breathless return.