Within

"Why will no lover I see
join me in chorus of Art & Music?
Instead feeding on my loins with
their loins?" He asks

"Perhaps they are satisfied
with the end week and twilight times
as feasts of carnal and seminal pleasures.
Perhaps this is enough?" I respond

Houses that are made of glass
are also reflective.
Upon seeing into the Lover's house
I catch my own reflection.

I see my limited satisfactions,
my end week and twilight times
in the same dance.
His Lover's Partner, but not.

Something glimmers & I turn.
What was it?
It is gone but it danced in
the reflection of my chest.

It could not have been
behind me.
It shone
within me.

The Divine within calls
"Come this way.
This is the way, (out)
the way to Liberty"

I turn
again
reflective glass
surround me.

"No" it says
"This way
You have finished a sentence
with words that hold no home there."

"This is the way
there is no 'out'.
The way to the Divine
is within.

My Stuff

I checked for voices left by others to ask me to call them back.
I remembered yours was there.
I was absent and you called knowing this anyways
"To hear the sound of your voice" you told.

I listened to your smile and the weight of your day in your words
I smiled back and wished to carry some of that weight
or to massage your shoulders where I thought there would be achings

I looked at your photo
still listening
my face stretched back with a smile

"Now," my heart says, "now."
ringing in my ears and you answer
"Mr. Dallas" you say to me with pillows pressed near
and I laugh

"the foolishness of phone voices and photographs are a slippery slope" I say
and you repeat the last part in laughter

"May I ask you a question?" I query
"Blue and black" you interject
I laugh
"With a yellow streak in between"
I laugh some more

I inhale to ask you again . . .
"Mexican food!" you exclaim!
I laugh louder
I am drunk from your voice

giggles continue to bubble up from my delight
to drink in your sound

"You sleep like I do"
you define your bedding approximations
"You sleep like I do"
and your voice crackles through

A perception shifts from a previous conversation
without thought I unwrap my stuff before you
I pause to listen for your pause
and speculate if I should translate or continue

I continue

My stuff used to be messy and edged with thorns and barbs
now it is flat and 2 dimensional
It is still my stuff, but much lighter and easier to carry
It fits into my wallet, like a piece of paper
tatty cornered and chamois soft

I speak of my stuff
foolishness guilt dances through
Am I being premature?
Is this too soon for such a seedling?

I finish and the child bites it's lower lip and fidgets
"what now?" the child's eyes wonder?

"thank you for letting me show you my stuff" I say

the child looks up at me looking
for an answer to your how you may respond

"I have large shoulders" you tell me
"I can carry a lot on them"

"I do not wish for you to carry my stuff"
I share gently
"I only wish that you acknowledge it and respect it"

"I prefer to carry my own stuff
but I know you will treat it with the respect, compassion, tenderness and love I see in your eyes"
" . . . absolutely. . . " you crackle with sleepiness

"I would like to poke at your stuff
Look at it and examine it
See what it looks like
Pick it up and hold it"

"You may" I say
" . . . and you may have as much time as you like to look at it"
I wink with my voice
You laugh a tired laugh and we offer blessing of restful sleep

Many perceptions shift in your presence
You tell me I am a remarkable man
and the fidgeting child vanishes within the Universe