The Trajectory of Falling Leaves

Yesterday, you asked: “tell me, what does ‘freedom’ mean to you?”

And, for several minutes after processing this question,

I couldn’t speak.

Caught between who I aim to be, and

A past that doggedly, somewhat relentlessly

Pesters this present

Version of me.

Answers appeared, when

Suddenly I found

My selves walking, breathing,

Supporting all the

Peace that is possible

In these imperfect

Moments of being.

When you realize

There is no

Missing tile, in

The mosaic of

This pulsing stream –

Except the one

You habitually seek –

Then, you are ‘free’.

When you stop

Trying to predict

The trajectory of

Falling leaves, and

Instead notice how

They burn like shooting stars

Spreading their light, and

Gaining speed. Even,

At the brink.

Then, it does not matter if

They float or sink;

Or, are swept away

By the stream.

Just inhale the intoxicating perfumes

They release.......Ah, 

Death never smelled so sweet.

Then, it all unfolds like

A Golden Bowl of Love : 

Brimming, with

Plenty to share.

(*For: Salsa Sarah and TJ Rogers: Two giving souls, brimming with so much goodness that they are willing and eager to share. You bring so many blessings. The world needs the work that you do. Thank you. <3 )

Bound to This Wheel

Wrapped in an

Uncomfortable, plastic shroud

Leaving empty seeming rooms,

Pacing halls to avoid

The stare of clocks.

Trying to escape a darkness

That threatens to eclipse

All the rest of my time.

Finally, I break down –

Accepting, acknowledging

This presence with

A resounding, “Yes!”

Then, I wonder:
How you respond

When you are called.

Because we live,

Bound to this wheel,

Between now

And infinity –

An intimate initiation

In the art of transformation.

On our way to becoming,

We must prepare our selves

As vessels, ready to receive.

Often, we fail to see

Even that which is

Happening in front

Of our eyes.

Language, for example

Is merely an approximation,

An alternate version, a

Reflection of the reality

We, personally, perceive.

Why trust some thing

That exists only skin deep?

It is my fingers that

Keep seeking

Primordial materials.

An insatiable desire

To experience

This flexibility of form,

Reminds me to remain both:

Durable and impressionable.

The potter knows:

Clay, like life,

Is not just

Some thing

You are shaping;

It exerts force,

Commands a will,

And channels energy

That is capable of

Touching you, too.

It clings to cuticles,

Seeps into all the

Endless cracks, and

Lives in the layers.

Eventually, it starts to distort

How we measure distance,

Our ability to defend barriers.

But, losing certainty

Isn’t a reduction –

It’s an expansion of

All things possible

For us to be.

In letting go,

We create space

That allows for healing:

Rinsed,

Re-newed,

Ready to be,

Re-used,

Re-purposed,

Re-leased.

In Celebration

 For: John Cozzemera -- a wonderful man of many talents, much love, and endless dreams...

I.

So many years ago,

I stumbled across

Our story –

It was already written:

The isolated, rooted-flower

Meets the lonely, air-borne prince.

For once, they encounter

Another who understands

How they speak.

In quiet moments,

Any fool could’ve seen

How our faces strained,

How we tried to mask,

Or ignore

Deep, aching pain.

Because “family” became

A haunting echo –

We were both

Abandoned and betrayed.

Your mother forgot about

You, the scratched,

Scampering child

Of the trees.

My sister left me

To bloom, while she

Clipped off her leaves,

Shed petals, and somehow

Lived as just a husk,

A withered stalk, of herself.

II.

That Autumn, trodding through

A sea of leaves,

I saw you

Clinging to the branches,

Glowing red, and

Shaking wooden limbs.
Pushing, pressing, testing –

While others were merely fading.

We became entangled,

My rib cage straining,

Bursting in anticipation.

Unspeakably wonderful,

Mischievous promises

Live in your eyes.

I know, when I dive in,

Get caught up in their stream,

This is where I wish

To live, too.

III.

Just

One

Heart

Needing

Deepest

Affection.

Nothing’s

Impossible,

Earnestly

Loving.

IV.

We change the game,

When we decide

To change our names.

You plant this seed,

And I smile sunshine,

Watching how we

Grow in these days.

Some will pelt us,

Hail us with

Narrowed minds, looks,

And speech –

Trying to tear

Our leaves.

None of their poison

Is effective.

Though this pollution

Is a persistent,

Steady creep,

It does not

Penetrate our

New formed roots.

No thing seeps  

In to the soil

We have created,

 By composting our

Collective schemes,

A cyclical turning over

Of materials,

Watering, nurturing

The disintegration with

The tears we shed while

Yearning,

Reaching,

Grasping

For our

Ever-changing dreams.

V.

Who was I before

You brought those dirty feet

That started leaving prints

On all of my sheets?

I built a wall so high

That your desire to climb

Drove you straight over the tippy-top

We woke up one morning in

A pleasantly sticky situation

Fast fucking forward five years:

We bought some things

And got some rings

Litter paws, scratches, and all.

Why do I turn to

My father's coarse and aggressive language,

And my mother's river of tears?

You like to joke and

Ask me why I wear "flood pants"

Isn't it obvious?

Who am I now?

'Cause I only seem to know

This restless stirring -- 

Mostly I am seeking.

These days are spent

Struggling to believe

In anything 

That's worth at least

As much

As you.

VI.

When we are tested,

Fatigued, and rewards

We seek seem

Ever further out

Of our reach,

There is solace

In your smile.
We are wrapped,

In rags, yet

Your eyes

Still glisten.

Together, we are learning:

Wealth is not some thing

To measure, not

Some thing to keep.

The skin on your back,

Is a priceless canvas.

I do not tire

Of brushing my

Fingertips across it,

Of painting you

To sleep.

VII.

On the calendar,

We do measure

Some thing valuable,

Some thing to spend

Together: Time.

You circle and highlight,

You mark and inscribe

Our days.

Each robin’s egg

A promise

We joyously

Re-make.

Grab my hand,

Won’t you?

As we wander

Toward the brink

Of this next leap –

Laying, by your side,

Breathing into

The night’s Void,

I cannot help

But explode

And expand

In celebration of

These simple gifts.