Melting hearts open
Crying as a prayer
Flowering majestic
Breeze from nowhere

Felt and held the feeling
Carrying away
The precious joy surrendered
To this new day

I pray
Let us remember
We are not alone
Plant our roots deep
In the heart that is our home

May we be certain
Of the one who hears our prayers
Held in the arms of love
Waiting... always there

Tender as the budding
Of the red red rose
Who is the witness
When a flower blooms alone ?

Where do we come from
Where do we go ?
When the rain falls
I know what will grow

Fire burns eternal
Resting in the flame
Heart wild and free
I’m dizzy from the way you spin me

Round and round we go
Merrily we row
Flying high and low
Let’s have some fun as we
Dance along

To the farmer
The field is full of potential for food.
To the child
It is full of potential for play and imagination.
To the artist
It is full of potential for inspiration and creation.
Yet whom does the field belong?
To whom is the field Empty of wanting?
untinged by its changing landscape, inexplicably peace-filled in its containing
empty of relation, desire, untouched by the change of image, time, space
to whom itself shares the likeness of the eternal night, the cosmic womb, the place where stillness is birthed, where the mind says it cannot go, whistling in the dark to keep away from seeing the ground beneath is no longer there and there is only one heart beating and it is not the one thy calls thine own
Who can speak truth
And call anything
Thine own?
Who?

Do you decide when winter turns to spring?
What need be done?
Does the world as of you to turn the page of today
So tomorrow may come?
What need be done?
What can you say to make the birds sing?
What need be done?

Yet it is you, the source of creation.
It is you, the witness.
It is you, the one.
It is you, creating this.
And what need you do?
You have already been made in the perfect image
Of Love.

To an artist,
Emotional dishonesty
Is the only death.

Doom this body to the grave
Before asking me to choke on my pain.

These tears are verse  
This anguish, punctuation.

The deepest peace is a poem
That blooms like a rose

After the storm
In my soul

Bursts!
And pours May showers
All over the page.