I found
My mat,
Today,
Squeezed
Between
Housework
And workwork
In a space
Too small
And too quick
To expect
The twists
And bridges
And wheels
That unfolded there.
I smiled,
At the end,
Folding forward
In thanks
For the unexpected
That shows up
In the in-betweens.

The rhythm comes
Easily tonight,
With a day’s-worth
Of doings
And thinkings
And feelings
Looking to settle.
And the breath
Shares the beat
With the body
On repeat -
Pulling,
Folding,
Melting,
Breathing.
I pull.
I fold.
I melt.
And breathe.
And breathe.
And breathe...
I’m all colored bits
Bound in wax paper
When your voice
Whisks me back -
“Baby?”

Wandering,
Ragged,
And worn,
I stumble on
To my mat.
And reaching
Past its
Rubber edges
I gather
The pieces
Of me
Strewn about -
Knees and elbows,
Tips and toes,
A bit of flesh,
An ***** or two -
Each finding
Its place
So I can find mine
Before sunrise.

Some days
(Especially those that echo with
“Move,” and
“Hurry,” and
“Do, do, do... but don’t!...”)
Those days
I may just sit,
And breathe,
And come back to sitting
And breathing
And if it takes
Every moment
Of my practice
To arrive,
Still,
I find myself there.

And in the morning
I roll out
My old mat.
And on it
I gather
My stray
Yearnings
Concerns
Memories
Regrets
Hopes
Et cetera,
Making room
For them to thrash
And reach
And tumble about
Without taking me with them.

She floods
Her skin
With intention,
“Be here.”
She wills
Herself
Back.
Backs away
From the lure
Of stories
That make
The hurt
Make sense.
(Stories
That make
The hurt.)
And his smell
Is familiar
And sweet.

The problem is that you always end up wanting more, right?
You can never be fulfilled with what you have.
Time either eats away at your regards
for certain things, or instead packs on layers of
desire, need, and growing relentlessness
in obtaining whatever it is you so desire.
It's quite sad, really,
how I might look at you from a distance
and feel shock, alarm, sadness, and pity
for being so engulfed in things that
will fade away, things that won't
work out, things that aren't worthy of
relinquishing in the light of your attention,
things that are consuming
bit by bit, the good, unique aspects
of you as a person.
You are waist deep, clawing into the abyss,
your eyes shining with desire, for something,
whatever it is, to become "more,"
to expand and transform into something that would
fulfill the extent of your feelings,
so you say.
How did you get so caught up
in it? How could you do that to yourself?
In a better place and time,
you exist for everyone and everything good,
not just for yourself.
You are kind, warm-hearted, open to those
who are laughing and crying,
to those falling and rising, to those coming
onto the shore, or washing away with the tides
into a beautiful, tragic sunset.
You exist to look directly into my soul
and talk to me
like you could talk to no other.
Because I'm not someone who needs help
with not giving into
worldly desires that will drain me of my
essence and life.
I try hard not to lose who I am,
and you won't ever see me harming
anybody or anything.
At the end of the day, we would
walk side by side on the shore
of a foamy, dark blue ocean carrying on its waves
lost dreams and souls out into the horizon,
and we would both agree that it has
been a good time, and that we have
established some sort of peace within ourselves,
that we no longer need to turn to
worldly desires and moments riding on
the seconds of a clock, in being able to
feel something calm and transparent.
We would both be liberated
from this world when we die.
That's all that I ever wanted when
I look at you.
You see... that's all that I ever wanted.

Life should be more than a journey
Between the cradle and the grave;
Life could be more an odyssey
Should one choose to live, to be brave!