Peach Juice

over the mountains
My Dear Praskovya,

Either, we were meant to be together or I suffer from a sickness of the soul.
All things in this world are transient, but perhaps the connection we share transcends all that we deem tangible.
Since we’ve taken time to be apart, a hole has appeared in my heart, unquenchable.

A hunger I have fumbled to stifle with endless unimaginable inadequate trifle, rhubarb.

As the knife is pulled out, it’s too hard to contain the flow.
For too long I’ve held on, keeping pressure with an old rag.
It seeps, so by this point, there’s no need to hold back.

I bleed.

Profusely.
Do you see, as I do, without me beside you, my heart bleeds and tries to drain me of my spirit?

I know I must have left you bloody and bleeding from an open wound.
It must have been my own hand, which pulled the blade back from inside of you to thrust it into my own flesh.

We’ve both left trails of bloodstained dirt and found a place to rest.

Alas, I fear if we leave this to die in such a way, it would spell a sickly certain death for a sacred thread we carried.

space to restNot one thing is yet to come close to match the wealth I found inside your nest. Nothing is close to the comfort felt in the space between where our cheeks press,
Your breath is missed, mist from the Mediterranean mountaintops drift down to smother the city Pilate so detests.
Your kiss is missed.
Not one thing has come close to replicating, reinstating the feeling I received from the look you gave as you left your kisses on my head.
I hope the love is something that you know we shared.
It is something that will never leave me and it’s never left.
I could not forget.
It’s there, it’s written.
To be read.
Yet, there are still so many things left unsaid.

I miss you.
You take my breath.
I hope you’re blessed.
All the best,

Your Loving Friend.

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Freedoms

A shelter from the elements,
Land to grow food,
Responsible thought toward help for the unable.

The cost of planting a cabbage seed is the same as it has always been.

In freedom, that is.
In contemporary life, however, the cost is far greater.

We do not live in a world where freedom is free.
Freedom has a cost and god knows it is a great one.

We tell ourselves we are made in the image of God.
This can be true, if we accept, that God is all things,
Not merely one side of the polarity.

The city is a beast born from the blind.

A parasite, which grows without consideration for the host,
Our mother, Earth.

Our Earth, she is so nurturing to produce fruits to sustain our bodies.

We are born from her and as part of her.

Remove the human from the body we are born and how would we live?

This is exactly what that beastly city does do without apology.

Where once before, our feet grew from the dirt below them and our thirsts were quenched from her very veins.

Between our bodies and her bosom an ocean of concrete does impose a whole new world, grown from the gluten of eating ones own fears.

Built by a bloody line of desperation and creating a slavery of the worst kind.
So many are shackled to the cages of bright lights without the sight to see themselves as slaves at all.

Inevitably and indefinitely exhausted by the parasite, which has no remorse for the aggressive theft of their freedoms.

So, a shelter from the elements,
Land to grow food,
Responsible thought toward help for the unable.

This is enough if we are blessed with such freedoms.

For the sake of those who are imprisoned by the beast that does tear them from our mother, entranced by the constant stimulation of the senses, stifled by and bound to the mechanical teat with no hope of sustenance.

We must live life as if it were song.

We must dare to disturb the universe around us by dancing with the changing weather.

Adorn yourself with the symbols of divinity,

Let your whole being tell the story of the land and the love she has for every one of her children.

Do not let them forget, we are all the same.
We are all entitled to the freedom we long for and all it takes to attain is the courage to look into the waters to see ourselves through our tears.

 

disturb

Dear Family, Life is a Paradox

Dear Family,climbing to the cosmos
I am grateful to be here. I am blessed to experience this life.
The human experience is a complex spectrum of emotions and feelings.
I am here as a human. That is what we are taught.
We see each other. The bodies we pretend to be.
All humans are my family and beyond that.
I am a child of my parents, of this island, of this planet, of this system.
I am a child of the stars. I am a child of existence.
The moons are my mothers and the suns are my fathers.
Their sons are my brothers and the tides are my sisters.

Original Photo by Zuzanna Jarmakowska

Original Photo by Zuzanna Jarmakowska

The boundaries of my human body quiver with emotion.
There is a vibration, which permeates my edges and touches the centre of the universe and the centre of my soul.
It is an agonising pleasure to know the feelings.

Air rushes in, to hold my lungs open and as I push it back towards the sky I feel the winds move.

The waters. They course through my veins. Gratefully and steadily pumped through my flesh by the heart, which so pains me.

My flesh, my bones and the rest are the earth and will eventually return to her, grateful for the chance to be in this form, this vehicle which carries this spark, this facet of experience and as it does return, it shall bring with it all it has learnt to be written in the records of being.

This spark is the fire, which drives the engine of my life.
My spirit, this lustrous gem, Manipura.
Look through the window of my soul, and see it burning in the depths.
This is what I see when we meet.

469252_4368417645099_172337565_o At least, I try too but I like the colours in your hair and the way that you hold yourself. I like the trinkets which adorn your ears and hang around your neck, band your fingers and hands. I like the art inked onto your skin, the symbols, the messages and stories they tell.

As words are spells, which transcend their form, carving stories and tracing threads tied to anchors. They mark aspects of a complex depth denoted by buoys bobbing vaguely with the weather on the surface.

So is your form, your external being, something magic.

It is the weather of the cosmos,
Literal explosion of meaning and feeling, which send rippling waves of disturbance through space.

That space, which is the same as that inside of you, that space which, we are.

we are faulted humans

So i write you this letter just to let you know, we are the same.
Faulted humans and flawless infinity and i am grateful for it all.

Yours with love,
All that I am.

all that i am

Free Birds

free birds

A Caged Bird Sings and not of it’s fate.

Does it know that it’s caged?
Does it sing for escape?

A Free Bird sings something different, exquisite.

In Harmony.

In Cahoots with the rain fall. It’s living.

It’s Lucid, No Boundaries,

Orchestral. It’s Grounded

but found that it soars with the cacophonous sounds of existence.

It’s being.

A bird seems so small in a cage, but in freedom it’s seen that the birds just a name for that movement,

that song and its shape.

In reality, that birds beauty pervades all things.

It’s song, It’s name, It’s form and of course, it’s cage.

It’s gone.

What do you expect?

Beauty and the Beast

Photo by Zuzanna Jarmakowska

This is what i have learnt recently.
I spent two weeks in the netherlands, in a house with 22 international artists,
I approach all things with an open heart.
Work is in energy (as all) and this is expression –

I’ll write, but what?

Life is free movement,
and never our own.

I’ll allow myself the time to be and space around, within and extending beyond to feel connected.

what do i want?
do i want?
it’s hard to say..

i want to love… i do love… i live love… but love does not mean a direct exchange.

Love is to give.

To give love or to give in to love is a free process of movement.
It is to sow seeds of conception in the cycles.
Energy moves and one must stand with patience, for the harvest will return fruits and new seeds in abundance to share.

If one stands in the field waiting for harvest, it might be easy to lose faith in the process.
but why would you stand in the field and neglect the rest of life?

You would lose the energy which is required to grow.

When one lives in love and out of time, all things endured become laden with beauty and the truth that is love.

One who lives in love and out of time will always stand with the integrity and patience of knowing the cycles of existence…

Not to say, these cycles are perfectly predictable in measurement,
but in natural love and on all scales!

and the space in between all these things create those wonderous stories.

The Skelbulumgol Mungle.

The Skelbulumgol Mungle dug a deep down Jungle Bungle under bellow the humble jungle.
Bumbled Beneath the beastly battle, blathered back before the matter,
after titter tatter, laughter littered hither tither.
Sipping drips of sunshine lathered, bitter bits of blasé matters.
Misinterpreted drivel fattens out a little kibble hungry kitten,

dribbling, licking at your finger tips.
Missing mittens, or gloves, at least!

The above bits dripping and the mugs not clean.

That pumpkins fizzing but the ducks got cheese…

The horse radish runs reds. Drums got steeze.
Pump. Pop. Please, Man…
What? Me?

Jam Glops Gleam.
Pans Pop Peas.
Corn. Cops. Keys.
Dawn drops dreams.
Forms, Fox, Feeds.
Morn. Rocks.
Clean.
Born. Box.
Be.

I’m Grazing with the Cattle

 It’s been delivered in plain English and heard.

  Still, the ignorant happen not to listen and to dictate it as opinion, or in anyway, just contradicts the spirit.

It’s fallen on deaf ears and I’ve been informed I need to speak their language.

But, to do so without ego seems a heavy task to manage…

But, of course I’m grazing with the cattle!

They taught the importance of chewing through the prattle.

I’m babbling with the water source and soaking through your sandals.

 I’m immersed in the ether with roots planted deep beneath earth’s mantle.

I’m tearing barefoot through the elements, unshod through shoddy province.

That’s pure air infusing Prāṇa seen surging through my ribcage and at this stage all I can urge is, breath be practiced by the novice.

 I’m radiating flames.

I seize that you perceive it and discerned in turn, in you? The same.

I’m cooking if you’re eating.

Some food for thought and flame is offered for you to feed it.

A humble offer; to eat for free.

One would never claim one needs it.