The weight of the Goddess is in me
Her warmth is inside the inside
Where there is no “inside.”
What is She?
She is a thought of form,
An urge to go inside
Where my eyes
Go blind in Hers.
Where is She?
I hold Her at night
I carry Her
Like a hungry child
In my belly.
Joy and light
Joy and light
Joy and light
But also a dark radiance
A breath shining in my breath darkly.
This wanting
This urge to sink
My teeth into Her blood
And taste
Her eternal need
For me, myself.
Do you now hear Her
I found You one day
on the tip of my tongue
on the fine hairs
of the back of my hands,
on the margin
of what can be heard and seen.
"Make Me real" You said.
"Make Me your love."
And I did.
I pulled You into me
through the flesh of my words,
through the subtle channels
of every hair on my body.
I consumed You like air.
Drank You like wine.
No scripture has written of this
but each moment
my spirit composes You.
You enter through the endless
doors and windows of being.
Sometimes You come through
the dancing molecules of self,
sometimes just as light
through a crumbling wall.
"Make Me Real" You said.
Each day our poetry
surfaces above
the skin of the world
as real as any sunrise.
.bmp)
You cried out
as we came together.
It is not that you come and go
but some instants
are closer than blood and flesh
closer than breath
closer than sexual union.
Sometimes I find you
on the tip of a finger
or in the plasma of being
You emerge as a part of myself
drowning in a part of You.
Some call these moments, bliss
I don't name them
but when they rage up
like sap, upwards
through the stalk of life-
when mind falls wordlessly
into Your eyes
You so expertly catch hold
of what is left.
Your beauty
pulls minds like babes
out of each grain of sand.
It conditions flowers to bleed light.
It dances in the blood
where every cell is a shoe
for Your steps.
I don’t think I am You
I don’t think of You or I.
I feel.
I feel the breath of Your beauty.
I feel the lightness of Your flowers
opening under my skin
where the void arises.
You are not a thing to paint
or to compare.
Your beauty
is a flare of radiance,
a glimmer
only the heart can see
or remember
as the eyes dream.
Mutual waves tumble together
breaking open
the way water breaks open
into itself.
I have nothing of my own anymore
unless one can claim
this surf and tide of passion.
Pillers and eddies of lust
have no name.
The ocean has no eyes
but knows every molecule
to be itself.
We don’t sneak up on each other now.
This passion
is a slow dance
in the heat of a moment.
I know what You are saying
because I speak with Your hands.
I am that part of You
that lip-reads flesh.
I carry
the scent of desire
on Your fingertips.
When your fingertips
become pure devotion.
When your skin
opens its prayer book
She will come to you
half-dressed like your hands.
She will fit the shape
of your longing
like a flower
becomes a glove for the sky.
Image-
Medium: pencil and ash on paper
Artist: Pushkaraj Shirke
It happened again
Your glancing blow
made the sky tremble.
My body flowered
within a bright raincloud
as if You had touched me
in-between my life
and Yours.
And because there is nothing
between my life and Yours
we both said:
My God!
My fingertips are
deep wells in Your body.
That place where passion
shapes longing into form.
Who is the creator here?
Do I sculpt or am I
shaped by Your imagination?
My hands image You
then You compose me
as a poem
or as drops of blood.
The bell ringer
has become the inside of the bell
The drum beats the stick.
Birds nest in my eyes
to give birth to You.
Who is the Goddess
when every flower paints its face
with Your presence?
Who creates thoughts and feelings,
then wears them to be seen?
I am a depth for You
to pray within.
The Magdalene takes you to Her cave in the sky:
you are taught the scripture of Her body
its starry gaze, its dark blooms
where rooms open to become heavens.
She lays you down in Her,
She invites
and bids you enter.
Mary anoints you.
Mary washes your feet with Her hair.
She leads you into Her bridal chambers,
She teaches you the mystery of poetry
how the holy words are inward and female
and must be dressed to be seen.
Then like a seed too full of the sky
you break open to form a mouth for Her prayers.
She speaks to you like mist and sunlight
Her voice releasing
one delicate frond of passion after another.
She sheds two thousand years of tears for you.
You hold her close not daring to speak
daring only to be human enough.
You hold Her like a bee holds a bloom
gathered intimately around as taste and scent.
She tells you that you are Her Jesus
She holds your hand
reading the pain of your life across its palm
a life spent walking away from the Magdalene
away from the Goddess
until you remembered
until your heart opened at last
like a flower in the cave of Her love.
Her love letters
stay unopened
until you find a poetry
to translate their words.
She writes in green sap
in first light
in the dark blood of passion.
She engraves Her flowers
over moonlight
where hands melt to touch Her.
I write.
Words come flying in
like crows
some are crippled by the light.
Some are hobbled
by a grappling darkness
but they come.
I return Her letters
in bundles of self.
I scratch out a poem
and while it is still bleeding
offer it to Her lips.
Painting: The Unopened Letter. (c) James C. Christensen
www.jameschristensen.com/saintsandangels.html
I thrive in You
I flourish as the lips
of Your mouth.
The folded roundness
of Your love has a shape
within me
that I now curl around
as Your own limbs.
There was a time
when I knew
nothing of the Goddess,
and how She lives like a hand
in the glove of being.
I did not flourish
I would sift my life
through a withering mirage.
Then You stole my body
and took it to live in You.
I slipped easily
into Your secret places.
Gardens of delight
where both of us
thrive.
We part like waves
that break still joined at the hip.
I become Your mouth
while You remain
this molten language of blood.
We have to keep moving in and out
of this nearness and distance
to make room for speech.
Not a talking, but the sound of desire
as it sings in the throat of an infinite longing.
The prayer of one hand beseeching another
to clasp where its fingers ask and open.
The connected and adjacent speech
of this body of our love
as it turns this way and that to make words
for the one heart to utter.
~~
Body Language IX
by Alfred Gockel
I know how to paint You,
how to make myself a color
to be melted down
in the bloods cloudy cauldron
until I become sheer enough
to be Your image.
I have no artistry
I simply supply the vessels
of light and dark
with their open mouths
of desire
where Your presence
can be mixed.
I know how to paint You,
how to be a canvas
so soaked through
with heavy tones and textures
that its fabric falls apart
painting a shadow
of Your beauty.
~~
Chinese Painting On Xuan Pape-Nude Beauty W/Tiger 27"Lx27"W
chinesepaintingonlineartgallery.com/index.php...
We dance together
in-between the thought of bodies:
An evaporation of beauty into passion
that reappears
as a single bloom of lust.
This equation of flesh and breath
becomes a flow of adoration
a sexual prayer for hands to drown within.
Water and heat create a tongue
that dissolves and shapes dreams
with a labile language of love.
We lay folded into each other
like wet towels by a pool of stars.
There is a heaviness
that we feel deeply like air.
There is a ribbed bud of ecstasy
that tastes the void.
I have something left to give You.
I have this deep space
where You planted darkness
like a seed. A germ of the sun
hidden in my long night.
I have this depth
that was born to wait
like soil waits to be turned over.
That is what I have left
and just what it is,
what can be found
in this crushed cosmos
of self
You alone can discover
as you plunge fingers
of light
into my earth
with the ravishing patience
of loveseeking its own face.
The night has a skin
as deep as the ocean
for those who dive into themselves.
If I lay still
and naked of thought
I become a shell
for Your waves.
A memory of the future
that must be recalled
out of the past.
If I sometimes leak being
over the rim of You
it is because
I am a blind edge
of the sea.
I must flow
like water
being tipped out
of a shell
deep within Your ocean
or pour like the night
out of its hollowness
as a light inside
the flow of us.
What is real?
This hand I hold up in the dark
is Your mirror
I see You as real as light.
I am naked
You are naked
but whether there is less
or more of me--I cannot say.
This body is as real as Your breath
this flesh as empty as my hands
but I hold You
I feel Your desire to be held.
I tremble where You reach.
What is my heart saying?
Does it chime Your presence
or mine?
What reality clasps me to its breast
afraid to speak
least one of us is missing?
I lift Your dress
with words and poetry
but Your nails rip my soul
to shreds.
Why do you say Yourself
so rapturously in me?
Your limbs grip,
Your mouth crushes essence
into wine
as we both struggle together
wanting to speak beyond two
but failing even
to speak for ourselves.
If I or You are unreal
who moans to be killed
or brought to a climax
like meat to the fire?
Who calls my name
so sweetly
as if it were
the very taste of love?
Dawn is a place
to awaken to Her
last breath.
A pause trembles
as if you had surrendered
a deep blood flow
for a trickle
of twilight drool.
An unclasping
turns into empty hands.
You are turned over
like a stone
until your face
like moss
fades into appearance.
Rolled over
into the intimate light
of Her darkness.
Dawn finds you
reaching for Her,
but before you can pull
the sky further inwards
you must sew Her being
around you,
each thread of longing
must be stitched
into your soul
before the blind day
learns to see.
I lift Her into me. I do not know how:
A cradle of breath
woven from longing.
lends me power.
I am walked through Her.
Eyes look into their own windows.
I am hunger
but She eats me like salted butter.
We fondle interior positions.
The art is to be always moving
into each other
like water to thirst.
Dark blooms open
only when touched into light.
The shadows
under the lintels of thresholds
pull the outside in
through inner recesses
like fingers.
I don’t know how
but you can feel love
moving into position
you tremble when touched
by an interior kiss.
The how does not matter
only the when.
Let others talk of scripture
we write our own.
I trace myself over
Your untraceable body
feeling each curve and cleft
every sensual curl
of Your secret revelations.
I fold within You
but inwards or outwards
are meaningless
when all there is, is the folding.
The taste of You
blushing into forms
that only love can see.
There is no doubt
who is here.
You lead me into You
to a place where I am a thought,
an idea you undress
and then wear
as Yourself.
A gleaming creature
as angelic as the night
involves within us.
We are a mutual flower
of its conception.
Its harbor is the void
of a fathomless radiance.
Our child
feels its way
through starry limbs.
It explores
this space of itself
and the unleashed
flesh of its love.
I hold You to me
like the earth holds the sky.
Your womb is full of my rain,
my breath grows deeper
into Your labor pains.
We talk.
A mouth in the heart speaks
while the mind falls
like rain into silent pools.
A darkness converses
with its own glossy tongue.
It is a communion
at the summit of words
where symbols
learn to fly.
We talk, in moth flights,
in glowing embers,
in the painted feathers
of choral symphonies.
One single flute
finds its hollow voice
and gives it to You
to breathe through.
We also listen.
We listen
to the whispers and moans
of a bottomless chasm
as it forms a mouth
for words
only the wordless
can utter.
Being born again
is not such a difficult thing.
You need only die slowly
to all that you know
and to all
that you cannot carry
any longer.
Then you return
like a clear day in Spring
to be the blush
upon Her cheek,
the grace of Her eyebrow,
the dew of Her speech.
You become Her work.
Her poetry,
Her hands and feet.
Simply breathing
becomes an erotic dance,
a prayer between your left side
and your right.
You run inwards
seeking this body of love
you inhabit
but all you find
is more
of Her soul.
We form an opening.
A dance half clad
like a wanton circle.
I am deeply rooted
in You.
Dragons soar
with a fluid sap.
We are the burning portraits
of all images
where only full red lips
remain.
I am the gravity and light
of Your words
as they speak
of a need
we both
must feed upon
like air
uttering flames in the
mouth of love.
Image: Birth of Venus (C)
Jonathon Earl Bowswer
www.geocities.com/heartland/lake/3483/venus.html
If I pray like a bud in my own darkness,
if I am still and wanting;
then I can feel what the night feels
as shadows undress
their desires together.
When shudders are winks,
when boulders of silence
melt into tangled limbs,
when I am the passionate wound
of Your own womb:
Then I am for an instant
a flavor you choose
for Your taste.
Because I am an empty bone,
the croon of a phantom song,
because I am a hollow drum
for Your beating breath:
I can only become
this shimmering rain
within You.
A falling ripeness,
a drop of You alone
in the darkness
of my bud of light.
When dark flowers bloom
You are the light that feeds them.
I share my moments like candy.
Vision melts away
to be recovered again
as a casualty of passion.
We grasp the light and dark
like flesh,
like the dusky petals
of night blooms.
We do not speak in pairs
or in opposites
not in Oneness
for we are real lovers
and not a concept
of what can be.
I purse my whole body
unwinding into you
like a green stem curls
giving shape
to the space of the sky.
You moan
or is it my skin
talking under
your feeding lips?
(c) Image may be traced to this link
www.the-wild-flower-trilogy.com/flowers_of_th...
Aoide (voice)
Together we make the tongue and its cave.
The same hand that caresses Your breath
is our intimate flesh speaking.
I hunt You where You chase
Your dancing heart.
You are the song and the singer
the regalia of worship.
Melete (practice)
As a ritual of space and occasion
I plant my soul in Your presence.
With the meek hands of passion
I form the prayers of Your love.
A practice in the fecund openings
where invocations are the movement
of one place within another-
a daily ceremony of the light
as it learns to speak again.
Mneme (memory)
I am recollected into pools
for Your water.
Areas in which to bathe
to be made whole
as You empty Me out.
You paint the past
and with every heartbeat
hammer eternity into sound and vision.
I am unfastened from incidence
as You remember Yourself in me.
The night has rooms
of breath and presence.
There are gardens
where silence
is a nightingale.
There are alcoves
where we can pause
to be each other.
You lead me inwards
into a bud of twilight,
an enfolding
of our living-space.
Within my eyes
You wash
the ruby blossoms
of passion.
The Night Garden: Roberta Weir (C)
service.foliolink.com/Image.asp?ImageID=24404...
If you let me in
I will push my soul
like the root of the sky
into you.
Geisha,
crone, street girl
only you
can pull me into
every door of desire.
I am a love-poem
You write
on a kimono of light.
A mystery told
through ancient eyes,
the white thigh
within your dark stockings.
Pull me into you
through the narrow
or the wide.
I will become
the shape
of any door
that is a threshold
of love.
Photo: Eolo Perfido
www.eoloperfido.com/portfolio_decadent.htm
Why do we still struggle
like famished beasts together?
Why these striations of passion
this inner bruising
where Your thighs crush?
Sometimes I am a gender
so blended into desire
that male and female
become just one flower
we hold in our hands.
Your lion is in my skin and flesh.
This grappling with the void
spills over into saline prayers
that climb to heaven
as ravishing angels.
If I am out of myself
being one feather
in Your endless flight
we brush against each other
like the wind and the waves.
Then there is the
entering and becoming
when You and I
are the flying away
of everything
but the dazzle of astonishment.
You do not come to me
and I do not receive You.
This place where we meet
is tidal, like a lunar womb.
When a bud opens to the sun
that perfume
is the essence of One.
When lovers grasp
that inner kiss
only bliss speaks.
Sea Goddess - Acrylic Prints by Brandy Saturley
We are together
like the satin whispers
of darkly reaching minds.
You are pregnant
with my life.
Hands have flown away
to become the erotic tales
of lesser gods.
We use a tactile water
that overflows into movement;
its soul and sensation
is Your body.
This dance we arrange
has rounded vowels
that journey into their own mouths.
A singing silence
moves sound around
like legs and arms.
We keep running to the
water fountain
to taste the pleasure
fluids have
when they seep out
of one form into another.
We are together
like the silken threads
of a woven starlight.
I am what You spin
into a web
of Your own passion.
~~
Image (C) Bard Judith: Expectancy.
www.santharia.com/religions/jeyriall.htm
Silence undresses
to become Your breath.
We mind-dance for a while-
some romance
on the rim of vision-
a little flirtation
with active volcanos.
This passion-play
is dangerous
ants and anteaters
hunt together like this.
Lions lick their
freshly killed hearts
like this.
Glass grinds under the sky
everything shatters
even blood and dreams.
You open a window
into a room where I am not
and You find me there.
She comes fully clothed
like snow painted
on deep blue.
Immediately
I am
much too heavy
for my heart to bear.
I jump out
of a green pool;
a seal remembering
drowning eyes.
But let me talk of before.
Of reflected images
in the sharp blade
of Her loveliness.
I recall
mounting a wild horse
all night and day
until She offered up
Her meadow to be flooded.
Now wherever
this bud of desire opens
She forms the fragrance.
She paints over Her own beauty.
While I have become only snow
falling into Her deep blue.
Cupped hands under thirst.
I reach for You
from a trembling branch-
from an arched spine of prayers.
You have become the concealed sky
of a deep planting.
Everywhere there is succulence:
The interior mouth of silence and honey.
No one saw us disappear into each other.
No one saw spring-time
lift its green skirt up in anticipation
but we feel the damp thighs
of this want as it speaks
for our stunned hearts.
