Tag: truth (Page 4 of 5)

Moments Before (A Mature, Tantric Journey)

October 29, 2019 / Tom

As the Sun rose, a familiar calm nestled in my body. Beads of sweat tumbled from my skin, soaking our altar where the heights of passion had just pulled us out of our question and flung us into our answer. You, me, heaven all exist in this space, in this now, in this life. We need be nowhere else.

Moments before I had looked up at you, watching you bite your lower lip in time with the rhythm of your hips. I could see your body highlighted in the moonlight and the little rivers of glistening joy running between your breasts. My hands on your hips, I pulled you closer until we had squeezed ever bit of space out from between us. Your gasp, your moan, your letting go, your quiver. My heaven.

Moments before you had taken me in. All of me. I had filled you, and you surrounded me, the flesh speaking tongues of spirit, the heart crying tears of joy. My lips devoured you, my arms held you, my fingers caressed you as the once glowing embers of desire flashed into a roaring eruption. Second, minutes, hours had passed yet no timepiece ruled the night. Our souls passed from the humanness of our being and into the Lightness of our truth, a truth found in the rhythm of our movement. Movement that matched the tempo of our hearts, and the pulsing of our souls.

Moments before you had held my head in your hands and kissed me with a fire that burned beyond our human perception. Our mouths united, our tongues played and our hands touched those secret places only love can find. In a single, united breath we discarded the veils that hide our treasures, allowing our fear to fall forever to the floor. We left ourselves open, our hearts exposed and our minds open to the infinite. Such bliss. Such warmth. Such love.

Moments before we had stood facing an evening sun creeping slowly behind the western mountains. In the pinkish hue of this promise your head rested lightly on my shoulder, your hand tangled softly with my own. In the silence of this moment I could hear your heart beating in the slight Spring breeze, a breeze that carried your fragrance amid a touch that united our souls. In the swirl of soulful magic I saw you in the fading light and was reminded I am but a man beside a beautiful woman. I noticed how your eyes sparkled in the sunlight, how your soft lips glistened in the twilight, how your breasts always seemed to tease me and how your body had awakened me from certain slumber. Whatever life my bring, whatever it has brought, I am here with you now. Then, a silent prayer.

For the moments before I had always wondered. In the moments since I had always known. In the moments to come I will be ready. There will be more.

The Captain

October 25, 2019 / Tom

I see you, old man.

Some may call the light in your eyes crazy, but I see the pure, unshackled joy in them. I see each ray of your light as a synopsis of an untold and unedited story, a magical journey most would not understand because you have written it all by yourself. I see the love pouring out of you while you draw your art, ready to share it with a world that does not understand you. You put your purest thoughts in colorful shapes on a poster board, hoping to share a bit of your light with others and that they return the favor with a few quarters lying without purpose in their cup holder.

I see the way you smile, the way your light shines through the spaces where teeth once lived. Your weathered and aged skin bears the lines of a billion smiles and signs of a billion tears, and your lips curve naturally upward as though you sleep with a perpetual smile. When you smile I notice one eye closes just a bit, like an old sea captain mastering an aging schooner. I see you looking at each approaching car as though they were stars in the nighttime sky being used to plot a course to lands still unknown. I see you weaving a tale in your mind, each footfall a word spoken to those deafened by their own imprisonment. I see a bit of you in a lot of me, and I don’t even know your name.

Yet through what I can see, I can also feel. I can feel the heartbreak, the loss, the misery and the chaos. I can see your joy but I can feel your sorrow. I can see you arguing with invisible antagonists and hear your voice holding firm against their tide. I feel them teasing you, poking at your wounds, reminding you of why you ran away to take your place among the anonymous. I can feel them breaking your heart over and over again, and I can feel you wanting them to leave you alone even as you grasp tightly hoping to never let them go. You are not anonymous, my brother, not to some of us who can dream, who can feel, and can sense the currents of life under the hull of own ship. Those of us who know we are but seconds away from being just like you honor your kingship, while those of us who fear being like you turn our heads in ignorance, ignoring that part of you that is so much a part of us.

I’ve seen you walking, pushing your overflowing cart for miles to that island where you spend your days. I once wondered how you magically appeared until one day my question was answered and I saw your old body pushing that cart at least a mile and half from your destination. I came back that way an hour later and there you were, sitting in your own world, drawing on your poster board while waiting for the stars to shine. I’ve watched you walk up and down the roadway, art in hand. Once in a while someone would provide you a gift, yet very few of them would seem to appreciate the gift you were in return. If only they would exist in the experience, they would have seen the glory of the moment. They would have seen your smile and felt their own. They would have known something unique, maybe for the very first time.

Yes, I see you, old man. Not that you’ve asked me to, but because I can’t help myself. You’d likely wish to stay anonymous, just a crazy artist most would believe lazy and inept. Yet I know you. You work harder than most, trudging up lonely highways with nothing but the voices to keep you company. You live for a smile and a few shekels, and the liberation your flight has given. You talk to yourself in the open unlike me who is too afraid to let those voices roam in that ether. You have built your ship, raised its masts, and found one port nestled on the island where you tell your stories. I know there is a part of me who is jealous of you while there is another part of me who fears being just like you. The two may never reconcile themselves, but I know I am more like you than you are like me.

Tonight, I will hop in my car and head to a comfortable place with comfortable people. You will pack up your cart and walk miles just relish in your anonymity. I will find some distraction to keep my voices subdued while you engage in a lively debate with your own. I will seek refuge tomorrow among the beasts and hills and the open trails, while you will seek to engage others who fear you, who ignore you, or who give you a tiny bit of their refuse as a gift. I will bask in the beauty of nature while you deal with the insanity of people who see you as insane yourself. Yet both our ships will sail in their own way, and the seaworthiness of our souls will be challenged in the journey ahead. We’ll both beg for winds to fill our masts while cursing them as they seek to drown us in our misery. One of us will dress the part of the Captain while the other works naked in the rain. Just know I see you, and that part of us that exists in reflection, and that the part of me that is speaking to you is that part of me that is you.

Take care, my brother. In truth, Namaskar.

The Risen Man

October 18, 2019 / Tom

When the Phoenix rises above the ash, he has no desire to return. That’s how the Phoenix knows he has risen, when the cocoon of ash and ember no longer hold any appeal. He may tell the story of destruction, of death, of rebirth and of resurrection but only the living part of that tale is his. What came before his rebirth fails to matter. What matters is he lives and rises to the Sun, and surrenders not to any darkness.

Until that moment when the piles of blowing ash no longer stain his mind, he is a slave to it. Until that moment when the pulsing-orange embers cease to burn his soul, he can only focus on the pain. Until that moment when his fisted hand rises into the mountain air, he will be buried beneath the surface of his agony. He will say words like “healing” and “growth” but he will mean none of it. A seedling may seek the sapling, but until he pushes through the soil his is but a hope, an egg in which no bird can fly.

The seedling cannot bloom to share its fragrance with the wind, and the egg cannot sour among the breezes of this life. Born in the nest of ash and ember he is but a promise, a dot of potential to which no truth can be assigned. Yet, with some battles and some defeats he finds his true victory. He stirs to crack the surface of his ashen shell, punches through the shell that once imprisoned him, and feels the clean air for the first time. Once risen, he cannot fall even when he falters before his god. He can only fly. He can only soar. He can only live his truth.

Once that breath of life fills his chest there is no death in which to surrender. The body may surrender but the soul that burst him through the ash will live eternal. He will leave his footprints in the mud and, sometimes, drops of blood upon the soil that guides him in his travels, but he will not die. Those who knew him will hear his song ring out from within the forest veils. They will feel him in the drops of dew that wash their tired feet. They will know him in their own rising, and they will find him as their shackles fall to the ground. Their name will be his, and his will be theirs, and they will forever be bound in the life that births their quest, and the quest that births their life.

Return to the hell that burned him is impossible. He never gives that thought a moment of attention. It becomes like a subtle whisper in the woods, one you know is there but cannot be truly heard. He is healed, truly, remarkably, and with that wisdom in his heart he turns to face the wind, smiles, and takes to the flight he was born to take.

A Conversation With Mom

June 3, 2019 / Tom

Last night, a dream.

It wasn’t just any dream, but that lucid type of dream that somehow feels real yet your eyes open in the spot where you last closed them. It wasn’t just any dream, but the type of dream that left me shaken, stirred, yet completely at peace. It wasn’t just any dream, but a conversation between my heart and the greatest wound I had ever faced.

In this dream, I talked to my mother.

My mother had done horrible things to her son, taught him horrible lessons that would see many monuments of his life reduced to rubble. She had given him the gift of mistrust, of confounding fear that everyone in life was going to hurt him in the various ways they will, and those gifts would ruin so many wonderful moments and distort so many wonderful views along his path. So much pain. So much fear. So much to overcome.

I have long forgiven my mother for those things. After years of allowing proverbial and literal bloodfalls to pour from those open wounds, I came to the realization that she gave me those gifts but it was I who decided to hold onto them. I never did get to have a discussion with my mother about this in life. I never received an apology for the lies, for the pain, for the wounds inflicted on both my mind and my body while she breathed the air we shared. While many in my family continue the lie in denial of all that was, I was haunted by my mother’s ghost long before she died, and I still wince when those wounds are pressed, although the wincing is hardly noticeable by the world outside my own mind.

I don’t forsake that reaction. I face it and master it nearly every time I feel the triggers pulled. I just don’t feel the need to share those gifts with others any longer. I don’t care to write my story with a pen my mother gave me, on a book her husband held open for her, or with the invisible ink others in my family wish I would write it with. I wish to write my own story in a book held open with the hand of immeasurable self-love, with the scarlet ink of truth that cannot be denied, or blurred, because it is etched on parchment that readily accepts it, forgives it, and allows it to be with great honor.

I close my eyes each night with a meditation of remembrance. I remember the lesson, the journey of transformation. I hear the voices, and I tell them I love them too. I close my eyes knowing who I am, and honor the journey that has brought me to that fortunate space I wish all could see. Mostly, I remember who I am and say to the little boy, the young man, and my present heart “I love you.”

That has been my practice for years now. Last night was no different. As I dozed with the words “I love you” still echoing in my Being I could feel the familiar peace settle over my body and mind. I could hear a memory of the rapid flow of a nearby creek spilling from my ears. I felt the warmth of a Spring Colorado sun on my flesh, and the coolness of the northern breeze raising bumps on my skin. A memory of the clean mountain air filling my lungs as my legs turned on my bike followed by a desire to travel great distances in this way. My soul is alive, my body must continue on to meet its mission, my journey is nowhere near complete.

“Tommy…”

I heard her through the memory of the rushing creek.

“Huh?” My soul replied.

“I’m sorry.”

It seemed all sound surrendered to silence with those words. I could still feel all that was, but I could only hear the sound of her voice coming from all places in the landscaped scene around me.

“Mom?”

“Yeah. It’s me. And I’m sorry.”

“Well, you should be. You left and never said a word.”

“You have every right to be angry. I just hope you can forgive me so that you aren’t carrying that weight around with you. It’s not fair to you to be burdened with such a weight.”

“I’ve forgiven you, Mom. I’ve also forgiven myself for the weight I still carry. Perhaps in time I will be able to drop it all, but I no longer beat myself up for carrying it. I do my best, and when those leaves decide its time to fall from this tree, I won’t hold on to them.”

“I hope not. None of this was your fault. I can’t help the way things were. All I can say is that I always loved you, even when I could not show it. I always wanted what was best for you, even when I got in your way. I always wanted to be the best mother for you I could be, even though I failed. I just wasn’t strong enough to turn from my pain, my anguish, and my addictions.”

“I understand. Ending the patterns nearly killed me. I guess that battle can’t be waged by everyone.”

“True. I’ve seen what you went through. My soul has cried real tears for what I’ve done. I know, however, that you will do great things with what you’ve reclaimed from me. What I tried to steal from you…”

Her voice trailed off as if she was remembering. I sighed. She had hit the nail on the head. She had tried to steal everything from me – my identity, my story, my life, and my heart.

“Tommy,” she interrupted her silence.

“Yes?”

“I must tell you this. While I am not proud of what I’ve done, I can now see purpose in it. My pain was strong, very strong. But you needed it to be.”

“How so?”

“Look at your strong body. You know the value of overcoming resistance, how the harder the workout the stronger you become in the process of completing it. My pain challenged me and I was not strong enough to defeat it. I gave it to you, and you were strong enough to not only defeat it, but defeat the pain created in you during that process. My son, I am so proud of you. Death was the only way I could change. You’ve changed in life, with life, with so much more to go.”

“Yeah, I know Mom. I just wish it hadn’t been so hard, and that I hadn’t hurt others in the process of dealing with our pain.”

There it was. Our pain!

“I wish there was more in life that had brought us together than just pain. It overshadows those few, but important memories we could have shared.”

“Perhaps one day we can share them. When the time is right.”

“Oh, we will.”

I smiled, and closed my eyes.

“Mom, I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Good, because I’m not a ghost. I’m not haunting you save the ability you give me to haunt you. I don’t reside ‘out there’. I live inside of you. When you pass you will realize that you live inside your own children and those you love. You will live in their actions, in their memories, in their trials and in their victories. You will be a part of every breath they take, every footprint they leave on the earth. You won’t be a ghost, you will be very real in the ripples you’ve sent with those little pebbles of you you’ve thrown out into the ether.”

“I really wish we could have had these types of talks years ago. Things would have been very different.”

“Exactly, but they weren’t meant to be different. All of those pebbles that you find, those stones you throw out into the ether, have a purpose. They aren’t there by accident. You’ve written about that before, you’ve seen that in your visions. Every moment in your life had and continues to have a purpose. It’s time you started realizing that purpose. It’s time you picked up those pebbles as well, and then toss them into the ether. Don’t hide from them. Don’t cover them. They have great value, and they need to fulfill their purpose.”

“How do I do that?”

“You will see. It’s time you and I write a book. It’s time we stop hiding in shame of what we have done and start lighting torches with that light. It is a light, my son, trust me on that.”

I thought it odd that the woman who had taught me so much about lying, about the abuse of trust, was now asking me to trust her.

“I know, it’s a crazy request,” she replied to my unspoken point. “But it’s important. Your forgiveness has exposed many things to you. It has brought your wisdom into the light. It has brought your strength to the forefront. It has shown you love, it has sung you songs of hope. It has brought me to you right now. So, you can either choose to use it, or not, and see what it brings you next.”

I knew in my entirety that she was right. I wondered where this woman was throughout my life.

“I am, what you feel right now, who I always was. Wise, loving, truthful…it’s who we all are when we rid ourselves of the layers others place on us. The layers we choose to keep swaddling ourselves in. We are all wise when we drop the veil of stupidity others place on us. We are all loving when we rid ourselves of the fear others gift us with. We are all truth when we drop the lies the shadows bring into our hearts. You know this, you’ve seen it. That is the first pebble you need to cast out there. It’s ripple will be felt far and wide.”

“I will. But how?”

“Well, first you need to wake up and process this. You need to be shaken. You need to quake with all your might. That will rid your tree of the weakest leaves, and allow those pebbles, those gems you’ve been holding on to, to fall to a space where you can pick them up and throw them. Then, watch what happens.”

“Ok. Mom?”

“Yes, Tommy,” she replied.

“Thank you. I can’t tell you what this means to me.”

“You don’t have to. I know. Remember, I am not ‘out there’. I am right inside you, so I know. Now, wake up!”

My eyes opened with a startle as the words “wake up” brought me out of my sleep. I looked around, half scared and half crying, shaken to my core. All I could hear as the quaking went on throughout me was “watch what falls. You will see….”

There will, I am sure, be more to come. For now, I’ll just watch what falls.

Healing (A Poem with some prose)

June 2, 2019 / Tom

What if today,

We found ourselves centered in the midst of our own Being?

Could we stroke the hair

Without owning the despair

Of the one we love?

Could we somehow find the balance,

To love without owning?

Without owning the one we love?

Without owning their demons they play with in the night?

Without owning the lies they tell themselves in the moments of their despair?

It’s a challenge, no doubt.

The Savior in me wants to die on the cross for you,

To save you from your sins, to cast the devils the beguiles you into the Sea’s abyss.

And banish your tears,

Exile them well beyond the fabled gates of heaven.

But the lover in me knows there is a much harder choice.

I must let you go to wallow in your misery,

Allow you to wade in that ocean of darkened truth,

I will not let you drown, no….I will die to save you then,

But no person alive has ever become the strongest swimmer they can be

From the security of a lifeboat, of the safety of a sandy beach.

We must all come close to drowning to know the beauty of this life,

The wonders of our own strength,

The truth of who we are indeed.

Knowing love will not allow us to sink beneath the surface.

If we drown, it will be of our own choosing.

We can always push the outstretched hand of love away,

One last breath before we sink, exhaled in the denial of one truth,

For the finality of another.

We are all blessed creators, even in our moments of uncertainty.

For it is we who create even the darkest moments we have wallowed in.

_____________

I have several scars, one of which resides within my left eyebrow. It was the result of a sucker punch, but that’s a story for another day. I remember when I was in the emergency room getting stitched up, the doctor doing the stitching said these poignant words to me.

“It may start to itch as it heals. Don’t scratch it, or it will never heal. Let the healing process do its thing.”

As I’ve gotten older, and a bit wiser, I’ve realized that piece of advice is a great metaphor for all of the wounds, both emotional and physical, I have that needed to be healed. The more attention I gave them, the more I scratched them when they itched, the less likely they were to heal and the more likely they were to get infected. If I could only master leaving them to the natural process of healing they would heal fantastically without any intentional effort of my mind or ego. In fact, the only mindful intention I would give them was in the mastery of not picking at them. Believe me, that isn’t always easy.

That does not mean that we should ignore our wounds. We do, after all, need to get stitches from time to time. There is a time, though, when we need to let go of the focus we place on our wounds and allow the natural process of healing to take place. Sometimes, we need to get the hell out of the way, and focus on other parts of life, if we ever want to be truly healed.

That is a great reminder for me today, and a pretty awesome intention to set as I begin my morning.

One Changing Paradigm (A Lover’s Thirst)

May 10, 2019 / Tom

There I sat, way back then, detached and unassuming with a broad smile upon my face. I could walk in and out of many lives, walk along the path in a crowd or alone, counting footsteps in my mind while talking about the raptures of my mind with those whose motivations I could not begin to fathom. I could engage or disengage, wait patiently or run along, mumble things to myself and, sometimes, get an answer from those who knew little about what truly rested in my heart.

I could be satiated or I could starve with an equal amount of desire. I would thirst and settle for the most mundane of drinks, some in ornate chalices and others found in the simpleness of my cupped hand. I had no need for the cup but wanted the thirst vanquished. I often found myself thirstier in the process. The hunger would make me appreciate the meal but the meal, however, would always seem to lead me back to hunger.

There are few things in life like knowing a purpose in the aloneness where I have found both sanctuary and life. One thing that has surpassed that beauty is when I discovered purpose in the eyes of a woman who was not the cup or the chalice, but the very drink itself. That’s not to say my aloneness is no longer beautiful (though it has lost some of its luster), it is to say that togetherness has taken on a new meaning. It’s not to say that I no longer find life and security in my solicitude, it is to say that I’ve found that life seems better in the uncertainty of love. I don’t wish to rid myself (or her) from our moments of empty space filled with the wisdom we have discovered on our own, but I do wish to use that wisdom to enhance our shared space and create a meal that neither of us wish to deny ourselves for long. I want my thirst, but I want it to end in a way where all I need do is open a door to have it quenched.

My paradigm has been changing for some time. I entered into a stage about a year ago where I could invite someone into my space who I never wanted to leave. Even in my aloneness she is there, and in my stillness I can feel her vibrating in my soul. In her I’ve found an acceptance from outside of me that matches the acceptance I have within me, and I’ve discovered a love that embraces me with an equal firmness and compassion as I offer. Imagine feeling the wisdom that you’ve known your entire life in the embrace of another who you are sure has inspired your very survival. I have looked back on the trail of my life and discovered that every tumble, every drop of blood, every moment of resurrection and every lesson of fortitude and love have lead me to that moment when the elevator doors opened and destiny announced herself in eyes that weakened my knees.

It’s been almost a year since those doors opened and everything (I mean everything) changed. That day, however, was years and millions of words in the making. There seemed to be an impossible number of things that had to happen before that day was even a thought. So much growth, so many agreements changes, so many things about life needed to occur before destiny arrived, and has quenched a man’s thirst in a way that once seemed only a dream.

What has been wonderful has been that I haven’t lost myself in this process. In many ways, I found parts of me long dormant. I’ve discovered patience I never thought I had. I’ve stumbled across a wonderful relationship with parts of me that often spoke but remained completely ignored. I also have no desire to have my partner lose herself because I happen to love her, all of her. (I often say I wouldn’t change a thing about her except her location, hence the patience I’ve discovered.) I have found nothing that I would change about her. I adore her quirks, her idiosyncrasies. What she may see as flaws I absolutely treasure. Her vision, her passions, her likes, her fears are all part of a package that I love beyond measure. As for me? I’ve never had to put on a show or change a thing about who I am to please her. That is, to this man who has always had change demanded of him by people he loved, the breath of life.

There is a “but” though. The thing I’ve come to realize is that none of this wonderful story would have been true had it not been for the journey. I’ve come to see in my dreams and meditations something. I feel like a great sculpture who was once trapped in the granite that encased him. Life…like the wind, the rain, the chisel and the rasp… tore at the granite tomb until that moment of my heart’s resurrection. When all of the minutia and layers were finally shed, I could stand fully naked and accepted at the altar of the great love I was to find, write about, treasure and honor. There was always a great purpose to the process of being reborn into the man I was truly meant to be. That process is continuing, and I am certain that this love we’ve discovered is an expansion of the great purpose our lives were meant to fulfill.

I tried to sum up this feeling in a poem I wrote last night.

I sat for eternity
Locked in my granite tomb,
Waiting.
Pulsing.
Begging to be known.
Then you.
The wind, the rain, the chisel, the rasp,
Released me.
Gave me breath in life renewed,
Showed me light born from the tiny spark within,
A statue now kneeling at the altar of this love.

Perhaps this journey proves that we can find purpose in every trial and tribulation, every moment of joy and happiness? I sure hope so.

To Find You (A Poem)

April 4, 2019 / Tom

The fish has never said to the sea,
“How is it that I exist with you?
How have we found ourselves together,
You within me, me within you?”

The cardinal has never said to the sky,
“How is it that I embrace you?
How have we found ourselves together,
You surrounding me, me inhaling you?”

Like this, my soul has never said to you,
“How is it that I have found you?
How have we found ourselves together,
You loving me, me loving you?”

We know the answer, you and I,
We wrote it on our page long ago,
Before the first breaths of our infancy,
In a journal left for us at Heaven’s door.

We used to meander about some desert plains,
The salty taste of a kiss an oasis unto itself,
We used to gather wildflowers at the base of a great mountain,
Dancing in the fragrance until the Moon touched our skin.

We used to gaze from the seat of a high summit,
Dreaming of the sea,
We used to bathe in the depths of love’s great ocean,
Talking about one day climbing that mountain over there.

Things we’ve done before this lifetime,
And things we’ve seen since the day we first drew breath,
Have carved steps in the stone to take us to those great heights,
And have taught us to swim in the pool of life, where we have found each other again.

May I never again question the beauty of what we are,
And may you soon not fear the handholds and footholds
In the rockface that gets you to me,
For we were born to know the truth, to live the truth, to be the truth.

For I know now what I knew way back then,
That should I not awaken to kiss your lips again,
I have lived, and will live again,
To find you.

We Know

February 23, 2019 / Tom

She holds my hand
And I am instantly alive.
She strengthens what is strong,
Inspires me to heal what has cracked,
Collecting pieces of me I’ve left strewn about the field.

Voices say,
“Distance will never work
The continent between is your enemy.”

But they don’t know us.
They don’t know,
That as I swim in the pool of her eyes
That I have found a place that I wish to bathe forever.

The voices can’t feel
The sprinkle of moonlight that flows across my skin
When she touches me.

They can’t feel
How what was once uncertain seems so sure
How the sand becomes stone
How the mist of sea crashing across the stones
Becomes an ocean once again
In the moment when my ears hear her voice.

They can’t see
How my soul dances just at the very thought of her.
They can’t hear the music within me
That calls her name.
They can’t feel the spirit within me
Rise tall and fly high above the plains
Just for a chance to feel her arms around my waist
And her head on my chest.

Lover’s know
The certainty of this truth
For we pity those
Who have never felt God’s head
Nestled tightly against their shoulder
As Her fingers draw love poems on their skin.

Or felt the spirit of truth
Wash over them like a summer rain.

So while they say
“It can’t work”
We who love not from a place just of body or mind
But from a place they, and sometimes we,
Cannot understand,
We know differently.

We know a truth
That guides us through fire
Sees us survive the storms
Has us reach a summit
And a shore
That lovers would call Destiny.

Lovers know a truth.
We follow a star that sometimes only we can see.
Float in a breeze sometimes only we can feel.
Die a million deaths just to be alive the moment that we meet.
For what is never certain for many,
Cannot be more sure
For us.

Her Song He Sings

December 19, 2017 / Tom

There was a man,
He loved a woman,
Who was nowhere near his touch.
So he slept alone,
And wrote her songs,
He loved her soul that much.

He’d walk along,
And hum her tune,
A lone figure against the Sun,
He knew one prayer,
That she would come,
He knew she was the one.

He’d touch his scars,
And mend his wounds,
Swim strong against the tide,
He’d kiss her lips,
In fancy dreams,
And snuggle by her side.

For things that come,
Are things that go,
But truth remains the same.
The Sun may rise,
And the Sun may set,
Eternity resides within a frame.

Forever known,
Yet forgotten still,
Love blossoms where it can.
To live so strong,
To live so free,
Few can understand.

He’ll hold his heart,
He’ll bite his lips,
And wait to tell her things,
He’ll walk alone,
And when he does,
It will be her song he sings.

~TG

A New Religion (Somewhat Mature)

October 27, 2016 / Tom

Memories often fade as lonely raindrops on a desert’s sands. There are moments, though, that survive the brutal nature of our journey, and give rise to something new. Something we remember in every vision, in every touch, and in every way mere mortals can be reminded of their infinity.

I remember this. There, in the twilight shadows of a life that has found harmony within itself, I remember. I have felt it, and I feel it now as something courses through my Being, onto the canvas that now shares these words in a way that will never be erased.

I have felt you, my love.

I remember the first time I touched you. You were standing there, that smile, that body, that aura. We hugged, and you held me for a while, allowing those things we share but rarely talk about to have a communion of their own. I could feel your breasts against my chest, your hands pressing hard against my back. Soon, our hips were touching, as your head fit nicely on my shoulder. We rested there, forever in a moment.

It was there I first held the form of God, and it was there I had found a new religion.

I remember the first time I felt you. Really felt you. We were making love, you on top. I had lost the sense of where I was. No compass worked within me, and the room around us had blurred in the moment. I could see only you as I enjoyed your pleasure as your face contorted and your lips moaned with each endless movement. I reached up and pulled your head closer to my own, and we kissed. Our breath mixed, our bodies meshed, and as our lips parted I held your face in my hand. Our eyes met, and it was like some magical circuit had been completed.

Our bodies had joined below, our souls met in the union of our eyes. It was there I touched the face of God for the very first time, and it was there I practiced my new religion.

No person would ever need meet my demands again. You were free, completely. I would love you without question, but I would never own you. I would hold you firmly in my arms, but never seek to place you in a box. It was through you I found that love could not be focused like a laser without destroying everything it touched. Instead, love must be like a star shining brightly in all directions. What it touches, it reveals.

When my ego’s fears would shout ill-advised words into my mind, I would refocus my attention on the soft whispers of love spoken directly to my heart. When fear would raise its ugly head to bite this wounded man, I would calmly seek the soft attention of a man who’s healed himself. I would not cater again to the fallacies I had been taught. Instead, I would stand upon new ground, on a new earth, that I, myself, had formed.

Upon that ground I built a sturdy altar, one that looks like nothing ever built before. In its many forms we lay, we sit, we stand tall, our lips embraced as our bodies tell a sacred tale. Upon that altar our sweat becomes a nectar of the gods, and that music from our lungs a sweet song that caresses every corner of the heavens that we share.

I have felt you, my god have I felt you! In the massive quakes and sultry rattles in my entirety, I have felt you. Shaken to dust are the ornate fixtures of my life, and torn to bits are the crimson, silky fabric on which I once would lay my head. Arisen from the rubble stands a naked man, bloodied and caked with mud yet clean and strong to his very core. It is that man who kneels upon your sacred space, uttering not a promise save the one, forever truth.

I love you.

Such a wonderful place to worship, such a beautiful place to kneel! There, amongst the weathered trees and misty clouds bearing the wicked winds of impermanence, I have found my truest faith. There, amongst the piles of the charred bridges I have burnt away and the rusty remains of ideas I have since all but thrown asunder, you stand as a testament to what was always meant to be.

Such sweet songs we sing.