Finding a Church
we don't think the same
be the same
share the same ideals
sometimes i worship theology
we don't see the same
sing the same
create the same beauty
sometimes i worship art
we don't touch the same
commune the same
seek the same poor
always i worship love
here in the noise
not of buses
but synthesizers
and parroted repeating
here in the colour
not of nature
but waxen flowers
and velvet curtains
here in the Hallelujahs
i shout to love
'ready or not,
here i come!'
Shobuj Brishtir Nice*
the last time i tripped
and fell
and scraped my knee
i cried
not from pain
but from the sight of the blood
not from seeing myself bleed
but from watching it run
Red
down my leg like vein patterns
worn on the outside
for decorative purposes
driving up the mountain
the one marked
with Tibetan prayer flags
flipping their farewells
like train station kerchiefs
waving goodbye to me
in a gesture of welcome
i knew what i must do
and with a quaking hand
i cut clean
with an old forked stick
down the ragged scar
i thought was out of sight
out of mind
i wept then
with the delight of myself
recognizable once again
as the familiar green
came instantly pounding
and singing
in rivulets of cell and chlorophyll
feet in the dirt
and a voice in its own
stream of a self
my hands a clasped clay
cup full of the liquid story
of my fluid life
i tossed it up
to hit the underbelly of the clouds
and come raining back down on me
who has found a place in the garden
just another tree
i raise my limbs to the sky
like theirs
to catch peace in our webs of leaf
and drip green together
* Under the Green Rain
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1 comment:
You are a fantastic writer. I loved your last post - I could feel, smell and taste your new home.
I am so excited for you : )
Virginia
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