Mystic Love Poetry |
None Other Than Youlover unknown the mysterious other I know you so perfectly impressed without boundary the line that my being, says "I am inside me" knows the line that divides us is the line that defines us there is none of me present without presence of you whether physics, spirit, or pure understanding more so than in love or an illusion of searching, whenever I'm me there is you Overtaken Of What Is in a Mystic LoveA mystic love is a love that is because is is that cannot be denied by any isn't that is affirmed by every was-will-be a love unfolded like the blossom of the rose that has budded overnight to welcome the affection of the sun on as many petals as it can stand to spread across its span what evidence do I have? coffee breath smile headache photograph joy we face the future not as a vast expanse of what-if but instead a yet unrecognized taste of what-is like tripping down the stairs to discover the bone that wasn't broken we unravel it by bringing it to our attention coming to know that what wasn't noticed was - not noticed how much we have how much we know is limited only by how much we can give up how much we can forget I forgot what I was going to write oh. now I remember. Imagining Sheryl and Dan at Sea Ranch, CASea salted fingers carouse a stony foyer path opening, inviting us together hailing Home. Two story rambler raises raftered rural bodies, taken by the genius that erotically is known. Invigored spirit channels Frank Lloyd Wright's impassioned fingers is proclivity, sensually designed of the divine. Energy, naturally: in the contoured edges teaming of my landscaping with fauna sprouting perfectly in thine. And a mudslide pilgrimage dampened soil readjoined to the granite cradle of new foundational recline. The trees throughout the forest sway their bows all directions in the rhythm to the wind, the prajna, Eros, and the mind. The spirit flickers through the tongue's Pacific lapping waves. Against the rocks: upon the shore: young oceanic blues. together we observe the mist, the fog, how it behaves. The liquid spilling through the air advancing marine hues. Six appendages: ten thousand ants: sixty thousand fingers. Speaking in a voice: huddled in a mass: subtle, timeless credo. Being, as she's known throughout these parts to you and me her name, name of passion - Gaia's pure libido. Of Murder and Love and the Fall of ForeverFall is the season in which time itself seems to ripen, where heat singes the coattails of cold and cold incapacitates the fists of heat in a mutual surrender on the very battleground where language and love gently fondle each other as impossible boundaries describing new ways for lovers to utter goodnight on the tele when all they truly want is to singe the coattails of love and incapacitate the ravenous, incendiary metabolism of desire but this is all fine and good and is as deliciously unreasonable as any of us could hope to be in a march as frivolously impious as this, giving up as much of ourselves as we can to the most outrageous intuition: as in the murderer of murderers' murderous desire to murder such is the lover of lovers' loving desire to love simultaneously makes more sense than anything we have ever before experienced yet seems to be the most outlandish endless rabbit hole of bliss an open expanse of now that makes the past synonymously symmetric with the future so much so that looking backwards still gazes forwards and gazing forwards looks backwards to the future until we both give up trying to figure out which is which and once again collapse on our beds to laugh another night and to cry another day together |