River of Words

Poem by

Write something! Anything!
just let the river of words start to flow.
Pick a single bright point in the wild constellation
of being and begin.
Begin.
Open the door of presence
and follow the pathway wheresoever it leads.
Walk the cracks in the rock under a canopy of lichen
and swaying moss branches,
or maybe ride!
legs astride some iridescent beetle
your hands on his scaly antenna
and the wind in your beard.
Dream with the clouds,
the last rays of the sun swirling pink
on their soft kitten underbellies,
catch a ride on the jacket lapel
of the old man you passed on the road
his slow steps and kind, tired eyes
writing their own slow poem
in the soft clay of my heart.
Open to the scars on the face of the black Madonna
these human wounds that never heal
our arrogance and greed
and the tears that will never be enough
to soothe our empty stories.
Here I sit and do what I can to turn my heart
to the ever-arising source,
to recognize, honour and bow
before my undeniable unity
before my belonging,
this strange and wonderful heart
and the subtle turnings and twisting
of the one I am
the life I was given
and that I receive
breath by breath
blood by blood.
I am a unique stone on the riverbed
amongst a million others
the colour and form of my soul
separate and perfect.
Life has me
and I have life
I am stretched between my belonging
and my uniqueness
while my concepts and dreams of identity
ache and crack and fall
to reveal tender flowers of faith
and meadows of light.
I raise my heart in my cupped hands
and offer it back to its maker
a wild and tender sacrifice
made at the altar of being.
I do not know the way
yet there is only one direction,
one path where the stones beneath my feet
and the trees that tower about me
are the destination
and the guides,
my unfolding humanity
and hidden majesty
bringing me wide-eyed and trembling
to lay this essence down
at the feet of the one,
home at last
the space between my heart beats
alive and bright
sunlight caught in the silver perfection
of a single mirror drop
ripe on a single blade of grass
in the infinite, perfect garden of love.


Originally published on Ben Bushill’s Facebook

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