Friday, August 7, 2015

the fire within has a language of its own

I just spilled over the edge of who I held myself to be,
Now, it doesn’t matter what I think.
I stopped ignoring what I didn’t like to do and realized I had changed,
I was googling me from the inside.
The knife wanted to cut.
I let it feel like cutting.
But I couldn’t cut what I loved any longer
His (this) skin is too thin
His (this) heart too tender
His (this) love too wild and true.
So I put down the knife
and used my hand.
My hands love the body of life
My hands love to support the body of life
My hands love to bring oil to the dry places
And they needed no imagery to do so.
I feel like I just climbed Mount Everest
I am nearly breathless
The air quality here is pure
And I am loosened by the only means I have at my fingertips:
I had to get closer 
to feel the touch of myself,
for direct contact with me.
My fingertips and the palm of my hand felt the paint moving with me
Gliding, scratching, slower and more slowly
I listened to the feel of it
this pulse of my life
Free of the rules I had mistaken for truth
I was listening
and became silent
being the silence
for one pulse.
and another.
Permanent rose
Flaming cadmium yellow engulfed a red birch
The black charred trunk remains
Able to hold the glow 
Of the fire that burns in me
Of the fire that moves me out of the old rooms of this house.
All I want to do is follow this thread
It has a language of my own making.
It is in my hands.


  1. Careful . . . hot hands present a fire hazzard

  2. more like the second discovery of fire that T.Chardin wrote about. that burn i cannot be protected from.