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Behind every collapse of trust are the roots of self-betrayal.

We betray ourselves when we break the sacred promise of our incarnation by refusing to express our blessings.

In a fear of physical life, we try to fixate our experience by clinging to ideas of what we want to exist – in stead of what is there in the moment.

How can we lose anything that has never been truly ours?

Why is is that when we have been deeply forsaken, we carry a feeling of guilt as if the crime were ours?

To move through the fear of betrayal is to unmask the inner traitor of light.

In this, a door to freedom opens – the freedom to exist beyond our former limits as a creative source of human expression.

 

These hands held
darker pleas for help, cherishing
space where sunlight failed to
touch, unlocking goodness caged.
at close of feather, oh soul, soother
of fear ensnared; hearer of kernal
aching; seducer of flesh and truth;
pilgrim of Eden’s precincts; this bird
finds stillest finger extended, forgiving
all these flights of rage and jealous abandon,
safe now, she accepts destiny as outer space as
wingless thoughts disperse, lands surprised by
joy, on stable perch. Oh gardener of seeds,
how she forgets the stolen curses, dropping
crumbs of former pain, as these wings plumed
for healing and ancients whistle glorious rising
of dawn. And she sees the finger pointing,
as softest sun pastels routes navigated
before the nest was woven,
showing ways to fly
so wings spread
in ecstasy of
cosmic blend,
free to ride
the winds
that guide
her home.

Ochroma lagopus

  Daddy
spring,
you never
said
you
would reach 40;
drunk and real dead,
your girl pruned mortal,
knocking shock in time,
from clearing surreal.
feeling wood-like that
coffin,             Mr.  Sheen
dense,        shoulder
funeral          flame
flares             in forest
to burn                  white dwarf,

Dead
sun-
in that
bleak
hollow
follows olive twig,
branch of instant whip,
hurt leaf-lip shaking,
tear in mossy face-
your son and grace.
today 40 years, dead
drunk and gardened
in clinics, splinters
will incinerate-
clutching forsaken
flute – and flakes of ash
rises in balsa wood holes
where death is mute…
he blows songs of rage.