*
Snow to Sea Level

While quiet snow
Drops white flakes to
Join the shore's black sand

Nostalgia falls
On the break where
Looking out, I stand.

Holding an edge
A sharp blade, it
Grips this cliff-side land

And I take pen
Try to make you
Say you understand.
*
(c) Cameron Wilding 2009. All rights reserved.

*
Her

Severan kneels close
Looking at her eyes
Until her hands cease
Twisting the sheets.

Tongue lashing the sweat from his
Left nipple she pushes him back
Onto the solid wood frame,
And opens her lips

To kiss him with passion
Where he always loved her most
 - the triangle of his throat.
Her wet pulsing tongue.
*
(c) Cameron Wilding 2009. All rights reserved.

In particular, see his brilliant 12 Stones on a Necklace, the twelfth stanza of which I have adapted into the first three lines of this poem.

*
14 July 2009

Samuel Peralta, who initially gave permission
to publish this poem with attribution, now feels
that it breaches his copyright.

This poem has been removed. Sorry :(

I drafted some posts and new poems on the road. The poetry is pretty much good to go, barring attribution for an inspirational fellow poet. But the posts need some work. I also have a bunch of photos to star & edit.

Given that I have a million admin tasks related to the fifty or so old-skool letters that clogged my box on return (debt-collection notices, disconnection warnings, angry customers, the usual …), it may take a couple days to get something substantial up … watch this space!

So, no updates until early August. In the meantime, perhaps take a look at some original poetry, prose or my earlier retreat diary.

Thanks for stopping by.

Orion wanes west,
    My breath steams in the early dark.
It's winter once more.

Lazy old willow
    Hangs loose. First to gain his leaves,
Last to lose them.

My coat outlasted
    Us. And they don't even make
Them like they used to.

Lovely-haired mantis
    Promised salvation I was
Lucky to survive

Unwitting or not,
    I cannot dull your silver
Barbs and razor blades.

This dried lavender
    Could it be? An old keepsake
From you, now long gone.

Bodies side-by-side
    Togetherness we promised
But I was alone

You were unfaithful
    To another when with me
Though I did not know.

Strange scum scoured out from
    The plughole on my return:
His come in your hair.

If that sounds extreme, this is going to sound even more extreme: I don’t believe in “love” anymore either :)

It’s all just compassion, filtered through the delusion of a fixed identity. Mangled into some juxtaposition of lust, greed, competitiveness. The compassion is still there, but it gets hidden by the extra, amplified feelings. They are unnecessary and inevitably hurtful. I can share compassion with anyone … e.g., the old guy I did tong-len for the other day. A forty-year-old mother of five. Myself. My dad. A fifteen year-old girl. Why restrict myself to “loving” them first? Can I have sex with any of them? Can I own them? Can I be better than them? No.

Would I want to, knowing that it inevitably causes suffering? No. I wouldn’t wish that on myself or others.

The good news is, when you strip all that away you aren’t left with nothing. You are left with compassion, which is more inclusive than sex or so-called “love” and other such chains we use to bind ourselves to samsara.

That’s not to say I won’t have sex again ;-) Just that I will be doing it for the right reasons. Not out of compassion for myself or others. Instead, it’s like having a shower or eating breakfast. Something we do by nature, leading to temporary bliss. When practised skillfully (and I mean that in all possible senses of the word), sex is another way of expressing ourselves.

But compassion is for everyone.

Note: this material was orginally posted as a reply to Phoenix’s comment on my previous post, Thoughts on Leonard Cohen’s “A Thousand Kisses Deep”.