Remember my poem about Fearless painting? Here's the revision. An attempt at expressing some of the potent power of this practice for me. Words don't really cut it - you've got to live it. Nonetheless, I'm reading it at a public reading later this week... (It's been years since I've done anything like that!)
Into the Now
As we began, my monkey-mind had me
everywhere but here with you,
chasing after sounds of attic mice scampering,
scrutinizing, nerve-scraping outcome obsession.
I could see you in my periphery,
patiently watching my antics and breath,
until you pulled my glance your way,
to linger on your white flesh.
Then onto the dirty glass of sweet water
sitting next to us, untouched and ready.
My hand twiddled nervously with the long brush
until, teetering on the edge of stagnant indecision,
I remembered to let my body ease
a sigh of release, into uncertain process.
Surprised, my chattering brain began to melt
into the escape window between us,
one deliberate breath at a time.
I raised my laden eyes to meet your gaze,
so light and warm
a glowing breeze blew through my bones,
softening brow to breast like cub to sleepful bliss.
As if in synchronous design,
a sure impulse surge raised the brush I held
to touch you waiting.
Perfect and odd
that your hair proved to be long, juicy, green-blue tresses
that taste like purple peppermint drops....
Rough and raw, the sound of the bristles
sing like back porch stories of coming home, grounded in relief.
Your voice, kinder than my own,
rolls through my mind's labyrinth from busy to buzz,
at the pace of pulsing poetry you whisper.
Purely guided, I first dip my fingers
into the dish of orange marmalade color divine,
then into the sweet water,
to rest a ripe caress to your jawline and lips,
strange and delicious destination.
And then I notice.
The space inside.
The scurrying has hushed.
Quiet enough now to listen and follow
your cricket rhythm flow of love, just barely begun.
You have something to show me...
The anticipation of my own senses
aligned to the biorhythm
of heart, to hand, to you, and back again.
The teeter-totter harmony
of blank-page process and palette of hues.
There is no muse but you.
There is no you, but me and this promise.
Precious release, surrender,