Stepping Stones




It begins by making way.

By stepping on stones,

hopping on rocks.

Finding a rythm to step to

that sees you sure footed,

and without hinderance.

A spontaneous arising

of the path before you.

Step by step.

Stone by stone.

No mind to map out

the next move,

or choose for you

some sordid fate.

Stay close to life

as it presents itself,

where you shall be

richly rewarded,

and want for nothing more

than all you are given.

So each day you go to the river

to play and hop on the rocks.

Once you have learned

how to hop on rocks,

you can hop anywhere,

and so are free to wander.

Still you find yourself

by the river each day,

dancing from stone to stone,

untill you come to know

that place so well

that you become the rock,

and the river,

and the ocean beyond it,

and no longer have any need

to hop on rocks.

Still you find yourself

by the river each day.

Stepping from stone to stone.

rock hopping your way

to nowhere. 


The Warm Heart Of Winter

In winter some of us walk alone.

Even at the very centre of the warm heart of winter,

where friends and familly gather around the fire,

even there each of us are subject to the seasons.

We feel it grow wilder outside,

and all power to you, the wilder among us,

who run to the thunder and lightning roaring,

whereas I am the Chinese zodiac’s rat,

sneaking under-foot unnoticed.

I choose to come in from the cold,

ancient instinct seeking shelter.

I curl up to the warm core within me,

where I am humbled again,

huddled around the inner flame,

Still. Silent. Resting. Breathing. Bowing

before a shrine in a temple

where I have come to honour our inner nature.

Layed bare as old growth falls away

we are left to face our naked selves,

to deny or embrace our vulnerable state

where we are innocent,

and so, transparent.

We become immune to the woes

of those who turn bitter in the winter chill.

Leave me to slumber,

please know I am content.

I will emerge as new growth soon,

I am just waiting for the Sun to wake up.

Loungeroom Royalty

Who belongs to those tip toes

creeping so silently through the house?

Rousing us sleeping buddhas, loungeroom royalty

lost in a world of limbs and mattresses.

Who is that blowing the bushman’s diamond

on the fire that never dies?

There is no need my elusive messenger,

we are each warm to the bone and then some.

Please do not ask my pillow

to get up and make coffee, not just yet.

I would like to lie a while longer,

listening to the blankets breathing.

They tell me secrets.

They whisper sweet nothings in my ear as I sleep.

I never quite catch what they are saying,

they turn and hush with a fright

when they see my day mind wants to know,

and in that very moment our sneaky little friend

appears to pull the curtains open.

Well, if you insist on making the morning sound,

go wake the giants slumbering in the back yard,

it’s their turn to make us breakfast.

A Bouquet Of Feathers

I found the message you placed

in a bouquet of feathers,

which stand by my bedside window.

Patiently they wait for me to wake each day

so we may greet the sun together,

hands to heart in grateful silence.

These feathers vibrate with memories

of the sea side and free flight of fancy.

All too fancy for me, you see,

I do not long to fly so much as walk

with light steps on two strong legs,

or to find the worth buried in my two spare hands.

These feathers once lived upon wings

made humble by the skies they rode, and so,

alive and humbled, we share a feeling

which I love to be reminded of

every now and again.

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