The
idea of making love with a man not curious to me but the ideal touch,
any kind, is.
Same
some time some from at rest I arise not refreshed timed out so much
as more curious than before I entered this that what is it is. . .
.What must it be to be like even a tincture of the wholeness holiness
of God enshrouding
OM
THE
ALL
the
person not thing of my beloved little ginormous impish sender of love
notes
Like
candy kisses they are. Wrapped in aluminum foil U2 spies maybe.
Souring drones
Like
the Zen Masters, Confucius, Buddha alone covered with white blooms
falling I think so often entering now covering Who of Rumi knew
knowing told more about God than maybe I'll ever in life know and the
flowing of God is asexual to the extent that my metaphors, similes,
visions and omens. . . .portend The whatever many words crosscurrent
one-by-one square dance to describe this ecstasy within enfolded by
love and joy the congress of letters propagating becoming
two-by—two the flood and ark strophic circling whirling
clinging attraction stanza fusion lust consummated in inflexion a
strophe theatrics theater of worship dance forward and backward the
beginning of the play which for then and now was worship adored in a
different way.
weep
more I laughing enough no to drown this little boy turn saggy old man
dancing adoring those who see saw enough to die glorious before the
dying was done being with God without dying . . . . last time I
saw Jesus He in turning told me . . . .”You're on your own” &
I wept driving towards Rhode Island where my beloved lay moldering in
a Styrofoam coffin beneath a head stone buried flat in a donated plot
this boy I see now glorious dancing in trees the wind still and
silent swaying back & forth
notes
on the growing of a soul groaning in birth
here
on earth seen from afar populated more each minute grown turned growl
dripping venom happy 4th can you see hear touch me now?
Weeping and dancing seeing!
Dervish
Skirt Twirling
©
2012 by Jack Spratt All Rights Reserved
LOVE
IS THE MASTER
Love
is the One who masters all things;
I
am mastered totally by Love.
By
my passion for love for Love
I
have ground sweet as sugar.
O
furious Wind, I am only a straw before you:
How
could I know where I will be blown next?
Whoever
claims to have made a pact with
Destiny
Reveals
himself a liar and a fool;
What
is any of us but a staw in a storm?
How
could anyone make a pact with a
hurricane?
God is working everywhere his massive Resurrection; How can we pretend to act on our own? In the hand of Love I am like a cat in a sack; Sometimes Love hoists me into air, Sometimes Love flings me to the ground. Love swings me round and round His head; I have no peace, in this world or any other. The Lovers of God have fallen in a furious river; The have surrendered themselves to Love's commands. Like mill wheels they turn, day and night, day night. Constantly turning and turning, and crying out. --Rumi (translated by Andrew Harvey) Shambhala, Boston & London www.bn.com/ . . . no profit to me not prophet neither
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