it is a gift

. . . in service the dying, and those living—undecided about fears—it is a gift to serve. A gift of which I've had the privilege lifelong: up front personal face-to-face; my children, friends, parents, strangers, relatives, myself actually.

Awakened from a deep deadly dream I realize that I've lost it, the dream I mean. Discovering an essential and humiliating truth: it — is — has been — will always be: impossible for me to articulate my love commensurate with the experience. . . . a longing howling deeply within buried alive. I wonder why since by nature and choice I am not shy.

Fearing nothing, admiring no one in any jealous sense, only celebrating their Self/Soul manifest silent, quiescent or shouted. I dream, dreaming and dream that which goes Bump in The Night: my bare feet hitting the floor running to write, remember, understand, the exquisite, words, stories, questions and yes, sometimes, explicit answers; only for myself this dark crystal glowing within—organic—whole.

The scenarios, myths, omens, portents, movies, entire new vistas opening before me through doors long closed. No fear, no terror, all good. Betimes difficult understanding. Lingering long afterward mysterious yet aware their having been at all one-upon-a-time.

The Great Ones, like the one resident now, lingering, long; my naked self in moon light desert alone moving: Wandering? Wondering? The latter, floating through long darkened tubes random to see what I saw and now cannot remember details of. Only the privilege of being at all. Submitting to the sense beyond all proof of a beyond death.

A lovely death in itself. This sense—fearful—only of destroying “Had She Said Yes” a cohort beloved at first sight but impossible until now. The leaving of—submitting to—a being alone until death takes me to what? Implied or explicit a love fertile together inferred. Together or apart bonded in the flesh. A two become one.

I own nothing, save this moment, this now, these choices; yet sense this is the path across the unknowable towards the scarcely understood.

Yes and Yes, to her Yes, is mine added. Clearly amplified.

addendum: The undertoad singing through my dark memory of this dream reminds me of railroad enthusiast their: tracks to known destinations . . . my dream's destination unknowable yet within black dark walls: an underground passage, subway or sewer bourn — eejit boy — its a birth canal! Not the River Styx or Rubicon flowing.

Yes, I be a fruitcake full of nuts and rum. Oh Yes! And candied fruit, eternally fresh.

addendum/addendum or PPS

it is not by vanity or boast but to suggest that you dear reader the few attend your dreams as well discovering yourself beloved whole/holy to the interlocutor The Source of all Longing and Love.

130511 22:10 it is a gift

© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

when?!

If not you who or me why not now to be pregnant with the inevitable change giving birth to the infinite now.

Giving birth to a self is birth, life, death, resurrection, minute by second creation's evolution expanding contracting recycling. Neither contextual or situational but both blessed either way.

Music to my soul the winds of change inevitable constant, in sure certainty of resurrection in another time unknown for now unknowable before time was a memory silence.

What owns me is the illusion that I own anything. Possibly even the delusion: myself tenant, transient; since now I sense myself nothing at all . . . but what writes?

Why? Why Not?

Status Quo Ante Bellum: what was before birth, innocent of fertility . . .

. . . in context: a vision gleaned from seeing my mother in a bathing suit at the age of my witness Herself as nascent mother of me.

Add: I am in transition from one shelter to another=home. At times aggrieved, others, sans expectations, of potential delights or more joy than ever imagined. Too magnificent and beyond all longing. Having been here before on the cusp of what is next, death? Life? whatever! It will be itself regardless, not fate, maybe Karma.

The stillness I know now is flowing to another moment in time; and time, of course, in context, is irrelevant. So the only thing I bring with me is myself; possessed, owned, inhabited, incarnated or not. (laughter, guffaws, giggles, sighs but best: grinning) “Had She Said Yes” said yes expansively even now growing: Yes to Yes.

Ah, the folly of love, known at an age, near the ending of everything. . . .

yet love is all: kindness

if I were a poet, a wannabe, maybe a might: I would attempt to delight you with yourself the experience within --- a butter knife thrust through titanium

capture credit Hector Mediavilla Picturetank sapeur

130511 04:28 when

© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

grace

No human is, or can be perfect, all are fallible, yet capable of grace. I am happily so. Having my dysfunctions known. Amongst them able to choose, to use, or be used, by them mindfully. In the process losing any fear of life or death or envy of the grace in others I know. It is an estate that must be given away in measures large and small as kindness not greed. Thus gifting allows grace to grow. The only profit and accrued wealth I care about.

At that, this I know best, my dyslexia is a gift. Understanding what I can change and cannot. This life I live is like all others having a beginning-middle-and-ending; different only in my choice of narrative, coupled with attention to the interlocutor. Who I call by various names, not beckoning but seeking answers. Variously, but at the moment, merely “dipstick.” At other times: friend, lover, mistress, muse, playmate, sandbox buddy of any gender or none.

All my myths, omens, portents, personal to me, are pointless since I can find them in others defined differently. Not mutually exclusive but their gift combined with mine; potential and pregnant experienced in this moment, this now.

. . . and the other loved knowing this moment may never be again: the sky blank, black, a void devoid of stars: the emerald, brown or blue or as mine hazel what I think of as turquoise never ever to see ever again.

He preceded me bearing three or four giant bottles of root beer in the grocery line. To which or whom I remarked; “I guess you really like root beer.” No response. Then as he paid I noticed Airborne Wings upon his cap, his silence might be attributable to hearing loss given his age. So I asked, “What Division?” . . . no one and nothing is merely anything . . . remembering what he said with tears of joy in my eyes . . . in parting I said “God Bless You” . . . having no authority other than my admiration. So, we both, were blessed in a way unaccountable.

“Today is a good day to die”

What I know as “The Warrior's Creed”

has nothing to do with indifference

courage in the face of life better expresses it.

The peace I know inexplicable, ineffable, unaccountable what I know better with each passing hour eons ago is what historically attributable to Jesus and others at their end. Daily in the ordinary of their time given freely away to all in kindness thinking momentarily of Anne Frank.

Once long long ago the new day was celebrated but now each moment. Sharply focused revealed in high contrast the tapestry of time invisible timeless unending

capture credit Hector Mediavilla Picturetank

130511 02:42 grace

© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved