the one who stays

before this poem enters,
there is a room
inside the room,
a threshold
inside the threshold,
a question
waiting
inside you.

Not the you
performed for the world,

not the you
polished into acceptability,

not the you
made smaller
by all the roles,
responsibilities,
titles, names,
life handed you
before you knew
you could hand
them all back.

The you
beneath the story.

The you
still listening.

The you
who remembers
before remembering
had language.

Somewhere,
a lightning bolt
breaks open
the canyon
of perception,

and what was once
solid stone
becomes doorway,

and what was once
a doorway
becomes invitation,

and what was once
invitation
becomes
remembrance.

Becomes
the poem.

I arrive
not as answer,
but intercedent,

not to stand
between you
and truth,

but to stand
within the trembling
until truth
can find you
again.

Well come,
says the ocean breeze.

Well come,
says the oasis
inside your own becoming.

Well come,
says the color
returning to the canvas
where reality
has always been
painting itself
withinasthru you.

And then,
the questions.

Are we close?

Are we awake?

Are we becoming
what we came here
to become?

Or have we mistaken
the map
for the meaning,
the mirror
for the face,
the wound
for the wisdom?

Some questions
do not want
to be answered.

Some questions
want to be lived
until the one
who asked them
is no longer
the one
who needs reply.

Then comes
the wild knowing,

that crazy voice
within,

part child,
part prophet,
part trickster,
part storm,

laughing
at the seriousness
of our suffering,

breaking rules
only to reveal
which laws
were never natural,
much less ours,

turning the volume
down
on fear,

turning the frequency
up
on freedom.

Remember?

The poem asks.

Remember
before forgetting
became survival?

Remember
before pain
pretended
to be proof?

Remember
the heart
was never meant
to become smaller
with time,

only wiser
in how
it stays open?

And then,
through hourglass ripples,
through indigo tide pools
of time,

eye meets eye,

me meets me,

self meets Self,

the old ones,
the future ones,
the ancestors,
the unborn,

you across
all space
and time.

Looking back
through the same
cosmic mirror,

whispering,

you are not late.

You are not lost.

You are becoming
in right
and perfect
timing.

Me to we.

We to me.

Small self
softening
into Self,

all these separate songs
discovering
they were always
one choir,

all these lonely rooms
discovering
they were always
one house,

all these human beings
arguing over borders,
beliefs,
names,
nations,
gods,

forgetting
the same breath
keeps choosing
all of us.

You and I,

not romance only,

not preference only,

never possession,

but humanity
finally looking
at itself
without flinching,
honestly,
openly,

the east,
the west,
the north,
the south,

the mosque,
the temple,
the church,
the mountain,
the marketplace,

all of us
standing together
inside the problem
we created,

all of us
holding the possibility
we have not yet
become brave enough
to choose.

Sometimes,
the dream bends.

Sometimes,
time folds
back upon itself.

Sometimes,
a smile
contains lifetimes.

Sometimes,
what might have been
sits beside
what is,

and somehow
there is no sadness,

only gratitude
for the many selves
we almost became,

and the one
still here
to feel it all.

Know that you know,

poem reminds
this is so.

Not because
you have certainty,

but because
something deeper
than certainty
has been watching
from within.

With you all along.

Witness to
each and every
moment you are…

and when crazy comes,

not the little crazy,
not the passing weather,

but the typhoon crazy,

the sky tearing open,
the sea rising wild,
the wave too large
for reason,

still,

somewhere
inside the roar,

a surfer laughs,

small against
the impossible,

board beneath feet,
salt in the blood,

not conquering
the storm,

not escaping it,

but riding
what would have
swallowed him whole.

And then,

please.

Only please.

A man
at the edge
of all the feminine,

all the waters,
all the mothers,
all the lovers,
all the hurricanes,
all the holy forces
he cannot command,

standing bare
before beauty
and destruction,

not demanding,

not explaining,

not proving,

only asking
with the full humility
of a heart
finally old enough
to bow.

Please.

Let me enter cleanly.

Please.

Let me love wisely.

Please.

Let me be remade
without needing
to control
the making.

And after all this,

after the threshold,
the lightning,
the question,
the remembering,

after the mirror,
the music,
the madness,
the dream,

after the human family
forgets
and remembers
and forgets again,

after the ocean rises,

after the heart breaks,

after the poem enters
the room
and the room
enters the day,

there remains
one truth,

not loud,

not clever,

not decorated,

just steady
as pulse,

steady
as breath,

steady
as the Self
that never left
while every version
of you
came and went.

I stay.

With the contradiction.

With the beauty.

With the hypocrisy.

With the holiness.

With the small self
still learning
how to surrender.

With the complete Self
still holding
everything whole.

I stay
inside the becoming.

I stay
inside the question.

I stay
inside the storm.

I stay
inside the poem.

Because wherever
I arrive,

there I am.

And wherever
I am,

the poem
already is.

Àṣẹ.

sk

~ PoetSK™