Invitation To My Party

"Eat, friends, drink, and be drunk with love!" ~Song of Solomon
"The real wine is compassion!" ~Rumi

Listen all you vegan monks, teatotalers and non-dualists,
There's a vineyard in my heart, planted by the Beloved,

With grapes too purple and delicious for the pure.
Here I age the wine that made God tipsy

Before She sang your name into light.
This vintage I'll pour for any empty cup.

You won't get a formal invitation, only my lips
And eyebrows making provocative gestures,

My heart unfolding like a peacock’s tail.
Every night the barrel inside me gets filled

With an ancient stream of bewilderment.
Both you and your shadow could drink here

And reconcile your separation.
Whatever the opposite of bowing is,

That's what you've been doing too much of.
You don't need books or healing herbs,

Just callouses on your knees.
Why don't you enter the tavern of oblivion

And observe your sleep with a single glittering eye?
Get drunk on the wine of emptiness.

After one sip, you won't remember
why you were angry, or why your believed. 

After the second, which side you're on won't matter. 
Wherever you thought you'd get by refraining

From what makes lovers crazy, 
You'll get there quicker with another cup of this!

Listen to a reading of this poem HERE.

More Than One

To prove that there is more than One,
I polished both edges of love's dagger with my breath
And plunged it into my chest.

Ask Theresa whether this pain is sweetness.
Ask the Bridegroom if this longing is stronger than death. 

Perish into nakedness, pellucid as a tear.
Let me feel the intimate moon-kiss of your impermanence,
The moisture of your vanishing dew on my nape,

Your deft hand of diamond emptiness
Severing my crown to let the silver stars escape.

What suspended me is broken.
Gravity be my prayer; I am but mass,
offering ashes to the mother of skies.

Now watch this pomegranate heart burst open,
a crimson spill of ten thousand ancestral eyes.

Taste them one by one, turn blood back into wine.
Drink first, imbibe disaster, let gravity be your prayer;
then ask if joy and sorrow intertwine.

Tell me, famished wanderer, are there not
more lovers in the world than your lips can bear?


Listen to a reading of this poem HERE.

Morning Practice

Dawn sitting, I do nothing but listen:
Surely the Canada geese will arrive.
It seems I have never heard better news about the universe.
Just before and just after, a raindrop allows silence
To annihilate the world.
Piercing the space between night and day,
A robin lets go of her song as she sings it.
I vow never to turn the priceless vintage
of this liquid moment to vinegar in the mind.
Beauty cannot be remembered, regret is a forgery.
Sorrow is a precious jewel of trembling Presence,
But a poisoned brooch when I pin it to my chest.
More radiant than diamond is my pain
Because I drop it in the pond of forgetting.
Like a hobo, breath wanders, leaving behind
The stories people try to pack in its sack.
From my belly button, I lift up a mysterious cup
Of celebration, spilling the stars into my heart.
They ferment into the nectar that made Jesus drunk.
I daub it on the alter of my forehead,
Sharing secret instructions with the hummingbird:
"Don't wait to be anointed; anoint yourself!"
This is how we become little singers
With invisible wings and luminous ultra-violet throats.
Andromeda, Virgo, twin spiral Hydra nebulae
Come down like deer to the crown of my head
To drink from my temple wells in the evening
And feast in my wilderness of nerves.
What I am this morning is miraculous medicine,
A healing potion swirled from in-gathered galaxies,
A body graced together from glittering perished
Moments of insignificance and surrender.
Suck from my marrow; be not a moment old.
The greening stem of this grail roots in mycelia.
The more you drink of me, the more I am replenished
by myriad deaths of the tiny and eternal.

Beneath the Veil


There is no confusion.
I seek promiscuous kisses
from all lips, pressed to mine
in a single silence.
I worship as many gods
as there are human faces,
beneath the veil of each
the same Mystery -
love yearning for love.
This is why each touch is pure.
And this is why, Nadeemati,
gazing into your eyes,
I am solved.

* Nadeemati: Arabic, feminine, "my wine drinking partner"


Angels gaze with longing
at this world of pain.
They cry,
'Send me there!'
A human mind
Is the only catastrophe,
Yet the heart of the earth
Keeps beating
Like the soundless wing
Of a moth on sunlit stone.
Listen to that ancient pulse
though it cannot be heard.
Breathe to her rhythm.
Dance and be whole.
Bogong Moth Mandala, Australian Aboriginal Art