In the Museum of Suffering

My carefully curated collection

has been well-tended, as has yours;

We stayed with the cross long after

Christ himself had ascended into heaven,

our suffering  selves sanctified and idolised

and the meaning of his supposed death lost on us

Do not make a special case for suffering:

those velvet-bound exhibits in their glass cabinets,

however precious, do not confer nobility nor special blessings

(I believed that my soul would profit, but that was a lie).

We fetishised the cross, and postponed the resurrection. 

The World, And You

There is no difference

(It’s all in me)

It’s so much simpler than you think;

There’s nothing to monitor, evaluate, control, compare

There’s nothing to save (or lose)

There’s only one coin, despite

Our ability to see both sides

Those grand opposites –

Life and death, better or worse, up or down –

No longer holding sway

How much I’ve longed for this

How much I’ve longed to be back here

Where being has no opposite

(For there is no opposite to isness)

Where there is endless space in which to meet

As you are, so is the world

As the world is, so are you;

Some regions beautiful, privileged

Other areas dispossessed, neglected

Whatever you do to you, you do to the world

Whatever you do to the world, you do to you,

For there is no difference

This Body

This body needs no further instruction

I lost the ability to move

Except by decree;

The postures, poses and forms

Externally prescribed, and restrictive

This body became a stranger, foreign

Its motives suspect, its needs unconscionable

It mutinied, of course

Who wouldn’t under such a regime?

Its energy sequestered

Its forces subjugated to purposes not its own

It failed to thrive

Howling at the restraints of civility

Now, it starts to move

Entirely on its own terms

And surprises me

Possessed of a deep well of resources

Its grace and wisdom become apparent

As it begins to forgive these decades of neglect

I crawl, delighted

I rest on my haunches, enthused