Heart Of The Rose

Heart Of The Rose
Art by Norman E. Masters

Nothing Matters But This

Life is not a secret.
Speaking in tongues
is a an ecstatic madness
for those who let the genie out of the bottle
without knowing how to be the three questions.
These questions are opening wishes.
Keys in a divine lock. They are -
Who am I?
Who are you?
What is this?

In a dry season
we speak in a dry word,
or speak in an enclosed thought,
as a covering of love's sweet body.
Love never taught you to be this veiled threat.
This threatening fear of yourself.
You hide in this shroud
for protection from a chemical warfare,
that is your own unleashing.
Love never asked you to be like this.

There is a flowering in music, art and poetry.
There is a disrobing in intimate conversation.
There is a nakedness in deep listening.
There is a reception and bestowal in trust.
There is a caged bird in your heart
that longs to be the song on the lips of God,
so why feed it stale seed from your nest-egg
of shameful secrets?

Be open like a breeze seeking its own sound,
in the rush of your enthusiasm to be seemly
in the ear of the world.
Sing a simple song
for the simple minded.
For the simple ones
who have seen around the corner of themselves
and appreciate the view of love's exposure.

Every heart should confess itself
like a penitent for being concealed
in a world of sorrow.
There is nothing more pitiful
than a ripe plum hanging upon a tree
holding back from its falling.
Nothing more wasteful then a tear
dashed from the eye of a heart overflowing.

The nature of water is to run.
The temperament of the sun is to shine.
No one can be a sun drowned in stale water,
and disguised as its shadow.
You must unhood wink yourself,
from the self serving abasement of secrets
in the basement floor of your buried treasure.

"Who am I," is an answer from your wish tree.
"Who are you," is a recognition.
"What is this," is a statement of your purpose.
Your wish, recognition, and statement
are our purpose.
It is the love you give to yourself.

I do not want to speak of God to you.
I want only to be the speaking of you in God.
I cannot make your poem,
no more than I can make your rose bloom
in the litter box you think to hide your catnaps in.
Yet I am after you as a killer whale
that hunts sealed lips.
I am your holy ghost haunting you
for your secret longings to be known.

Nothing disturbs me in you.
I am the spirit of the buffalo, the white owl,
the rose in your thorn.
You have been hiding the swan of us both,
in the reed bed of remorseful entanglements.
You have been lying in wait, as a lay in you.
Yet I refuse to nibble upon you.
My compassion would eat you as a ravenous lion
bones and all,
but patience has me wait in the stealth of my heart.
as a pride of soft meows, hungering for your surrender.

For you are my poem too. My surrendering in you.
Nothing gets eaten without this sharing.
This "I Am" is really a call for your soul to be swallowed
in the mouth that speaks these words.
Words not from any "me" you imagine,
but from a "you," as yet, you cannot imagine.
And so I image you as my open secret,
my poem in me.

I do not need you as a man or a woman,
and yet I would drive this manhood of me
deep into you, to bring you to this meeting of us.
You are not a body I want,
but a body of love, and live within.
I sing you from your dreams,
and dream of my song in you.

Nothing gets created without this union.
Nothing gets juicy without this delving into us.
If I sing of your soul,
I but sing mine into this being of you.
Cow bells are bringing the milking of us home.
It is time to feed the callused hands of farmers.
The horny handed laborers of this field of our love.
To bless the tool makers, and the technicians of doubt.
To be anointed in the love of the clerks, and clerics,
of this world's administration. To be open.

I am your unwritten poem. Your promise
from a thousand years of day-dreaming and suffering.
I am this shared moment when your heart rejects these
words spoken like seeds on the wind.

This love I bear is no secret.
It is a maiden's hand caressing her lover to be hers.
The sharp intake of your breath on a frosty morning.
The warm reunion of yourself in the heat of your longing.
This secret is a poem you seed in existence,
and marry to all things with your love.

I speak in tongues that you alone hear.
I speak as a lover, that you yourself can cling to.
Nothing else matters but this confiding,
this talking in words of fire
into the heart of us.
Nothing else matters.

The day sinks into the sunset, and all is night murmurs
and sleepy passions for our rendezvous with love.
And you feel the handling of this love
as the holder of your heart in mine.
But where have the birds all flown to?
Where have the nests of you and I been
scattered on this wind of our love?
I can impart this secret to you most sincerely.
We are straws in the air making love in separation,
and clinging in desperation
to a silent tune. You would call your secret.

Make a wish my dear ones.
Make it a God wish to be good and simple.
Nothing becomes you more than your nakedness.
Nothing becomes me more but yours.
I am the word in you that is yet not uttered.
I am the fish in your water.
The poem of you in my life.
I write these words from a clear heart.
Drink of this
and be the wine of you.
I am your secret. And I am open.
I love you.


Eric Ashford


All text on this page is Copyright March 4, 2002 by Eric J. Ashford.


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