May spotty skies of dog fur and loving eyes lap you with the wet kisses of clouds overhanging unconditionally all you ever felt or believed
May you break into the abyss of laughter and shout for joy as the Eden of allowing rewilds you from edges hardened by too much time in houses and buildings
May you grow green canopies for hair, feeling the wafted chemical messages of trees in the branching tentacles of your interbeing brain and heart
the soft belly of a riverbed a hut made of harmony a cool tree limb curving with kindness a dandelion house that blows itself away a dream forest glittering with secret eyes a butterfly canoe that dissolves in the sky an underwater ocean arboretum with galaxies of starfish that sing me to sleep a castle of Northern Lights magnetic with empathy an all-encompassing enclave carved in sandstone cliffs by the hieroglyphic wind a chrysanthemum daydream village nestled in radiant forgetfulness a pistachio windmill ice cream delivery service station a celery sailboat that drifts across dimensions of song an oasis of otters an aromatic abode of morning with forgiveness and interstellar coffee a streetcar named “Enoughness” a den of chipmunks humming with sleep's wild honey a surrender of sloths a beehive of belonging a hugging wall of wallabies a kangaroo pouch furry with compassion a merciful seaweed supernova of letting go here, with you - (2019 Ben Ross. All Rights Reserved.)
Walking across the kitchen to turn off a light
The hot water of a shower, wet hair, fingertips and the flow of motion
Not really one thing then another, not even a moment to be found
And then no flow to be found, but moments, things again, seemingly
Shifting like this, until it just opens –
you arc around the edges of what they say
rainbow shimmered alive by the molecules of water and air
you resonate with your voice
startling the sky, moving tides with the moon of your laughter
you swim in the wide ocean of no-dividing-lines
redefining the real with waves from your spiraling-insistent imagination (more…)
Walking the sandy path through the woods by Dyer’s Pond in Wellfleet, Massachusetts – with dried pine needles crackling under my bare feet, and late afternoon sun warming my bare upper body, and droplets from the sandy-bottom pond still meandering down my skin – I remembered that a body larger than my own or my mother’s had carried me like this throughout my life, and that this body had a name I could hear, a face I could touch, and an empathic resonance that could soak into the cells of my being, if I let it.
Lately – amid the unfolding catastrophes of climate change, white supremacy, potential nuclear war and physical, emotional, psychological and institutionalized violence of many kinds – I’ve been spending hours of what free time I have lying down in a grassy field among pine cones and dry brown needles from last Fall, amid the deep and imperfectly-perfect harmonies of Highland Park, watching clouds drift, picking seeds from the open cones, soaking in sun and doing as much nothing as I possibly can.
all edges i love:
pine trees on mountains, blue sky
the beginning of seasons
sand, sandpipers, sun
setting or rising, seagulls
It was strange to walk out of all that stone and wool, the many kinds of cloth and reverberating footfalls, Latin chants and icicles dripping, that deep silent well in which people rarely spoke (unless to read in Latin about the nature of God’s oneness or the strict rules of their order) and even more rarely looked at each other, and then, unexpectedly, to behold the carnival.
The first thing I felt was the stark blue light that permeated the sky
interpreting my body as a fragment of time and space
as I sat in a cloud of enamel fumes inside my car, parked in a random lot
off Route 5 and 10 near Greenfield
pondering once again the cold
glowing obelisk of my phone
and wondering if I’d have time to read Whitman or Anne Frank
before the tow truck arrived.