Soar

A song sang by two.
A breath of two.
Voices that create a heartfelt tune. 
The space between.

Life.
Death.
Living. 

Sinking into each other,
falling slowly,
swimming in flight.

When eyes close and it's not black.
Giving in and giving out.
Discovering all the corners.
Fingertips.

A recipe of life:
1 ounce of pain,
5 tablespoons of desire and lust,
1 cup of smiles,
half a teaspoon of fear (optional)
mix, blend, beat with memories.
Spice with lips, hugs, caresses.
Fingertips.

This all sounds very amusing, this all sounds very clever, but what is the true recipe of life and living? My biggest fault has been trying to figure it out; sprung out from the mind,  the rationale, and what I have been taught to follow as a life.  
A life of what? A life of success? To whom? To what? For what? For whom?
Recipes, steps, instructions, dots to connect, lines to fill, answers to circle.

Moments of clarity, those moments when you are just flowing. And you feel it.  Feel it with the wind, with the sun, with your hair, with your neck and your hands.  There is no struggling, there is just game. Playing the game, surfing, traveling, rocking, singing, dancing, shouting.  

The butterfly of life and death. Both wings carrying you through. The limit is so subtle, so preciously frail, delicate. It flutters together, and this capacity of living is the same capacity of dying.
Live a little, die a little.

Live fully, die fully. It is absolutely inevitable.  
               Yet, soar.  
                    Soar.
                          Soar.
                                 Soar.
Take flight, lift up, and fly to the sun to get burned. 

Melt your skin,
ache to the bones,
and become fertile ash, bountiful soil, food for newcomers.

Soar.

Waking the Dead

In moments of rest (because I've had them) questions commence to haunt me like old wise souls. Clouds travel to me, through me, and from me, touching me in ways that are unrecognizable by my physical body.  Yet, I am touched nonetheless. 

Questions, words, ideas, smells, images, colors, tunes and rhythms. 

Lying looking at the ceiling and feeling the overpowering space between me and maybe some other curious star.  Cuddled on my side staring at a trees shadow on my wall. It dances with the wind--shaking off its old rusty dust, becoming bright green ready for more sun. Surrendered to the floor, on my belly, side of my face on the ground.  A melting drop of oil, beating.  I can hear my heartbeat, I dance with my breath, and i thank for being here and being part of the earth-- just like any other little creature that steps my same earth. 

Shoes, boots, sandals, heels detach us for where we come from. 
I place  the soles of my feet on the generous ground.  It is there to take me (you) in.  We are also stems that inhale and feed off the soil and water.  We are also leaves that shine and grow with the sun, and dance with the wind. 

Fingertips touching my own skin: feel eyelashes, feel lips, feel knees and hips.  Wake your touch and know thyself, love thyself. Feel, thank, and love. 
 We are being told not to.  To cover, imitate, deny, copy and curse for our so-called faults.  Shake it off and think of the wonder of being one and only.  One and only. Beautiful one and only.  A box of paints that can color and sparkle and twinkle just and only like you. 

Wake the dead of beauty.  Wake the so-feared human spirit.  Wake the so-called dangerous emotions and playfulness.  Wake the daring, wake the risking, wake the long-held tears and voice.  A voice that can sing, yell, howl and laugh in all it's colors.  
Wake the Dead.