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Singing Soul Strong

Billie Holiday said
The artist of soul never sings a song the same way twice,
the artist never sings the same song twice.

This sounds good and right to me,
as soul artists and lovers,
great optimally effective researchers and scientists and articulators,
never live a day,
a relationship,
a poem,
a dance,
a sacred ritual or Orthodox Tradition
the same way twice.

As we learn to stay within our zones of mutual integrity,
we can never go home again
because we live through this fluid imagination place
where life’s articulating time
flows a bubbling nuanced stream
never sung as mere mechanical repeat,
each moment learning now’s new voice
from soul’s most resonant
remembering
strong-hearted space.

Soul ever sings songs of streaming true-heart voice.

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Dancing Through

I would he could write,
or even speak,
as dance,
sometimes get down mean
and sexy dirty.
Confusing hybrid
not safely translated through static language,
these ecstatic moments
entered and left without external shadows,
remembered warmly but soulfully
in shyly smiling muscles
unwilling to let go of life
without breathing music,
refrains training love moments
passion trails of kicks
and balanced leaps of faith
Earth will hold these swirling bones
and arteries of flowing bliss
I must not write too raw
but dance
as if each cell could swell in angry love songs
big and small
fast through slow
up as down
around each day’s write
to dance abandoned freedom’s passion night.

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Silent Psalm

I long to write a silent song;

ringing resonant rising

round revolving reach,

risk relaxing riots,

quiet storming streams,

sentient string

waiting your

our

sharing story,

advent’s adventure

deep despair diving

diastolic drifting

out beyond sonorous sea seasons

sweeping flight to gather might,

speaking slyly deep

down steaming volcanoed channels

reaching roots of listening

into Earth’s core chi-soul.

 

Speak, justly shout enchanting contention

churning charry content,

informating reasons

fine-purposed meanings

boiling funnel tipping

turning spinning

spilling waves of Tao balance

revolving temperamental cross,

straining yang from West to East

reversing yin from East to West

like longing lingering

loitering within belonging

becoming being

yin’s right spins left

good’s evil space

wrestling voices

murmuring

pulsing

massaging rhythm’s blood flows

flying frequencies

echoing past identities

of storms still-dancing

through memory’s veins

and river swollen

spring’s raucous roaring

songs singing silence

I long to write.

 

 

 

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