Poetry is how I love.

One of the ways I love.

My journey with poetry has always been about sensation. Making beautiful moments by creating art through the present moment, filtered by my sensation. The poetry magnetizes me inward like I am entering my sacred self — my pleasure centers — and creating magic.

I love poetry as written art, specifically, because it's not just words that create meaning that is valuable or important about the practice; it is phonetics – sounds of language. Shapes of words. Use of words beyond connotation. Flowing with poetry allows me to be playful, innovative, chaotic, genius.

Through poetry, I find my own way.

I have learned to lean into the profuse flow of poetic words tumbling from me. And I have learned to channel my energy to select words that most accurately represent the sensation I am journeying through, of which poetry supports the feeling and movement.

Poetry is a companion that never quits.

Poetry is primordial. Has been here since before time, before this corporeal experience. And exists through dimensions, kaleidoscopically.

Poetry, the enigma.

Writing about poetry is the writing of poetry. You see, poetry is a weaving game. Brings us from mind through heart through embodied sensation. The whole thing is spiritual — to weave realities and result in something so suffused with essence we then call it art. Simply Divine.

I recall the year 2022, 29 years since my arrival onto Earth. I was so open, so raw. Living, certainly, between realities. And so the poetry found me. Easily, poetry sauntered into my life like a well-kept woman. My wounds were open, my organs splayed. And like the medicine-maker poetry is, it sutured me, slowly, intentionally. With presence, love, and a deeply abiding passion. 

I never question poetry’s commitment to me. Poetry never questions me, simply allows me to turn over the stones of my soul one by one and let doves fly out and into the sky. Doubts set free. Worry transmuted into play.

This morning, I witnessed the baby’s breath of a new sun: kiss of barely-there pink, atmospheric in the sky. Even the strength of Father Sun, Mother Radiance, first emerged as a child. And I knew poetry would walk with me this day — that I should send my mind into my body, invert my eyes, walk slower. 

Journal at my chest. Pen in hand. 

Coffee creamier; I do not taste the bitter.

My smile clearer; I have not yet looked in the mirror.

She never yells, poetry. Doesn’t require the attention. Does not hold onto anything. 

Poetry, untethered soul, singing through my bones. Elusive, she is. Yet very here and very now. To me, poetry’s essence is potent even if I try to keep her mystified. I want her genderless but she keeps me writing “she”. I suppose it is my Feminine Essence wearing her as skin. Dancing with her primordial force, to her tune beyond time.

Timeless

Timeless

Timeless

Forgiveness, and grace, and all the virtues of humanity, poetry touches my desire to explore. To let my body be soft, let my soul swim for more. 

I’ve become an athlete-level swimmer, gliding through this life.

I simply follow the poetry.

Follow the wonder.

I simply allow… Love.