In this life full of tribulations,
famine, heartbreak, and wars between nations,
some amongst us become aware
of this poverty of heart and dare
to love in spite of misery and mischief.

“Be vulnerable, but not fragile”
that’s what all the sages say
but in my heart, all I find
is a thorn that leaves me blind
to the suffering of others, but in acts of
kindness I see a light come on
and the thorn gives way to the rose.

Without effort, I stumble upon
the love that I was seeking
in this bleeding heart that’s beating
in sonnets, love songs, hymns and prose.
But her edges are like butter
that I can’t get my fingers round
and instead of listening to her sweet sound
to myself in desperation I mutter:
“How can I love? Where shall she be found?”


When I fall asleep in bed
a moment arrives and in my head
there are no more images of the day
of self and God. Deep sleep’s a holiday
that contains the seed of waking.

And before the wicked world arrives
for a timeless second I realise
that all my ideas might be wrong
and in clarity, I hear love’s song.

She reminds me to loosen my grip
of thoughts of “right” and “wrong” and slip
into my true mode of being.
All it requires is seeing
the very nature of how things are
there is no method nor rule to learn;
here, there is no “how?” or “why?”
there is only love, our true mode
an unleavable house, our true abode
that, with some faith, will never die.