Starless Dark Hours

DSCF1678

it is not my job
to understand;
it is not the work
of a moment or
a lifetime to
be consumed
by the questions
that prey on the
starless late night
hours

that hold
and stick and
won’t let go
until the sun
makes its
bold ascent
and freedom
comes again.

The questions
are one mark
of our human
existence, yes,
but so it is
that our
persistence
in the face
of uncertainty,

our will to
proceed along
even the most
shadowed paths,
these are what
imbue our humanity
with its gold,

this and, of course,
our love,
both seed and
flower of our
understanding.

– TS

 

Into the world madly

dscf2259

Sometimes I feel
the questions ready
to spill over,
a mess of things
that have no answer.
Times like this
my thoughts paint over
the world around me,
and the trees are not trees,
and even the sun
is not what it is.
Where is our bearing
from here?
So I work backwards,
not in anger or with
any great resistance,
and leave the questions
where they are,
and with a gentle heart,
go out into the world
to find it again.

Poem: there’s always only love

Tammy T. Stone

Tammy T. Stone

 

I can’t sleep.

Even the bed,

worn and crinkled,

and dampened with sweat,

becomes a rejection

of everything I am.

And the storm that started

hours ago as a lighthearted rain

has quickened,

maddeningly,

lashing now,

and showing no sign

of passing by.

She invites me into

her unfurling movements

filled to the very edges of all things,

with grace, and I submit,

because I can’t think

of what else I can do.

Ask your questions,

the storm tells me,

making sounds that shake the bones

but ensure that I am rooted here,

where I’m afraid to be.

The storm knows

that I still need to ask questions,

even though I’ve had hints

that there are other ways

of reaching truths.

She knows I still have so many,

and they arise often,

so I tell them to the howling wind,

like this…

Why am I always seeking and what am I looking for?

 

 

Why do I always feel I am falling?

 

 

But why am I afraid of this, of falling?

 

 

Why do I always feel there must

be something more to all of this life?

 

 

Why do I feel that happiness

can only be found elsewhere,

and why can I conceive of happiness,

but not actually have it?

 

Why is the mind so strange

that it can form questions

that it can’t answer?

 

What is the nature of nostalgia,

longing,

missing,

that it floods me with feelings

that have no object?

 

Why do things feel more broken than whole?

 

Why do I feel lonely?

 

Why does it take me until the very end of all things

to realize that all of this has everything to do with love,

and only with love?

 

The storm takes me in her arms.

I can actually feel the warmth on my skin,

despite the raging nature of her essence.

She tells me that it doesn’t matter

how long it takes to come to love,

because love isn’t going anywhere,

and will happily wait until it is recognized

by every single one of us.

“Even me?”

The question is tiny and frail.

I am a little girl again.

“Yes, even you. Of course, even you.”

The tears and the rain mix together.

I keep talking to the storm.

“Have I left any kind of legacy?”

I ask.

I guess I’ve only ever wanted

small things, less even,

than I thought.

Just quiet days for reaching in,

deep inside,

yellow butterfly love surrounding me

until we are the same thing.

 

*This poem was recently published in Rebelle Society – check it out here!

It’s Always Only Love (poem)

Tammy T. Stone

Tammy T. Stone

 

 

It’s Always Only Love

I can’t sleep and even the bed, worn and crinkled and dampened with sweat, becomes a rejection of everything I am,

And the storm that started hours ago as a lighthearted rain has quickened, maddeningly, lashing now and showing no sign of passing by.

She invites me into her unfurling movements filled to the very edges of all things with grace, and I submit, because I can’t think of what else I can do.

Ask your questions, the storm tells me, making sounds that shake the bones but ensure that I am rooted here, where I’m afraid to be.

The storm knows that I still need to ask questions, even though I’ve had hints that there are other ways of reaching truths. She knows I still have so many, and they arise often, so I tell them to the howling wind, like this:
Why am I always seeking and what am I looking for?

Why do I always feel I am falling?

But why am I afraid of this, of falling?

Why do I always feel there must be something more to all of this life?

Why do I feel that happiness can only be found elsewhere, and why can I conceive of happiness but not actually have it?

Why is the mind so strange that it can form questions that it can’t answer?

What is the nature of nostalgia, longing, missing, that it floods me with feelings that have no object?

Why do things feel more broken than whole?

Why do I feel lonely?

Why does it take me until the very end of all things to realize that all of this has everything to do with love, and only with love?
The storm takes me in her arms. I can actually feel the warmth on my skin, despite the raging nature of her essence.

She tells me that it doesn’t matter how long it takes to come to love, because love isn’t going anywhere, and will happily wait until it is recognized by every single one of us.

Even me? The question is tiny and frail. I am a little girl again.

Yes, even you. Of course, even you.

The tears and the rain mix together. I keep talking to the storm.

Have I left any kind of legacy? I ask. I guess I’ve only ever wanted small things, less even, than I thought.

Just quiet days for reaching in, deep inside, yellow butterfly love surrounding me until we are the same thing.