A Peach Of A Tale.

[Guest guest]

A Peach Of A Tale

This morning I lingered in the orchard.

The scent of peach blooms and honeysuckle

mingling with jasmine in my tea cup.

The Gardener had left Her fingerprints

in the pliant flesh of a plum

a sign I took for - Eat me.

So I consumed that mouthful of juice

that no one can touch without being instantly drunk.

Let me tell you how it is

when the ocean eats the moon

and there are only sea echo’s left upon this shore.

It is a peach of a tale

a sweet lie that demented rogues remember

only after they have lost their mind.

That plum must be swallowed whole.

You must have a big mouth.

A mouth full of hunger for nothing but love.

That love, must be tattooed inside your head

as an image of God only the heart can see.

You lay back and spread your body out

until it is just a feather on the wind

of your pulse.

Looking upwards to the painted images,

as Michelangelo once did as he painted

alone in the dead of night

with only a stuttering candle

between his eyes and the truth.

As Beethoven did

as he hammered his soul to the deaf keyboard.

This artwork takes you away to the garden.

Where your spirit walks alone.

Now you must trace the scent of Her perfume.

There is a musk She leaves

at the foot of every rose tree

follow that, like a wild dog whose testicles are just fire.

Fire and water that he hunts as himself.

There are scratches on the back

of every leaf and tree skin.

There are way-marks engraved

like love bites on this trail

that whisper of Her longing to be found.

Go that way........

There are showers of cherry blossoms

and chasms haunted by wailing ghosts.

Walk through them both without a thought.

You are the only real flower here

and the only abyss worth falling into.

The pigments of this painting

will eventually dissolve

until there is just this essence

this attar of rose that is the coma of the heart.

It is called by the wild men of God

ruh-i gulab or soul of the rose.

Here you will find the fruit you are looking for.

It will feel like the gravity of love

has become an unbearably heavy plum

so densely liquid that no tongue

could ever pierce its mystery.

A enigmatic vagina full of such sweet honey

that only its own juice can drink of itself.

Here you must let go of your desire to enter.

You must be the fruit that consumes itself.

When your eyes fall down like long dead stars,

that perfume will distill you into absence

as the spume from ocean spray

that is taken up to be evaporated by the sun.

O and then my wild hearts, you will see the red lips

of that secret opening

and you will move in

to be the taste of that pink flesh

in the womb of Her redolent plum.

There will be a fiery scarlet tongue

and you shall be the counterpart

of that root and pith

that is your own stalk and stem of Her desire.

When God swoons,

She takes you to the heart of the orchard

and pours you out as the milk of Her breasts.

There is this fountain but you are not it.

There is this blood pumped into the artery of the vine,

but you are not it.

There is this long kiss in the bud

that inseminates the universe, yet you are not it.

You are the peach of Her ecstasy

turned inside out, so that your pulp

is exposed as a golden throat

as opens in the orgasm of creation.

This morning I lingered in the orchard.

The scent of peach blooms and honeysuckle

mingling with jasmine in my tea cup.

I drank it down and now I tell tall tales

for the lovers of gardens and all growing things

that die to themselves

to be the humus of this earth of love.

love

eric

______________________________

[Guest guest]

Robert wrote......

 

In each momentary sigh

the perfume of our

million deaths exudes

the fragrance of flowers,

whose fragility is not

abused by the inevitability

of destruction

at the hand of the life

that caresses them to bloom

and blossom.>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

With each breath the lover dies

and with the next is awoken by this love.

Love is his resurrection

and love also the hand that slays him.

He is the flower of his life

for death cannot hold him.

 

In such a hand there are

no worse or better plants,

but only precious ones that

even now retreat to dust -

some long before their

petals fully open.>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

The life of the flower

is in its movement to blossom

The life of a lover

is in his unconcern for change and decay.

He sees the whole garden

and knows nothing blossoms without

a surrendering to mutabilty.

 

Ah, but death has never been

a matter for concern among

the roses and the lilacs,

who patiently absorb the light

and mirror back infinity.>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Each bloom is the eternal moment

released into the presence of love.

The light reflects the seed and the worm

and rejoices in their flowing embrace.

 

Surrounded by love

in a garden of love,

with only love as

the gardener -

who could resist

this last little death

at the hand of the one

who most loves you? >>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

We return to the garden for Eve

we lose the garden as Adam

and sleep and wake and sleep and wake.....

Always this longing to die to Her Life.

Always this attempt at autonomy.

A dream of separation

of the mind that struggles to live apart from Her.

As if love could be two

when the blossom is One!

Yet duality is none other than the One. The One in many.

And so Love in Her mercy resurrects us each instant

that we can choose again to die to our conceits

in order to live again this One Life

and see no difference.

 

love

 

eric

[Guest guest]

, ErcAshfrd@a... wrote:

>This morning I lingered in the orchard.

The scent of peach blooms and honeysuckle

mingling with jasmine in my tea cup.

I drank it down and now I tell tall tales

for the lovers of gardens and all growing things

that die to themselves

to be the humus of this earth of love.

 

 

 

In each momentary sigh

the perfume of our

million deaths exudes

the fragrance of flowers,

whose fragility is not

abused by the inevitability

of destruction

at the hand of the life

that caresses them to bloom

and blossom.

 

In such a hand there are

no worse or better plants,

but only precious ones that

even now retreat to dust -

some long before their

petals fully open.

 

Ah, but death has never been

a matter for concern among

the roses and the lilacs,

who patiently absorb the light

and mirror back infinity.

 

Surrounded by love

in a garden of love,

with only love as

the gardener -

who could resist

this last little death

at the hand of the one

who most loves you?

[Guest guest]

, ErcAshfrd@a... wrote:

>Always this attempt at autonomy.

A dream of separation

of the mind that struggles to live apart from Her.

As if love could be two

when the blossom is One!

Yet duality is none other than the One. The One in many.

And so Love in Her mercy resurrects us each instant

that we can choose again to die to our conceits

in order to live again this One Life

and see no difference.

 

 

 

Everything is

exactly as it should be.

 

In the solitude of our

dawn-viewing room, a single

stick of sandalwood has

serenely surrendered itself, its

lingering perfume seducing my heart with

the ache of unbearable longing.

 

Ah, this heart –

this foolish, foolish heart!

 

Subtly, imperceptibly at first, a

Presence begins to reveal Herself,

loving hands on my shoulders,

a kiss at my crown,

soft murmer of Greeting

blending with the faint outline of

the trees outside my window.

 

Solitary birdsong,

initially unsure,

gradually swells into the infinite

chorus of unbounded Joy

that permeates our soul,

dissolving us in the

Infinite Melody.

 

Etched against the

bluing background of this vast

emerging morning,

individual limbs of bare oaks

sharpen into focus, their

smooth barks glistening, extending

like the arms of lovers to receive the

Life of Light.

 

Oh, my Love!

My dear, dear Love!

Has there ever been one

moment of separation between us?

Even now, even now -

as tears flow freely down my cheeks

I press my lips upon Your Heart and

fall forever into You.

 

LoveAlways,

 

b

[Guest guest]

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