(Coming to) My Senses


Down, down, sinking feels familiar, trustworthy.
While Passion's inner Reason hides itself,
Thus Reason is persuaded, Passion is alone,
Passion is so very,
down, down, sinking feels so familiar, trustworthy.

Passion has its Reason, thoughts give birth to feelings,
what is the thought that leads you
down, down, sinking: a thought that's so familiar, trustworthy.

I draw near, I choose it, somehow I like it, I draw
down, down, solitude's familiar, trustworthy.

Reason's layers lead and follow Passion,
What is your persuasion?

Fear so urgent, passionate, reasonable,
Build the wall, divide the field.

How fresh this power to cut and hurt,
once cut and hurt and helpless too.
Feel the change, taste the blood,
Falter not, but rend this meat,
enjoy the Passion as you eat it
down, down, alone is so familiar,
the poignancy so comforting, safe, abstract.

How wise and true that life is one
how comforting that that Man's done,
Passion released, your pain is past,
no more shall Reason proctor tests,
skip next morning's upward flights,
sink down, down, sinking feels so familiar, trustworthy.

The dog is one, the jackal one,
the life that's lost or won still one,
but dogs still love though jackals feast.
A doggish love, a slobbery mess.
Get Out! You cur! Not in my house!
Be homeless but begone with you!
But any jackal is at heart a dog.

Of course your life will rise again.
At morning's light, the birds do sing,
I praise the birds, the morning light.
Though I descend myself to night,
I do praise morning's Passion too.

What world awakes us? New or old?
The past is dead, each morning fresh,
another motel six we bless.

Up, up, rising in communion,
can we have a union,
is there a place for freedom?

Folly this, to cut and hurt,
impassioned, reasoned, still it kills.
Mercy loves you as much as him.
Turn toward your sincere lover,
Passion's morning is not empty,
Reason isn't overbearing
in the morning,
when the birds sing,
up, up, up,
rising in communion, mutual recognition,
love and play and freedom's union.

If Passion is a secret fear,
is fearful more, examined less,
what hollow victory, killing tyrant Reason.

The price of fear depends upon
the facts upon the ground.
The price of true love trampled,
the cut of love destroyed,
the hurt of love misunderstood.
Forget the cost to lover,
(life has no price, is given freely)
consider only your heart,
what will be the measure
of oneness without form.

What price is love? If love is true
the light will show it, in the morning.
The price will be the fear,
the purchase then exchanges
your fear for love so priceless,
a bargain never cheaper,
unless it is a miser
accepting only favors
that fear demands for free.

A man's a man, and smells like (fearful) sweat,
his love's no less if skin surrounds
his ribs surround
his heart contains
a Narnian world
of miracles and redemption.
His tears are salty too.
For Moses sweated fear before the burning bush.

What wisdom, solitude?
Mohammad Jesus Buddha too
their solitude gave wisdom: True,
the oneness of I am I am.
A oneness sparkling all through life,
its beauty is the ground of strife
and joy and every thing.

Some wish to see the oneness pure
without a feature, face, or time, or place,
I bless their hope, some few's intent,
and hope escape from painful bent
can be their sweet conclusion.

Some hope to see the face of God
in home and spouse, beloved child,
it is their nature in this world
to follow nature's loving lead
and see love in a face that breathes.
A hope that, dashed, is sad to me.

Forgiveness, mercy, gentle soul,
are yours and mine, and we are whole,
the Passions in our separate hearts
abandon noone, leave nobody,
still contain us, will remain here,
there's no death for Passion ever,
no tyrant Reason in communion.

When I tremble when I weep,
when I reach my hand to greet,
I seem discarded for my keep-
ing close to my own vision of
a life of timeless love
and oneness in the heart,
respecting persons, holding spaces,
coming close and breathing scents of
my beloved?

Whose beloved?!

She is free, no tyrant's chokehold
stops her voice or stops her movements,
for my beloved IS my heart's beloved,
this fact's about my inner state,
there's no demand no hurt no chaining,
your freedom's whole - or what would love
be!? Passion's prison, Passion's ugly song.

So falter not and falter not,
as the Passions, fear and wholeness,
battle for your life and treasures.
And which will win, I don't imagine.
You are free to choose the poison.

Please consider, taste both powers,
join, divide, you can choose wisely.
I pray love's Passion is the victor,
stronger than the voice of fear.
But truth not prayer will haunt your
memory when the hour of death appears.

For mine is only one man's sweating
body, tearful eyes and chest of
yearning, because I'm one whose
life is nature's, one who breathes
and loves what's there.

Copyright © 2000-2019, Thomas C. Veatch. All rights reserved.
Modified: December 16, 2019