1. |
Invitation
05:34
|
|||
|
To you
who hurtles through space
propelled by the white-hot fuel
of pain and pleasure
of what was,
and what is not,
and what should be
Slow down. Drop into this moment.
And this one.
Each is as wide as all the known
and unknown universes.
Slow down. Listen.
Do you hear it?
That. There.
The stillness leaking
through the cracks in your heart.
Let it go
and it will embrace you
Wordlessly
Lovingly.
All your journeys through time
have led you here.
Now.
And when you are ready to land
You will guide yourself safely back
to your one true home
that you only thought
was lost forever.
|
||||
2. |
Finders of Sorrow
08:19
|
|||
|
We have fallen from
such high places into this pit.
We did not seek our sorrow but we have found it
or it has found us like a dark crystal
that reveals itself at last as
the beating heart at the bed of a
broken shaft.
Hold up this treasure
so the pinpoint of distant light
strikes deep into each facet. See. Here is sadness.
There pain. Anger and perpetual loss.
The prism of guilt and regret.
These are the atoms and molecules
of sorrow.
Come, let me embrace
you and whisper what we have known
and forgotten. There is a name for the light that
infuses these veins and cracks in our hearts.
Finders of sorrow, you are blessed,
for this light is as ever it was,
God’s true love.
|
||||
3. |
The Blossoms
06:21
|
|||
|
My grief-mad prayers
were January trees
leaves long scattered
wrapped in frozen overcoats
waiting
waiting
for the equinox
of life and death
the warm flood of sap
the first climbing ant
the dove’s elegy
the poetry blossoms
Only when I stopped praying
and became the prayer
when I named desire
butterfly
and let it go
when I found my breath again
against your pulsing heart
and you spread your fingers
above us
to let the blossoms fall
when we called this moment
Spring’s first day
only then
did the Divine in me
greet
the Divine in you
|
||||
4. |
Growing Poems
07:57
|
|||
5. |
Experience
07:18
|
|||
|
Put down this poem
and pick up your life.
It is waiting for you
like a favorite sweater
tucked into a corner of your closet.
Unfold it. Try it on.
If it is too big,
you will grow into it.
If it is too tight,
it will stretch in time.
If moths have chewed holes
in the sleeves and chest,
remember
it is not the material the moths seek
but the aroma of sweat,
the invisible crumbs of food
that let them know
a human being has been here.
A wren is singing outside your window.
Turn off this track.
Now.
Turn on your life.
Now.
It is screaming at you.
Overcaffeinated. Overtired.
Sugared up.
It is ready for an argument.
It is dying to make love.
It is sobbing inconsolably.
It is willing to forgive you.
Seriously, how many times
do I have to say it?
Stop listening to this.
Stop thinking about it.
Stop.
Your house is on fire.
You are sleepwalking off a ledge.
Mother Earth is tired of having her letters
returned from you
stamped address unknown.
How many messages
does God have to send
before you realize
you are the messenger?
One day
should you return here
wearing your sweater
tattered and torn,
this poem will still be waiting.
You may be weary.
You may be broken.
Penniless or rich.
Your heart may shimmer
with the light of thirty thousand sunsets.
Your grandchildren
and great grandchildren
may carry you aloft,
light as a feather.
You may stagger forward
with your vanquished daughter
limp in your outstretched arms.
Pick up this poem then.
And should you desire,
finish it yourself
with the truth
of your own
experience.
|
||||
6. |
Pebbles
07:04
|
|||
|
We have traveled full circle
to the edge of this still point
we call home.
But we are not the same voyagers
who embraced before departing.
Tell me, how did your journey unfold?
With love and grief?
Were you shattered
and made whole?
Did you hold onto suffering
or let it go
and breathe?
And when the stranger came to your door
(as surely she must have),
did you greet her as a friend
and invite her in
to share a meal and sit?
So here we are again
Attending to this precious moment.
And this.
Each one much like a pebble
pressed against the lips of a wave
to be kissed upon the shore
on which we stand amidst
a universe of stones.
What will we do
with these polished and jagged thoughts?
Gather them up
one-by-one
to toss into the sea?
Or fill our pockets
with longings and expectations
until the very perception of their burden
brings us to our knees?
Perhaps we can each swallow pebbles
Watching our questions deepen
as they sink down
to the unknowable regions of our hearts.
Or
What if we simply did nothing at all?
For we are already turning
and we are already still
We have abandoned our houses
And we have arrived home
We are turning.
We are still.
We are here.
Now.
Turning.
Still.
|
||||
7. |
The Well
07:56
|
|||
|
At the crossroads of my journey
troubled by an unquenchable thirst,
My True North lost to me,
I found myself at a well.
There an old man sat,
and by his weathered staff,
the tattered clothes, his dirt-caked feet
I knew him as a fellow traveler.
Can I help you, stranger, I asked.
Are you lost?
He turned his wrinkled face toward me
eyes milky with age and smiled.
I might ask the same of you.
Are you not the one exhausted by
the twin beasts of anger and regret
you carry upon your shoulders?
How long can you spar with ghosts
or run from shadows
that can never be outrun?
I may be old and blind,
but you are the one
who trembles in darkness,
afraid to embrace it.
You are the one who curses the sun
even as it warms you.
You are the one who looks ahead
and sees only the mirror
at the end of the road.
If I took off this mask would you turn away
And call me other,
or recognize me as your brother.
The one whose tears
fell from the cracks in his heart
to blaze the path of wildflowers
that led you here.
So, tell me, before you drink,
will the water be salty or sweet?
And when you begin again,
what kind of footprints
will you leave behind?
Much later, as dusk shadowed the road,
I stopped beside unknown waters
and watched a brace of ducks
call out a promise of shelter.
Their wings sliced the air
much as angels’ breath
stirs divine prayers in our hearts.
So far to go on this path
yet light enough
to look behind and notice
footsteps of
compassion.
|
||||
8. |
||||
9. |
||||
10. |
||||
11. |
||||
12. |
Pebbles (Instrumental)
07:04
|
|||
Bruce F. Singer Danbury, Connecticut
Bruce F. Singer is a healer, poet, recording artist, meditation leader, and author of a book of daily affirmations for people with chronic pain and illness called "Black Duck Moments Every Day." His musical vision is wide-ranging and he is constantly seeking new paths to explore on his musical journey. ... more
If you like Bruce F. Singer, you may also like:
"$uccessor (ded004)" LP
by Dedekind Cut
The debut LP from Dedekind Cut, formerly known as Lee Bannon; ambient music with bright and dark synths.
go to album
Dream Interpretation
by Kazuya Nagaya
Spacey ambient that mirrors the messy, liminal world of sleep-consciousness.
go to album
Moog Mother 32 Songs
by RemixSample
featured on Bandcamp Radio Feb 20, 2018
go to album
New York trio numün use a mixture of Eastern and Western musical stylings on their vibey psychedelic instrumentals.
go to album
Mysteries
by Antarctic Wastelands
Patient ambient soundscapes with luminous textures and depths from Hong Kong-based musician Antarctic Wastelands.
go to album
Experimental ambient songs drawn from real-life experiences that are moving and immersive.
go to album
Infinity Mirrors
by Patrick Sansone
Deep ambient drone that is both soothing and absorbing—long, dreamy tones that stretch out to the horizon.
go to album
