[Thespiritexpress] Fwd: An explosion of Light

[Ed Balldinger]

This poem beams with an easily accessible holiness lifting me into
reflective measures of transcendental pause - that moment when spirit
embraces placement with ease.  Thank you for the wonderful gift of
wordsmithing you so freely share with us, Riantee.  I personally love
chasing *"guilt"* away where love restores all that seems to be misaligned
at times.  My Riantee Poetry File is expanding.  I treasure your poems.
Thank you!

I'm ready for the light to shine...

~ Ed



On Thu, Mar 14, 2024 at 8:52 PM Riantee Rand via Thespiritexpress <
thespiritexpress at lists.mcn.org> wrote:

> Poem read on Tuesday
>
>   An Explosion of Light
>
>
>
> He remembers an explosion, was it in Brugge or Brussels?
> Which museum was he visiting at the time
>             ––there were so many!
> Perhaps it happened while quietly envisioning a Flemish painting.
> The borrowed light from ages ago still burned on that day
> as if coming from a star long extinct.
> It triggered something inside him, opened a door
> and he was invited to step in.
>
>
> He stood in the middle of a gilded square, in bright light,
> watching water washing over the cobblestones.
> The cymbals of sun swirling in the gutter stunned him;
> he was struck with a pointillistic vision.
> Did he lose something, did he gain?
> All he knew was that for an instant the world fell silent
> and some incandescence made its way inside of him.
> It hasn't left him since.
>
>
> It happened in the midst of an otherwise ordinary scene.
> An crystalline sphere broke through his ribcage from within,
> shot up like a rocket and disappeared into the atmosphere.
> He felt a lightness he had never known before
> as if a dark and dense being had left him.
> All at once he had no limits.
> "It was like I had shed my humanskin," he told his friends later,
> "and transmuted into this all-encompassing being."
>
>
> He could look inside as if he were made of glass.
> Something had been dislodged there, chased out forever.
> He called it guilt ­­
>             ––such is the human language­­
> and he saw that someone had taken up lodging
> in the empty space,
>             a woman.
> He called her love.
>
>
> He has never been alone since.
> When he meets loneliness,
> he calls it truth.
>
>
> He remembers an explosion.  Was it in Brugge or Brussels?..
>
>
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