Panjoyah Poems
Soul of a Boot

These boots move and encircle me
Like an old friend
The sole is soft and pliable
I drink the earth through my feet
She curls and curdles in pools of ether
In my being
Nourishing me.

I walk among giants,
And the clatter of my thoughts
Clash against the intent
To stay present in my body,
Like an animal merely
Going about its business
Seeking this next moment and the next
While in this one.

No thought, merely feeling,
I walk, I walk.
These boots encircle me
Like an old friend
The feel is warm and billowy
Island is everywhere
It is a place to walk and drink
I can't do this in the city

Sometimes people ask me how I'm doing
And sometimes I decide to say
How I really am
What I'm really up to
They didn't realize when they asked the question
That they didn't necessarily pick theirs

Who invented these gateways to conversation?
Why do we need passwords?
Do we need to be an insider to initiate intimacy
Safety seems to dictate that we do.
But why does it take us so long to question
The habit patterns of conversation and interaction?
I drink her through these boots
Through these pliable soles
But I find that my own is not so soft
I breathe her in and I exhale thoughts
Draining down from my head
Through my feet
First I must reel them in like fish
So that I do not lose pieces of myself
To random inquiries of the Universe.

Hope is a rope that lifts me out of my hopelessness
It offers me a deal I can't refuse
It is the most addictive drug there is.
Surrendering hope is a skill
Which I wish to master
For until I have explored the realms
Of my hopelessness with my consciousness
I cannot hope to heal and feel and deal
With the parts of me that are not vibrating
That are not alive.
That have no hope.

In the old days I did not need boots
To feel the earth.
I walked with my bare skin
And was literally one,
My essence with hers
And we were connected, always.
She is teaching me how to live
By surrendering hope.

If there are splits in me
And there are, as in everyone
I must find consensus
In order to heal the splits
And know which direction we are going
Some of my parts were not able
To begin the race
They were left at the starting line
While others of my parts took off
Like so many hares.
The race will be won by running slowly
And as a group, a troupe.
But not as chickens running to escape the coop.
Soft boot
Surrounds my sole
And keeps me warm
For now

copyright 1997-2002 Panjoyah

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