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Movement Poems

4:44 am
Young man I see your aligned spine
Straight as the day is narrow.
Your step vibrant and strong.

To my fault I see your forgotten memories,
The childhood tilts as an airplane,
The spins that set your mind right.

I wish for you and me the play of the diving Crow, the Bear cub, the Dolphin.
We could at least prepare for the unexpected slight that one day takes our breath away.

4:53 am
Young child I see your memory fade away.
There was a time when we all danced and sang with you hours upon hours
Our camping fires flickering the night with delight.
Our joy burst from us and joined on a path that knew no bounds.

So much harder it is now for you to touch the precious in yourself
And even harder to say, yes life is for living and I am life.
Tim Hurst 12/12/17

4:56 am
Young dancer I see you moment by moment opening memory,
Memory of the curious, asking of the moment to open.
I am inspired by each surprise you find behind each asking.

I wish for you and for me to move in agility until all our memories open.
Tim Hurst 12/12/17

5:02am
Young worker sitting at your arduousness, I see you.
Yes your body complains year after year kindergarten or CEO.
Sitting may as well be called stilling because we and even our meditators
Instill a force upon ourselves to sit still.

Of course there is a purpose of stillness, to move our thoughts, or our fingers.

To my fault I see the cascading memories of movement fade away each moment. Gone is the memory of our selves as continuous and agile movement like music, like a dance.
Tim Hurst 12/12/17

5:15 am
The breath of the singer is a study of agility.
Wish that I and we could open in like anticipation
Of the beauty we can find within.

Our bodies would know the memory of a yawn
That opens every cell in preparation for so much oxygen.
We would again welcome a lifting of ourselves
While spreading our ribs and wings to make space for breath.
We would remember that each breath awakens toes and nose.

We would remember the thankfulness of heart and chest rising like meeting the sun.
Our throats would open as would all the openings surrounded by our collar bone.

All the breath we have welcomed will rush through raising soft palates, bringing a surprise Ah to our throats. Our backs become new born freshness with breath expanding our edges.

At the top of breath we peak at what the next moment can be, rollercoaster or glider. At these moments all cells speak with movement, nasal passages quiver, third eye’s nurture, cranium bones prepare to release geysers of life from their top most joints.

All this is the life of one breath for the singer. We sit and wait for a rendering of sound vibrations revealing this one singer.
Tim Hurst 12/12/17

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Crystal Dancer

My dear dancer forming as a crystal
Molecular brilliance responding reforming
Each moment a creation revealing itself.

Yet you, crystal brilliance, touch the cosmos with your eyes.
Opening and closing eyes gifting self and every self with something beyond yourself..
You are eyes nurturing every formation within you.
You are eyes with a reach into the worlds of person and leaf and star and night.

Yet you, only you are the crystal forming your unity of person on person into infinity.
You and your eyes make union with your self or not, with other crystals or not.

You crystal dancer can stare as if you do not exist or wish it so.
Or every cell of you can offer to join you in celebration of yet another crystal.

Yet you crystal dancer and your eyes are the gate to an intimacy with life as it forms in your every move.
And your eyes may nourish your every cell and reveal each one to us your fellow dancers.

For you see my dear crystal dancer, I grow as you grow, crystal upon brilliant crystal.
Tim Hurst 11/14/17

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Trauma Poem

If every one of my precious traumas were a glitch along my spine,

I would have to skip or hop to travel top to bottom.

And I would fly fast over each treasured ill so as not to see too much.

For if my eye were to hover in slowest content tears may have to create a river to mine the canal of this my soul.

Yet one ancestral movement passes through all that. The seeing so intricate, the knowing so molten, any trauma nurtured and unmoored.
Tim Hurst 11/13/17

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Dancing a Concussion

Struck my head again, a repetition I seem to lean in to.
Ice and arnica soothe a space of hope.

I can only think of loving the Centrum housing my third eye, pineal, and fourth ventricle all poised at the brink of tranquillity.

And yet as a practitioner of Craniosacral Therapy, I know my conversation can not push its way into the precious lung like sponges of my inner self. These seemingly unspeaking sparkles within me, these cells, can they lead me to the source of my concussion?

Like a conversationalist of any persuasion, I ask first what questions we share within these depths that reflect to the surfaces in my tottering movement.

I walk into the trees allowing my apertures to play among the nearest and the fartherest, among the subtle and the bright, the yellowing and the greening. Behind my eyes, I fall into a lovely hovering space.

It is here where I can counter my movements side and side, around and through, back and forwards. I can allow my eyes to spin ahead or behind me, tottering in the first steps it seems of my mind to pass a thought of myself from brow to resting point at the back of my head, which happens to lie just above my spine as it enters my brain.

And it is here that I can gulp enough to ask about the question I share with this light bounding amongst the tree sprigs. I can now admit that the grape vine leaf is like me, tittering at the end of a spindly twig. We both balance in ongoing movement shared with the breeze, with the sound of creek water below us, and perhaps with the warmth of our shared energies.

In this delicate shared space , I need not ask what life we hold in common. Going beyond the huge question, I must brave a glimpse of our clarity. What cells do we share and what wishes do we create as we discard and reshape phase upon phase?

To surrender the question and its journey through me, I ask to see life passing through my brain’s Centrum. I ask for the presence with my cells to inquire of their life.

And as if waiting for a distant breeze to return through the trees of an immense gorge, I move through my asking toward receiving a surprise worthy of the immensity on which I am delicately perched.

And yet I am not a grape leaf attached to a vine strangling the trees around it. I lift ankle and foot prancing in place as I spin on my precipice with a joy beyond anything I could imagine. My Centrum and I arrive at a moment of balance.

Yes my eyes ask only to grasp at a stare that will slow the turning. Yet my Centrum spreads a smile through me and I have no choice but to love the arriving moment.

My concussion registers my tottering around and through a stare, through a frozen landscape to a lush receiving of many versions of light and glimmering shape in resonant sounds that each of my cells can taste. My concussion is in conversation now and I can lay this dance of myself to rest to welcome waters of cleansing and gratitude to wash over me.
Tim Hurst 10/02/17