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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

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Who Move I Poem

Who do I Move? The I of Nature do I move?
Everything a curve that returns to myself? A replica of every curve of my thoughts, my motion, my direction, and my hope.
Everything a rejuvenating wave creating space beyond itself?
Every fractal a varying upon a simplicity? A simplicity taking centuries to unearth?

Who do I Move? The I of tranquility do I move?
Every move a suspension of harmony and disharmony? An extension of myself echoing in a vastness beyond my encased storage space.
Everything a heart rending recognition of every cell of life regenerating every other cell of life.

Who do I Move? The I of my imprint do I move?
Every move a seal of my full and complete spectrum of life?
Every collapse of my fear blossoming an anticipation beyond any human trust?

Who do I Move? The I of my stillness do I move?
Every curve continues for me to follow? Standing alone reflecting my replicas, my unities of life upon life, my crumpled wishes speaking in my ears.

Who do I Move? The I of love do I move?
This love of every move, is this the life I join as the fastest roaring river?
This love of every life, is this the vastness I refuse to understand?
Tim Hurst 09/27/17