The Reach

27 06 2013

An island stands mountainously,
a back drop for lookers on.
A monument to creation itself.

The reach lies in wait,
silent, without disposition or expectation

-terribly still-
a mill pond calm
prevails grudgingly.
Distances vary as the lodes
of the living waters transit
change into ponds,
and then again
to rivers and streams,
deliberating their contiguous
routes to the sea of commonality.
Twins, Kindred, they be,
of the divine ways they have traveled,
the hapless spawn of intent bringing quieting,
rioting bluebells in spring, freshening, while
making inscribed, weathered highways of this world.
(though there are other worlds than this)
Long traveled, familiar, yet un-navigable

is the reach-

it’s byways gone(un-mapped)in a nod of whispers(or a whisper of nods).
Traveling rivers of desire. Scaling the mountains of knowledge.
Afloat in a salty sea of truth. Sanctified by sanity.
Sanitized by sanctity. Gifted in absentia…

We journey from
shore to island,
from island to shore.

Love lies in the reach.

For so long as blue bells bloom
or mountain avens give birth
from the rocky, hallowed crags
of creations womb, then…

Love lies in the reach.

Belying the compromise of
our brief, flowing span,
Eternal and Indigenous, we are, when…

Love lies in the reach.





Pictured Trees

17 06 2013

*

i
saw
these
trees,
today.
Again,
and,
for the first time.
Magnetically flowing,
and charged,
was the face,
of our divinely,
unrepentant,
stoic kin,
reflected,
and represented,
in a picture of the grove.
These faces flowed gracefully
through the hair of our mother,
the forest, and stood stark,
resplendently, reverently…
Portrayed and captured
by a human device,
in the hands,
of another mere mortal.
The first picture was feminine.
Lips below, seductive and tranquil,
Guiltlessly, Peacefully, Murmuring
Oh to hear such words as they spoke!
Blossoming and flowing gently,
from within the ancient realm,
of this most ancient wombs’,
perpetual dominion,
which is the
forest.
Such
were
the
eyes,
alas,
to look upon
such eyes!
What fate would that be?
To meet the gaze of such eyes as these?
These eyes that flow through the ancient trees,
then disappear in a string of flowing boughs,
scant seconds before meeting the gaze…
The divine mystery directing a symphony,
with a truly divine back to the audience,
congregation-community.
At the very edge,
of almost seeing into these eyes,

another face blossoms from the first.
Perhaps it is a perpetual portrait of divinity,
sacred fractals molded into pixels
being shown to mere mortal souls,
in flowing, scrolling,
sepia toned transience,
and black and white…
Brilliance.
Shown to be,
were those faces,
one of Many.
No greater,
or less,
than any Other.
When they were
flowing together…
When they
were one.
Just the same,
were those faces
in the trees,
that I saw today.
In them i saw
an accepted,
transient,

nomadic diversity,
and inherent divinity.

*





Intangible Gifts

15 06 2013

Simple…
Seemingly finite, and yet endless,

in our mortal span,

are the things which amaze consistently:

The bloom of a flower.
The flow of a river.
The tide of a sea.
Each new day.

Intangible gifts, taken,

in a perpetual exchange of mediocrity between ourselves,

and that which sustains creation itself.
These simple, expected things, hold in their tender wombs,
divinity,
with no expectations for it’s gifts.





Words

14 06 2013

Timeless are the words we write, we glimpse them into each goodnight,
into the void, where none is heard – where spirit never felt a word.
Words battered traces, left behind, while history, unfolds… Unwinds.
Upon the path it blithely took, the pen… and someone else’s book.
Now upon a midnight dreary,     *
as I ponder, not weak, nor weary,      *
the silent visions, some minds took… before they penned them, in their Book,
with Webster or Colet at hand, to make the final product bland…
So that it could be, not merely digested, but singeing Truth, as it suggested.
Though some may find a way around, the moral ties that keep them bound,
to rocks of knowledge-slabs of stone-Empiric gods that stand alone.
So few, will ever journey on, to where the path goes ever on…

The path that leads from their front door,

to where they’ve never been before.**

 

*(borrowed){somewhat}

*(again){somewhat}

* *(Most assuredly borrowed)





Creed

13 06 2013

I here the wisdom of your words,
forever striving to be heard.
Lost among a million voices,
lost among the many choices.
Feast or famine, rich or lowly,
bang the drum now, bang it slowly.
Let the earth hear what you say,
by dark of night, and light of day.

The race we are, just one-not many,
existing in this land of plenty,
waging wars, we never wanted,
by their ghosts our race is haunted.
No true faith has brought them on,
each god taught love, and sang it’s song.
The hate and greed that made men die-
a tellurian creed, our race’s lie.

Growing in the hearts of men,
thoughts of peace now move the pen.
Darkness now lies unrequited,
a vessel new-it’s been re-fitted.
In the shadows of the glow,
made by lamplight of the flow,
lie the things we left behind,
the lessons learned, by our great mind.





what the hell

8 06 2013

Carried away,  they are, on that wisp, of human emotion.
Guilt, Want, Desire, Need,
Love. Hate, Despite, Greed.
The things a vessel bears, may weigh heavily, on it’s eternity,
or be as light as a god particle feather, on it’s eternity,
as it plods it’s way to the vast ending of it’s well known final port…
That is not for them to K(No)w.
No mortal eye sees truly into that glass of finality.
Hence, the blur of that humanity, leaves sepia toned edges.

Distorted,

is,

that brief moment of true thought portrayed in the picture of it’s truth.
Short was that moment in time.

A Cosmic light… switched on.

Then, just as quickly, it buzzes and dies,

and you K(no)w

(not this time)

you have to change it.

That kind of moment, to put it in human terms, and conceptions of time…

and eternity.

Lost are we, indeed, on the paths of men.
A last, sordid detail, in a soon forgone conclusion,
of that god particle sized blink that we are,

that spans generations.

(In our god particle sized moment of human thought.)

“A pity…
That.”
Said no one at all, for they were gone.
Gone,

lost in a sea of themselves, swimming carelessly neath the bristles,
of the timeless brush…

Self…

…and it’s endless pursuit…

of what they thought was happiness…
although it was actually just telling them,

… what they wanted to hear.
Touching it’s harshness, barely wincing, while basking in the fleshy touch of it’s

promise,

which felt good.

Living, seemingly.… slowly…

the demise of their purpose unknown,

unheeded.

Truth lies not here. , … so far.
But there is a razor thin line inscribed by the finest god particle tool,
that separates us from it.

If not…

what the hell.

Why make it seem worse then it may already be.

That, also, is not for them to K(No)w…





As the Dawn

7 06 2013

Vast upon,
the greening field,
the spirit lies in wait…
As the dawn,
it’s teeming yield,
is found
at heavens gate.

Though mortal man,
may beg it’s bounty,
few have ever heard.
So poor a plan,
fey is counted…
by those
who speak
the word.

She gives up naught,
when it is asked…
yet concedes it
as it’s
needed.
Though man is fraught,
with toil and task,
his deeds
become
conceited.

Ask it not,
and you shall find,
the grails endless wealth,
it’s what we’ve got,
in one great mind,
and tales that we tell.





Legend

6 06 2013

I

Violent tendril drumbeats fly, before the ever present eye,
that wakes upon a sudden state, of loving love and hating hate,
of what we know – not think is best – the spirit is the only test,
It sits upon a shelf and asks, “Will you not look – will you not glance?

It lies in summers aching arms, and shies away when met with harm.
It soars upon the waking trees, that lilt and laugh upon the breeze,
of summers folding into night, the sheerest fame of sheer delight.
Wafting on that ever breeze, the forests scent of sacred trees.

Her spirit laughs with such delight, for though she gives, she will not fight.
She takes it in and lets it ride, upon her spirit soaring high.
For she has gone on longer than, the tufts of hide and roofs of men.
She sees them as a kindred race, and gives them love, while sharing grace.

Enfolded in her many wombs, her sacred tents and ancient tombs,
she left there what she could not give – our history – what we have lived.
It lies alone, still buried there, by deepest night and dark despair,
amongst the halls and tombs of men, who chose not love, but hate instead.

Those kindred spirits flying free, are welcomed by immortal breeze,
flying ever on the heights, of wandering souls and dreaming knights,
the places where the heart grows bare, if seed is never planted there,
amongst the things that grow so bright – and light the caverns of the knight.

They lie now where the spirit is – eternal love and silent bliss.
And when we choose to rise above, they speak the truth and sow her love.
Fey are all her sullied wings, the verses that she did not sing.
The paltry things of filth and waste, the sultry things, enjoyed in haste.
The things from which the spirit shies, though body comes with waking eyes.
The things our mortal bodies bear, but spirit cannot ever share.
Things we see through greedy stares, the fleshly wants that don’t compare,
to what she ever freely gives, her knowing love and tender bliss,
the place we live in spirits grace… when we have felt its barest trace.

Forward go her given gifts, with weary eyes, the spirit lifts…

 

II

A knight in armor standing there, with eyes of silver, dark and fair.
A star upon his breast that shines, with all the things that are divine.
He walks with wonder and with praise, of spirit that must walk in days,
where others have forsaken love – he holds her rose in fisted glove.

His spirit sees the truth that is – he seeks her lovehe seeks her bliss.
Her waking heart, her beating breast, have come to him above the flesh,
where spirit hides but ever soars, upon the still embattled shores,
of things he thought held great allure, but did not pass – did not endure.

The quaking of her very limbs, the darkest night, from day begins.
He passed before the very gate, of hating love, and loving hate.
But ever forward, ran this knight, her sullied trusses shining light…
He bore them like a banner spared, from what his body felt and shared,
within the gleam of darkest night, his spirit rallied, chose to fight.
He spoke the words she longed to hear, they fell upon her brightest ear…

I am still love, I do not hate. I come at last, though long you wait.
My body lies on distant shore, though it lives on, it is no more...
I have become what you have shared, I am the one, the all, that dared,
to see your truth and rise above, the things this body, thought were love.

She sent him back to distant shore, to where his body was no more.
He prayed to her from where he knelt – from where his spirit truly felt,
that all around was what he was, and nothing else was real because,
here his soul felt love and light, as spirit danced, through his dark night.

He begged her not to send him back, to where his body seemed to lack,
the courage felt when he was whole, when he was spirit… he was soul.
He never pined to feel again, the bodies flesh and earthly pain.
But in his spirit, now he knew, the truth of what she said to do…

 

III

She called for him to rise from knees, that never more would need release.
She told him that he could not stay, where spirit laughed his cares away.

Your mortal life is what you be, though all remain a part of me.
Your mortal voice is what is heard, above the din – it speaks the word.

Speak of what you see and feel, and tell them all that it is real.
Speak of me not what you think, but what you felt there on the brink,
of love and light, so glaring bright, it shed the darkness of its fright.
Speak of things beyond the veil, do this and you cannot fail.

Speak of angels velvet wings – a soul that loves is one that sings.
Speak of elves so bright and fair – of living love and not despair.
Speak in glory of the tale – where mortals all refuse to fail,
the test of violet swirling mist – where mortal bonds do not exist.

Write of me as whitest dove, for earth is all undying love.
Sing of me as you have heard, the air that speaks, bereft of words.
Dance before the blazing pyre, be the spirit of my fire.
Cleanse with waters of the earth, the rivers daughters joyous birth.

But most of all, be true in spirit – live as though you are still near it.
Speak the things that spirit feels – this is how the spirit heals.
Be the truth you know you are – the souls immortal, rising star.
Be the one that cannot fail, the spirit is the holy grail.”

The spirit felt the words she said, though flesh can rarely hear,
the voice within, above the din, so far, and yet so near.
He stands upon that distant shore, blazing with her light,
in his body, he is sure, that spirit, gives him might.

 

An epic re-post, or riposte.





Essence

4 06 2013

The essence of divine at last, embracing future, present, past.
The words I put upon the page, from some enlightened, bygone age,
the story still remains the same, there is no gold, nor fortune… fame,
yet quantum peace and bliss is there, riches far beyond compare.

She travels on, yet never moves, her spark the fire that consumes,
illusions of my waking thoughts – still unaware that what I sought,
lies within… above…. below… in places where my shadows throw,
a darkness on that blazing light, that glows forever, in my night.

The blinking maze, of sight and sound, that keeps the spirit moribund,
in fleshy cages, where we pine, for inner feelings, so divine.
I travel on my wayward path, embracing love, forsaking wrath,
yet undefined, remains the spirit, though I may bask, in lamplight near it…

A timeless age still lies in wait, for men who never question fate.
Their brave hearts true, can pass each test, as they embark, upon the quest,
the ever laded, seeing eye, glimpses them as they pass by,
while mortal flesh, lies unaware, of visions that she chose to share.





The Greening of the Birch

1 06 2013

She rises now, into the sky, in green and white perfection,
not knowing how, or caring why… embracing her connection.
Such grace and truth, in natures yield, shared upon the earth.
The face of youth, in every field, such rare and timeless worth.

While mother birch, lay fast asleep, through frigid silver nights,
the willow first, began to creep, her way towards the light.
Her furry limbs, caressed the sun, and drank in all that power,
as spring begins – now one by one – each bud begins to flower.

As summer starts, the green becomes, the flowers burst and bloom.
There is such art, in scenes undone, of winters thirst and gloom.
While beauty rested, under snow – a million gleaming points,
our flesh was tested – as she sows – where frost and ice anoints.

Now I sit, amongst that green, amazed again by truth.
This hurried fit, and sacred scene, I find solace… in that youth.
I cannot voice, the things I see, now flowing through the air,
there is no choice – in things so free – or knowing of despair.








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