what the hell

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…

Impressers

Infinite…
Timeless…
Impressers of fate.

Allowing our egos,
-and doubts-

to deflate.

Becoming that all, that our spirit can be.
Filling our sails, with a wind that is free.
Living just for each moment,
like waves on the shore.
Loving all the bright things,
we were taught to abhor.
Passing wisdom – not judgment,
from our shared jeweled throne,
we will guide all the others,
and find our way home.

With our will as a compass,
with truth do we steer,
over seas not so jaded,
as they did appear.
Accepting ourselves,
leads to joining all others,
who were twins at our birth,
though we shared, not our mothers.

Arthur Returns

Warning – A little epic…

Arthur lives again it seems, he sails a ship through seas of dreams.
His fortune is the same as then, he looks for true, brave hearted men.
To fight for freedom and for love, his sword is truth and rings above,
the sound created by the horde, that lives for greed and dies by sword.

His fealty in days of old, begins anew and rises bold.
It speaks of truth and golden cups, it fills the soul and lifts it up.
The glory of the love of God, cannot be covered by the sod,
on Arthur’s earthly vessel laid, their are no dues that must be paid.

His legend lives on in the truth, of Merlin’s long progressing youth.
The one who sought to guide the way, but was imprisoned by the fey.
His quest and journey never ends, he waits for those whose love will send,
a fear into the hearts of those, who mock the path and block the roads.

The ones who are the knights he seeks, will be protectors of the meek.
There courage and their honor bold, will be the songs of bards untold.
The time is ever ripe for them, the earth does cry and seeks true men.
The ones who hoard the gold as power, will be the ones they seek to scour.

A table round is set for them, without encrusted gold and gems,
that now fill rooms and hallowed halls, of those who make the rules for all.
Their time will come – so mote it be – for brave hearts live forever free,
amongst the stars, they shine on high, where true soul lives, and never dies.

The time has come to set things right, a peace must come without a fight,
from farmers field and rivers glen, to mountains tall and desert tents.
The long oppressed will never be, less righteous, for there will is free,
and those who leave a child in hunger, must be brought down or put asunder.

Arthurs quest for grail has found, there is no thing on mortal ground,
that brings such power to valiant men, as God’s true love that starts within.
It shines upon the breasts of those, who send it out and always show,
their love and magic, heaven sent, becoming one, without relent.

His quest and journey never ends, he waits for those whose love will send,
a fear into the hearts of those, who mock the path and block the roads..
For though the grail is true enough, there is no need to raise the cup.
It lives on in the hearts of those, who feel the pain of others woes.

The women who still live their lives, paying heed to children’s cries.
The men who send what they can’t spare, to help the ones with cupboards bare.
The teachers who give love each day, and speak of peace – yet join the fray.
The lovely souls who dance and sing, while others wear the golden rings.

With bright true silver swords they ride, to stem the ever rising tide,
of greed and fear that’s taught by some – to show them that their time has come.
A peaceful warrior strikes such fear, the tide will turn and they will hear.
While love as might will sing the song, the rich have silenced for so long.

In England’s soil they laid to rest, a brave heart who had passed the test.

His sword they gave back to the lake, the lady there does now still wait.

For brave heart true, to come again, and rally all stout hearted men.

His time has come and bells will ring, he’s you… the once and future king.

As Water Seeps

 

A maiden fair, with glittered hair, becomes the land again.
Beyond compare, this bitter lair, her frozen bog and fen.
The wastrel dies, when seen by eyes, unaccustomed, to the glow.
When winter nights, are harsh delights, with the snow bird, would I go.

Invading care, I’m flying there, less smog… where eagles fly.
Perhaps they’ll share, a thought or care, as idly… they pass by.
The Kestrel Flies, to summer skies, where sylvan standards stream.
The wastrel hides, with vacant eyes, that wither, whilst they gleam.

That golden fleece, of winters lease, upon the bog and fen,
gives release – a sense of peace – to a poets quill and pen.
A harsher hand, could not command, the grace that now she gives.
While Glittering Bands, of light now span, horizons of this sieve.

Streaming through, the frozen skies, etching steepled peaks aglow,
gleaming true, the colors scry, to the valleys down below.
Frozen fame.  Dances… plays… a colored, riband glory.
The poet’s lame.  He can’t explain… or begin to tell the story.

So I will stay.  And write.  And play…. amongst those starry bands.
Where tall spruce sway, in nights so fey… it’s a wonder they can stand.
The birch will wait, and not abate, the chill that drives in deep,
’till first stream breaks, then ponds and lakes, ever fill, as waters seep.

Ever Wind

All her hair is greenly flowing, in the wind of summer blowing,
through the fair forever forest – tombs of kings – and also lawless.
Twisting through forever glade, blows the wind, forever made,
by still of night that cools the land, upon whose grace alone we stand.

The evergreens are bending, flowing… summers ever breeze is rowing,
boats with sails full of wind, to start the tale where it begins.
Upon the moors of moss and bracken, blows the wind that never slackens…
Timeless blows that ever wind, no thought of law… no thought of sin…

Birches white with lichen laces, beaming ever flowing faces…
Green of summer – green of life – balanced on an edgeless knife…
Flowing on the ever breeze, the birches sing – the poplar screams!
Their faces merge within the sound, of ever winds, on ever ground.

Carpet now of green and moss, the forest floor becomes embossed,
with ferns and roses – high bush berries – things that slept while they were buried.
Bursting now on ever wind, the spiral ever turns again,
as things that slept through winter snow, accept the grace – begin to grow.

Softly…gently…must we go, to places where the ever flow,
is seen by mortal eyes and mind, if we do not, then we will find,
the places aren’t the thing we lack, the ever wind comes ever back…
To bog and fen and city square – it’s all in how the grace is shared.