color, music and light

and traditional,
just didn’t suit her.
She was different.
She brought the
light, music and color,
but no one could see or hear
past the tint of her skin,
and the clothes
she was dressed in.

The mob got angry
and demanded that her
ideas, manner
and appearance fit in.
But if every color
is the same, there’s no art,
only a blank canvas shown.
If every note is the same,
there’s no music, just a lone,
repetitive and empty tone.

She moved through life
as a wave of color, music and light,
and the others felt her pull.
Ignorant of why they felt so good,
they make her a scapegoat
with their poisoned cock and bull.

The feeble-minded
were jealous of her powers
of her beauty, and of her way.
So they labeled, mocked
and shunned her
because they feared her,
and just about everything else,

They resisted
with all their might,
while shielding their eyes
from the light.
Filtering colors, green with envy,
jealousy had worked them up
to an angered frenzy.
Music was bitterly distorted,
in the company of their discontent,
and they did all the samely wrongs
they can muster and give consent.

So she turned and walked-on
in beautiful color, music and light,
leaving those that lived in the ‘same’,
alone with their hate and fright,
never even knowing her name.

the only way to atone

Is it better to give in,
where beauty
is not wanted or known?
To stay silent,
know your place,
fit in,
and slowly die all alone.

Is it better to not forgive,
to hold that grudge
and let it build to retaliate,
continuously relive,
and constantly judge,
the very things which
I hate to participate.

Mustn’t we
– transport the unforgiven
to its highest spiritual realm,
and let our ship be thusly driven,
with our soul
placed firmly at the helm.

– and mustn’t we ascend,
the gutter to the throne,
and transmute whats
vile to beauty,
for isn’t that our sacred duty,
and the only way
for us mortals to atone.

Play is magical

Play is magical

O’ innocent child within,
from where we begin,
wake those sleepy eyes,
turn me from how
its always been
and let spirit’s journey reprise.

I know we have
traveled this road before
and many times more,
each is a differing same,
just called by another name.

In our imagination,
all starts and ends,
innocence is the state
that welcomes its intends..

Parables and allegories

Ancient mystics
used imagery to tell
a psychological unveiling
of man’s true nature
and power in imagination.

These wisdoms unfold,
through parables and allegories.
Its only while being present,
and through the magic
of the spiritual categories;
coincidence, mystery and surprise,
that help reveal their clever disguise.

Some read these stories
and see them as historical,
others know that they are
really beautifully metaphorical.

We are each, author, producer, director,
critic and all the actors in our play,
as we conduct the themes of our lives through
whatever we believe, claim, accept and say.

greet the new day

Everything in existence is crying out for a particular quality of consciousness that only humans can give. This doesn’t mean we are superior to nature, only that there’s an incredible need for a certain cooperation. The famous mystic Rudolph Steiner has said that for the agricultural process to happen, for seeds and plants, and trees to grow, birdsong is absolutely essential. This is a beautiful truth that very few people know. But we also need to take what he said one stage further, because birds call and sing not only to quicken plants: they also call to awaken the human seed that we are. They are actually singing for our sake as well. If we can start to listen to them, really listen, they will draw us into this greater consciousness I have been talking about. They will be our teachers, because nature is able to point us to our inner nature. …We are called to be there. When we can listen to what the birds have to say, to what nature has to say, and when we perceive the beauty of nature, then we are completing the circle and returning this physical world to its source through our own consciousness. – Peter Kingsley in an interview with PARABOLA, Spring 2006 from the issue “Coming To Our Senses.”

Some Native American beliefs say that the predawn Bird Song is a song of thanksgiving for the day to come.

Thank you for this wonderful day
which unfolds in such a perfect way

First Light Breaks

First Light Breaks

Through the window,
first light breaks,
and when shines
upon my face,
my whole being wakes.
I feel a warmth,
radiate deep within,
coming from under my skin.
And I am no longer thinking
of what might have been,
instead, I greet
the first light of day
and always say –
“What new adventure
do you have in store for me?
What magic will you open
my eyes to see?”

a spark

Isn’t it funny,
how the mind
just goes there,
from time to time,
stumbles upon
a long ago nightmare,
when events in life
didn’t always rhyme.

It can simply show up,
in the oddest
most irregular places,
like a walk
in the forest
conjuring some old
unwelcome faces.

It doesn’t happen
all that often,
(thank God,)
but just the same,
I find it quite odd
that its still alive
and that even now
has any claim,
or can be a spark
to my explosive flame.…/
#boy #spiritual #poetry

The BlueBills

It was in a very
noisy conference,
when the BlueBills
decided to leave the nest.
Their squawks
were pretty heady,
with differing opinions,
purporting to be the best.
Are we really ready?
Is it warm enough?
What if we fall
or land in the rough?
Will we fly steady
or fly into a wall?
And how can we fly,
when we’re too
scared to even try?

Just then,
one BlueBill,
rose from the crowd,
stood tall
and spoke-up out loud

“I don’t know
how it comes to pass,
But we need only choose,
and then follow that path.“

Then after a
moment of silence,
one by one,
they left the nest,
and when all was
said and done
it was their unwavering
so very well expressed.

We need leaders that inspire the best in people like the BlueBills – as Martin Luther King Jr. so eloquently stated “We need leaders not in love with Money, but in love with Justice. Not in love with publicity, but in love with humanity”.
and we shall have them…

an amalgamated suggestion

I’ve fallen again,
into that state where
anything can happen.
Where fire-breathing
dragons or flying in the air,
are not out of the question.
Where everything,
even the living and dying
is an amalgamated suggestion.

And maybe my dreams
are nice, or maybe they’re not.
every single night I long
to be among the memes,
and enter that world
that space and time forgot.