Birth of a songstress

Birth of a songstress

In a drowsy haze,
she plainly heard,
what sounded to her
like a songbird.

That melodic cadence
broke the singularity of time,
while her attendant thoughts
offered a paradigm.

The sound was ringing
all inside of her head,
so she just started singing
what she heard instead.

“I must sing.
I gotta sing
what I heard in my head,
from that little songbird”
she melodically said.

#songbird #poetry #painting #spiritual #love

I’m not making this up

There’s magic,
mysteriously blooming
in everything,
but I only become aware,
when I tell the tale
that makes the cut,
cause no matter how unbelievable,
every now and then,
a truth will prevail,
that I’m not making this up,
I’m making it happen.

Its not hocus-pocus

Its not hocus-pocus

deeply focused,
on nothing at all.
follows desire,
its not hocus-pocus,
in imagination’s recall,
whose vision takes shape
and in my mind,
plays a first person
movie tape,
with sound
and form,
color and smell
I can feel
the cool-warm,
and everything
needed to experience
the story tell.

And when I do,
I know that its true.

vein of kindness

after all this time,
he understood.
That vein of kindness
running through his life,
was a grace.

However else
it turned outside,
his inner world
is eternal sacred space.

gently rocking
the sleeper awake.
Made aware of the folly,
he rejects the fodder
and ignores the fake.

And now,
the signs he sees
have changed
in order and meaning,
they do not
precede and portend
what’s yet to come,
but rather, they follow
and evidence their
arrival from,
a spiritually-sensed place,
where the mind
in surrendered embrace,
all that the heart
gives and receives.

animating power

She saw it,
as it lay,
sadly shrinking,
on the ground.
Bending down
to pick it up,
her teardrops fell
on the head
of the dead

It glowed luminous,
as she lifted it
in her hand.
Her loving gaze effects
an animating power,
that instantly resurrects
at her command.

And when she
opened her eyes,
the flower was
stirring and alive,
bursting with all the
colors and fragrance
her teardrops can revive.

The elephant in the room

The elephant in the room.

There were
choices made
when he was young,
and learning to be afraid.

Round and round,
swept him up
on a Ferris wheel,
forged by family
and surroundings,
into societal norms,
And at his altar
of lost foundlings.
dreams were sacrificed,
through deadly conforms.

He died,
with regrets,
long great sorrows,
unpaid spiritual debts,
and no more tomorrows.

A true forgiveness
is a complete forgetting ,
as if it never was,
Its not aiding and abetting,
operating in the laws
of spiritual cause.

So after all these years,
I simply forgot,
and not a moment too soon.

I finally bought,
the pearl of great price,
and the Sun, the Stars and the Moon.

#art #poetry #spiritual #forgiveness #love #painting



And as
time came to pass,
he understood
at long last,
that its up to him,
no one else,
and its always been,
all him.

Its his story,
his damnation
and/or his glory,
through his
secret foundation,

So he set out
to refashion himself
from the inside,
into the image
of his ideals
and without debate,
a wholeness create,
not in appearance or
for the moment only,
but by becoming
his desired state.

Some people watching,
might just call it fate,
as he went about
the business of living,
but then, their life
couldn’t be anywhere near
as divinely forgiving.

Letters on a page

Upon her
loving gaze,
the letters dance
on the page,
so that
a new story unfolds,
as she read.
It naturally flows
from her
thoughtful rearrange
of those very same
letters in her head.

She made it
her daily prayer;
to see the good
in her imagination,
then, to feel its real,
and seal the deal
as a spiritual sensation.

Having created
the ending she desires
all the dramas
along the way,
both happy and sad,
can now be seen
for what they may,
and that there’s
good in all the bad.

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.