Misplaced Expression: Case of the Lost Pen

Aside

22 Jan 2014

Mediums of expression,
The real message.
The true essence,
The soul’s confession.

Eyes perceive in scened photography,
Crafted in observation.

Red, light, room.

Agnostic alchemic transformation,
Unworthy depiction left undeveloped–

I am not a camera smith.

Mediums of expression,
The real message.
The true essence,
The soul’s confession.

Hands molding clay–
Hot, oven, chisel.

Sculpture not sculptured,
As though Venus un-Miloed.

I am no Hellenist.

Mediums of expression,
The real message.
The true essence,
The soul’s confession.

Specialization.
Complication.
Limitation?

Neural tube to synaptic differentiation.

Result of child becoming adult,
In custom, cultured, conditioned fault.

Mediums of expression,
The real message.
The true essence,
The soul’s confession.

Stress and tranquility combine,
Diction activating mind.
In heart pumped blood I rhyme,
Through ink and feather my faith I find.

Mediums of expression,
The real message.
The true essence,
The soul’s confession.

Through this,
My communion.

Remembering through Mandala, Loving in Merkaba

  March 5th, 2012

We used to find, not just remember.

We were once curious about uncertainty…
Now we are just afraid.

Did we find comfort?
Is that what we sought?

NO!

We wanted adventure, mystery, euphoria.
Instead we found chaos, pain,
Utter pandemonium!

And so—
            We Loved. We Learned.
And Now,
            We remember to know,
            Because we know to remember.

Still, we Love.
And continue because we know the pattern.

The pattern. The flow. The cycle. The way.

            Remembering is our Mandala
            Remembering,
            Remembering,
            Remembering,
Counting—one, two, three, four,
            Remembering,
            Remembering,
            Remembering,
And finding once more:

Remembering is our Mandala.
            Love, our Merkaba.

We repeat patterns because there WILL BE a different result,
Through perceptions evolved.  

Germ to Seed

            Seed to Flower

                        Flower to Fruit

Fruit to Flower

            Flower to Seed

                        Seed to Germ

Remembering is our Mandala.
Love, our Merkaba.

Germ to Seed

            Seed to Flower

                        Flower to Fruit

Germ to Seed

            Seed to Flower

                        Flower to Fruit

Remembering through Mandala,
Loving in Merkaba.

Our pattern, our flow, our cycle, our way.

 

Standing With Caffeine In My Eco-friendly Cup… And Love— (Blank Sheet. Light On.)

 Feb 28th, 2013

Love is the wave we flow,
Love is the way we know.

Blank sheet.
Light on.
I cannot call myself a writer if I am not writing.
I cannot call myself a dreamer if I am not dreaming.

There are no words to this song,
Questioning hope for days to dawn.

Blank sheet.
Light on.
I cannot call myself a writer if I am not writing.
I cannot call myself a dreamer if I am not dreaming.

Betray my pen,
Stray my view.
Smoke my pipe,
And let the herb construe.

Brings the castle down from the sky.
I may not be tall, but sure as hell am high.

Blank sheet.
Light on.
I cannot call myself a writer if I am not writing.
I cannot call myself a dreamer if I am not dreaming.

Somewhere along the way the ink bleeds through and the words fall askew.

Is it my eyes that cannot recognize my reflection?
Or is it my reflection that cannot recognize my view?

Not I,
Not I,
Not the “me”,  I thought I knew.
Not I,
Not I,
Not tea,
Still, the thoughts steep.

Deep, deep, deep into the abyss…
I will not,
I cannot fall victim to this!
Deep, deep, deep-
I cannot,
I will not settle for anything but bliss…

Blank sheet.
Light on.
I cannot call myself a writer if I am not writing.
I cannot call myself a dreamer if I am not dreaming.

Look away, turn away—
Fall astray.
Look around, turn around,
Find the miles,
The distance that makes you stay.

Blank sheet.
Light on.
I cannot call myself a writer if I am not writing.
I cannot call myself a dreamer if I am not dreaming.

The thing is, I am not sleeping.
In fact, I am wide fucking awake.

Eyes open,
Past closed.
Uncovered from bed sheets,
Bathed in motivation,
Dressed with intention!

Standing with caffeine in my eco-friendly cup…
And love—

Love is the wave we flow,
Love is the way we know.

Blank sheet.
Light on.
I cannot call myself a writer if I am not writing.
I cannot call myself a dreamer if I am not dreaming.

Blank sheet.
Light on.
I cannot pretend I am something I can no longer be.
I cannot call myself a writer because I am here to speak.