Best Contemplative Poems | Poetry
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the dead-end-job contemplative
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The Best Contemplative Poems
ANOTHER AFRICAN DAWN
The silence of the dawn even before
the first bird sings its unique little composition to the world
crispness of the previous night fills the air
encouraging a deep breath of purity before daily issues pollute
how easy it is to replace this beautiful time of the day
perceived importance of one or two extra hours of slumber
only the wisdom of an Omniscient Creator could perfect this orchestration
each new day with such peace and promise-
the Eternal assurance of a new beginning
Dry, dusty, icy, bouncy, luxurious….. Land Rover
morning expectancy contrasting half awake awareness
novelty of a time spent inconsistent with the predictability of standard sunrise routine
a contemplative- life assessment at break of day
wrapped up in awareness of the cold beauty and African spaces
Red Sun Competition
Copyright © Kim van Breda | Year Posted 2013
Two Silly Fools (at the coffee shop)
The shop was full
Only one seat to spare
Excuse me sirs, can I have a chair?
Why yes they said, smiles filled the air
They happened to be poets the same as me
Politely I asked, may I read a verse of thee?
They both rather meekly said
"If you really insist"
One said to me in such a small whisper
My poetry is not at all very good
As much as I wish it could and should
The other chimed in, is the same with me
I stared in surprise
Have I just met two of the dumbest fools?
I exclaimed in a manner rather short and abrupt
"You are the greatest fools I ever did see"
Rather shocked, they pushed back their chairs
I shouted sit; I am not done with my airs
You two fools better be quiet and listen
Cause I will say this but once, so I have written
Your poetry is of the highest caliber you see
You have the flow and the creative imagery
Darren and Rick need I say more?
Your hearts bleed poetry, is deep in your pores
Your poetry wakens the spirit in us all
If you want more you sure have some gall
Now writing as this, I wish it was me
For I look up to poets of such high degree
Now if I must tell you a truth to be told
Is me the fool, for being so bold
So now let’s sit and make if coffee for three
Of the happiest fools and great poets that be!
Notes: This was inspired by a chat I had with both Darren and White Wolf who for some bizarre and strange reason both doubted their talents and abilities as Poets. Needless to say, I gave them a word or two on getting those silly thoughts out of their heads! I find both of their poems to be diversified, well written, inspiring, contemplative and at times just plain fun to read. After all, it’s the read who is the final judge. I sincerely hope I have made them both smile!
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2017
Hearth-side colors aromas
Sound of Jingle Bells carols
All the senses taking one back -
back when imagination was fertile rooted in
In magic and love
We – even the godless – cherish the entire month
But what when December fades?
I say there should be another month
Oh not rooted in time –
A contemplative month – outside the let-down that is
When one goes out the window taps the eternal
love and joy listening to that inner voice
“Nothing is over
Here is eternal Christmas in the true sense
Copyright © daver austin | Year Posted 2011
Closed eyes; under a locked prism of unavailable light
subjects our third eye to mind's internal creation;
imagined images viewed by non-existent senses
on an opague three dimensional screen.
In an algorithm of shedded particle waves
Insight quickly fades back into a darkened vision
of only half a picture without reflection.
It leaves with us a broken trail of possibilities
new thoughts, new choices, changes in destiny
warily made under duress of immediacy
trying to conceive a canvas framed
by the hand of God.
It is in response to these panchromatic memories
held back by the sun's blackened light,
that we clearly notice how the prism
reflects an undercurrent. of shadeless secrets
different than the realm of visionary colors.
Sensory detections relinquish an uncompleted picture.
The image within, at times, may reveal an idea.
the transmission of which however placed
when received should strive to become an emotional
mover of otherwise placid thinking where wizened leaders
can in causes wept in sorrow from yesterday's sadness
proclaim a hope for a brighter tomorrow.
When our eyes are shut tight, there is no light or vision.
We are limited to what we see with our inner mind.
Nevertheless there is an internal sense,
a feeling of a creative process going on.
It occurs as insight and often fades into a clouded vision
of a thought picture barely perceived within.
When we leave the path of contemplative thinking,
we lose the benefit of what could have been.
The choices we make are usually expedient
and we struggle to determine
what it is that we really want.
Often we are faced and challenged by outside forces
many of which we deflect as we espouse our point of view
without exploring all the possibilities.
We see what could be and would like to be
hoping that it will make a difference.
and help humanity move forward
to a brighter tomorrow.
Copyright © Allan Koven | Year Posted 2013
I would sit there for many hours
Surrounded by my contemplative silence-
My senses as warm as my latte;
My mind as frosty as my cheesecake
The mixed scents of Earl Grey, cinnamon tea,
Mocha, and caramel macchiato would encircle me
Almost like they slowly become part of
My breath: breathe in, then stealthily breathe out
I would hear laughter coming from one
Corner and whispering from another
And each corner would seem to me more like
A different world, each as distant as an era
I would at times engage in a crossword puzzle
Or skim through all the contemptuous headlines
And at other times I would simply read, think,
Write, or just watch some cars indolently pass by
The sounds of music playing, coffee brewing, fork-knife
Clattering and people chewing would all form
A unanimous sound: Serenity
I swallow it down with every sip of my coffee
In these amber hues for hours I would sit
Amidst these faces, leather chairs, and empty
Spaces- the same coffee would brew, the same
Music would play, and my same mind would
In its serenity, so utterly subdue
Copyright © farah chamma | Year Posted 2010
Quantum leap, material mind,
learning curve steep, perceptive mankind,
this earth inherited to keep, in the depth eyes shined,
the karmic benefits we reap, after money too long pined,
in the shadows they did creep, by our light left blind,
hearts awaken from their sleep, each ventricle gold lined,
More awake each enlightened peep, open hearts, contemplative minds; you'll be amazed at
what you find.
Been crawling, now it’s time to walk, too long the masses talking the talk.....
Copyright © Anonymous Norman | Year Posted 2010
In my mind I have a place
Somewhere peaceful and serene
Where I escape life's hectic pace,
Where no-one else has ever been.
I imagine a desert island
Surrounded by a sapphire sea,
With palm trees, and fine white sand
An oasis there, just for me.
I paddle in the crystal water,
As I explore the coral reef.
I marvel at exotic creatures,
As they swim and dart about beneath.
I walk along a secluded beach
Where gentle waves caress the sand.
Alone in my private haven
Escaping, to my minds island.
A beautiful place to spend some time
This little bolthole in my mind.
My contemplative holiday,
My inner sanctum, where I unwind.
Copyright © Gary Smith | Year Posted 2017
The moon casts a surreal light
Upon looking out of the window
The night is my mistress
Solitude my blanket
Then I think of you:
The daffodils dancing as they glisten
Your almond eyes,
Serene lips always rest unscathed -
Right every after kiss,
Your silly ponytail.
They speak to me in rhythms
They hush me in rhymes
As I haunt an honest silence
To save the calmness half death
My body aches to breathe your breath -
Your tequila breath.
I smile outstretched from ear to ear
For it brings the contemplative
mood of my soul
Your flavored lip gloss lingers on me now
Bewitched on how it bathes
As it rinses my lips - my chapped lips.
Like an ocean hugging its shore:
It tastes like Paris.
Tonight I lie in bed,
A nest which doesn't offer
A place of comfort no more
Tossing and turning
All because you stop singing my lullaby
It's our pillow upon my head
Reaching against my wet cheeks:
Colder than death -
Too later - Too soon
It would then be
Drowned by cobwebs
Soaked in tears.
The Love Me or Love Me Not - Free Verse Poetry Contest
4th Place(Honorable Mention)
January 28, 2008
Sponsor: Mark Cotterman
Copyright © cayetano young | Year Posted 2008
Silent One rises with the solar system dawn
Drawn by solace in the quiet morning
Riding on the gravitational waves
Through numbered stars through dark matter there
Watching zeros mix, blend into the cosmic mist
Numerically correct seen whole among black holes disguises
Into tomorrow out there in themselves as distances
On the lip, inclining on their axis, universes eclipse then passes
Back at home, outside on roaming fields
Look up with them to take the solar system in
As it folds within a timeless bending scheme
Vast sky-capes emanating mostly quiet
Silent One remains intent, contemplative, waving
Stays out there for hours on a lounge chair tending day
Sipping tea beneath the harmless trees in shade
Sits serenely by, out of sight, time slipping by
Golden sun light streaming over day
Seen are the red and yellow flowers
Green grass peeks through abundant colors glow
Moved in a gentle wind to mesmerizing horizons end
Out there between the wilderness serenity and madness
Night comes on, explores the greater cause
Stars rain down, escapes the cosmic grip
Secrets kept, only to forget them when looking to the void
Lines traced in history, erased, once enjoyed
Silent One stands alone between a zero to the left
Two at the right numerically correct
True in place, quantified, residing
One and History rewind themselves, recite the story
Not to worry. There is always more to tell
A time fast forward quickens to the One original
One will always be the Silent One and not another
Fate will lead us off the silent planet
Earth is temporarily our home
Inevitably fading away into the silence black
Like Silent One, just that
Copyright © Earl Schumacker | Year Posted 2016
He stumbles on the subway
Initially I cringe
I'm put off by the way he smells
From alcoholic binge
He mumbles incoherent
I start to feel ashamed
I slide my hand in my front pocket
Fumbling for some change
But I don't think he's asking
And now I feel confused
Why suddenly he's deathly still
In contemplative muse
It's then I sensed my pity
That's founded in this thought
This vagrant's smell is rank with failure
Surely mine is not
But just as surely comes the notion
That my thought is wrong
That maybe this man's always been
My equal all along
And in my mind I contemplate
Why I refused to see
My world won't be so bad a place
If love is given free
And so my judgment loosens as
I know not where he's been
A brotherhood in harmony
Absolves the need for sin
I owe this man his right to freedom
The same that he owes me
I spare myself the cost of pain
And simply let him be
And from that moment on I'd ponder
My inner vagrancy
But was it me who smiled at him
Or him who smiled at me?
Copyright © Yoni Dvorkis | Year Posted 2009
I came upon quiet the other day,
It was over by the little pond
Out of everyone’s way.
I wasn’t looking for it,
I was in a hurry.
But there it was by the Oak and big rock,
With nary a worry.
Of me it may not have been aware,
I tiptoed and spied on it’s presence,
Out of place it seemed, calm and fair.
Contemplating nature’s essence.
It cast it’s gaze upon some lime green duck weed,
And absorbed a whispering breeze
Gently tossed a ray of sunshine into the trees,
And smiled a flutter into some leaves.
It’s peaceful countenance rested in a family of Sand Hill birds,
Majestic, unhurried and together,
On their morning walk, speaking of nature without words,
Musing and of a feather.
Quiet, it seemed to me
Was a contemplative being,
The more I watched it,
The more I began seeing.
It shivered slightly sensing it’s breeze,
And fluttered a gaze back to it’s leaves
I came upon quiet the other day,
As if by prophetic accident,
But I got busy and turned away,
I wonder .. I wonder where it went ..
Copyright © Robert A. Dufresne | Year Posted 2010
The eraser belonged to me; it was saved by my mother and returned along with many other
childhood items when I became middle aged. I was curious as to why she would save a
stubby old eraser from the primary grades, so she reminded me of its’ one and only use. My
faded memory of that time suddenly became crystal clear, as my mother recounted for me a
watershed episode from my formative years.
I had, as they say these days “acted out in school once again,” this time by writing
unspeakable words in a textbook. Without any hesitation or forethought, I chose as my
repository the teachers’ edition of our English composition book. Quite frankly, at the time, I
thought they were literary gems worthy of publication. That’s why I knowingly inscribed them
there for all to see. Upon further review by more knowledgeable minds, it was determined
corrective guidance and a phone call home was in order.
I was to spend several hours after school that day sweating in contemplative silence as I
erased the teachers’ edition and many other similarly defaced books. It was during this time
of reflection that I ground that eraser down to the stub as it remains today. The last visible
vestiges of my bad expositions disappeared forever that hot afternoon, along with more than
half of the eraser.
Mother then reminded me of what she overheard the Superintendent tell me, as she sat
mortally ashamed and waiting for hours in the hallway outside that sweltering classroom. I
can still visualize her ample adult size, trying in vain to get comfortable, in a sticky one
armed desk made for a 5th grader.
“ John, I want you to try and remember this:
WHAT YOU SAY to others might last with them until THEY DIE.
But regretful WORDS YOU WRITE, the residue of which, will last long after YOU DIE.
So you keep what’s left of this eraser and I hope you never need to use it again.”
*For the "Rub it out" contest, i still have the eraser.
Copyright © John Trusty | Year Posted 2010
Art beholds a different space
another era, time and place
with quiet portraits all around.
Gentle strokes of a master's hand
unfold mysteries that demand
a contemplative eye.
A blanket of quiet cloaks the soul
thoughts are focused toward the goal
of understanding the piece at hand.
Realization reaps it's own reward
as the viewer draws toward
the vision and depths that lie within.
Written on 11/2005
Updated on 10/2/2016
Copyright © Laura Leiser | Year Posted 2014
In that meteoric moment
she exhibited eternal qualities of wonderfully wrought womanhood,
calm,disciplined and candid,
adorned with few distinctions from the rest behind her
the loving leadership was projected in painstaking posture,
brutal perfection,a suffering of diligence amounting to total serenity,
she being a gem amongst stones,
for inexperience a cure,
synchronicity simple & symetrical like ripples in a river,
the troupe twirls & turns as leaves whirl gingerly in pools of water livid,
their torsos taut like trunks of young & vital trees,faces flowers,
brilliant when in cold morning view,
hands impossibly curved on extended arms,hearts placid,
without looking the dancers drape their faith
upon the integrity of her warm luminosity,
the lead lioness quietly commands their orbiting obeisance,
in her hushing eyes the sparkle of a rich race communicates confection
to the contemplative congregation,
she is a Godess in the midst of nymphs,
something dangerous,calamitous,manifested mutely in the expression
of a posterior dancer
whom strangely stares at the back & soul of the leading lady in stance,
this suggestive & supportive figure embodying dispassionate envy,
strategically laying seige
to the gloriously innocent leader of this cultural romance,
a reminder reminiscent of Eve's two children
in the forgotten fields of antiquity
where success was hunted savagely by the weakness
inherent amid imps -
This poem is premised upon a photograph of a traditional Cambodian dance troupe -
Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2012
I am in awe, oh dear Sophie
Of all things done and said
I am one single, wandering thought
In this world’s contemplative head
How do I dare speak all these words?
When facing this vast, capricious Vie
When tempests and storms ravage the waves
Of what worth is one droplet of the sea?
It is bewildering, as I am sure you know
Yet, it takes you almost a gesture to understand
I mustn’t refer to Zola’s Labyrinthe
To explain to you how it is on this part of land
I am in awe, oh dear Sophie
Of how distance, at times, can be undone
It takes a thought to simplify a world
And above so many, you are one.
Copyright © farah chamma | Year Posted 2012
Between the ears of the greatest minds
Limits and laws do not exist
Building roads and wrinkles to beyond
Such brains are ripe with fascination
Where physical boundaries do not factor
Journeymen and women discover frontiers within themselves
Forming the legendary, from the amorphous
They are contemplative, they are reminiscent
Tireless and motivated I am just a rubbernecker
Watching treasures without obstacles, by accident
Eventually I choose to give them their space
Smiling back at them, they are our children
Copyright © karl marszalowicz | Year Posted 2013
Copyright © Abe Lopez | Year Posted 2010
I am the gold fish
Swimming in the pond
I am the blue bullfrog
Bellowing in the pond
I am the yellow tadpole
Feeding in the pond
I am the fluorescent dragonfly
Nesting in the pond
I am the white rock
Wading in the pond
I am the Noble Savage
Siting on another rock
Contemplative near the pond
I am the sycamore tree
Overshadowing everything within the pond
I am the boisterous wind
Breathing the breath of life in the pond
I am the high noon sun
The spark of life in the pond
I am the green algae and amoeba
Supporting all life in the pond
I am the tall river of grass
Cleaning debris in the pond
I am the blue heron
Raising like the Pohoenix
From the tar sands in pond
I am the black sea turtle
Like an island
Caring for my children
Black white yellow and brown
In the blue pond
Copyright © Mel Brake | Year Posted 2010
It’s time to rhyme.
Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2016
Pardon any absent adulation, bequeathed capitulation, devoted dedication, indiscretion, blabbering peroration, improper salutation or any unintended vexation if this unknown earthling sent a nearly identical message. He over-looked a small number of errors and hoped that this version accepted as the most satisfactory to me.
Oh please for the sake (and sock e) of brethren deemed friendly, i beseech ye with genuine humility to desist launching nuclear missiles!
This American bloke put his lock, stock and barrel of gunmetal faith in mister Dennis Rodman to serve as a figurative lightning rod against any aggressive actions that would set in motion the end of civilization.
Not only would the majority of homo sapiens (yes, some clusters of earth-linked yahoos might still remain a live) suffer a nasty, short and brutish death, but also other flora and fauna could be equally annihilated!
Understandable, those grievances against sanctions against the populace of north Koreans (who most likely experience unfair hardship) fuels resentment against the hegemony of western powers. Many of these societies authoritatively brandish their devout pledge for concurrence with democratic principles.
Any endemic protestations declaiming objection to the American way affect an immediate alarm. Imposition of so called "puppet" regimes get forcibly installed sans those countries leaders who run counter to capitalistic productivity.
This one anonymous citizen of those fifty states also takes umbrage how the might of american to predominate and demand that other nations follow suit solely based on what agrees with those like minded in power sans the brotherhood/sisterhood of vast swaths of the global population.
No great expectations (by dickens) to affect passionate sentiments per those peoples somewhat hermetically sealed off and separated (viz - by the demilitarized zone) from the billions of other human beings.
Thy sole missive from one older mwm dreads the catastrophic chain reaction of events once atomic warfare triggered by the disgruntlement over some differences in outlook could possibly resolved via "active listening" and access to exchange a word of reconciliation.
As one flawed chap prone to his own bouts of anger, he attests that more positive pleasing results can prevails with the treat of world war three diffused in a manner that plays less havoc once unleashing of weapons of mass destruction occurs!
This notion came to me while tending to a basic bodily urge, thus intent to share my poem whence sitting
Upon the porcelain goddess,
A most brilliant idea in me mind did lit
This sole seasoned bugs bunny car tune character son of kit
Soon after on the road his imagination
Fired up with gaseous fleeting thought that softly hit
Attempting with futility to net ideas in me mind that flit
I yam a poet favoring words that rhyme a bit!
Iambic pentameter strands crochet themselves
Magically into verse
Interleaving like boughs of an arbor
Shielding this solitary soul
From shafts of sunlight that doth dapple
The canopy affecting shadows to disperse
Ebbing and flowing in tandem & sync
With circadian metronome this troll
Transformed by serenade from Mother Nature
With hand doth scythe lent curse
Congregating amongst a distinguished flora and faun
The latter sending tendrils
Poised on the brink of some philosophical revelation
Delicate as hocked china
Which capricious metaphorical musings
Resurrected from propriety
Devoid of any vicious evocations nor premonitions
While ensconced in eyesight of my adobe
Dwelling away from mass of society
Return of this native son harbors thoughts
Against madding crowd that cease to dwindle
To less than the effect of a mosquito needling proboscis
In the nape o me neck
As this contemplative human being feels
Leaves of grass each like a spindle
Completing a colorful pastoral palette
Of utmost verdant splendor upon flotsam speck
Allowing wisps of euphoria
To warm thine psyche easing books set afire to kindle
Under the azure vault
The entire warp and woof of one mortal male as he does lie
Where arises finding incriminating fault
Beneath the celestial sphere transfixed where mysteries catapult
As those simians who preceded him
Millenniums before similarly inebriated
From wondrous panoply of one star
That comprises a near infinite candelabra
Guiding the mind to posit the universe
This mission must come to a HALT!
From - one whom u kin newt re:fuse
No claim to be Walt Whitman only venturing forth
That all of mankind we lose
In the event of such apocalyptic once the fuse
Lit to launch missiles meant to zero in and cruise
Upon the masses a severe planet earth detonations
Inflicting concussions more fatal
Than the most lethal booze.
Copyright © matthew harris | Year Posted 2013
always think of you
with razzle dazzle red hair
carrying the coffee bar
and us in your thoughts
Copyright © Thomas Martin | Year Posted 2016
Temple may be far from my place,
Let me bring smile, to someone’s face.
Life began with a sweet charm,
enjoying till extreme, no matter what harm.
Childhood was beautiful as could be,
Without exasperation and necessitate, eternally free.
It was then I took a new dive,
Adorn in a uniform, I entered school life.
Confined boundaries saw the emergence of new faces,
Flatten my life and left without traces.
Some, embarked their facsimile in my mind,
Contemplative about them I was in cloud number nine.
Feelings were saturated with love and emotions,
Everything tempting, beyond any fascinations.
Third phase was phase of certitude,
My contumelious nature made me crude.
Parents and family took a back seat,
To the tunes of my friends, I was a dancing fleet.
Afternoons became sleepy, active were the nights,
Bikes, brawls, convulsion were common sights.
Inconsiderate, careless about my future,
Forgot almost everything taught by my teacher.
Standing on a crossroad, with a question mark,
I was 25 and my future seemed dark
Friends, who use to say never will they leave,
Smiling with others they went, hard to believe.
Wasted opportunities to guide my life,
All I could do now was compromise.
Standing alone in the scotching sun,
Some hands covered me so that skin does not burn.
Turned back to see whose hands were they,
My parents like an answered prayer
Mother removed pebbles from the road;
Father advanced his hand so that I could hold.
They guided me to my destination,
Brace me, without any hesitation.
In no time took me out of my blues,
Parents like you are very few.
You were always there, right from the start,
I thank you from the core of my heart.
Copyright © AMIT JOSHI | Year Posted 2015
Kentucky's late summer sunshine
sunk deep into their skin
as the boy rode on the back
of his Grandfather's coppered horse,
the tobacco harvest would begin soon,
aromas of sweet leaf darkness
were wafting in the field heat,
to the big barn they bounced
buoyant for the business of bushels
crafted by a lineage of fearless farmers
who knew the revolutions and roses of the land,
a stop at the pond for water and shade
would be wise, should be fine and fair,
Edgar lept off being swated in the face
by the horse's sweeping tail,
at the water's edge he could see secrets
loud in silence and wild in truth,
a shadow took form
at the horse's eyes
it reared violently,
with a screaming panic it pounced
through the pond it charged across
with Grandfather desperately holding the reins
the breathing terror pumping
through the horse's body
was felt along it's spine by the old rider,
after madly striking the fence
it turned back to the shaken pond
with a furious stride upon the earth,
plunging in heavily
it's forelegs buckled badly
throwing Grandpa straight over into the broken water,
on his back, shocked to death under blue sky
the horse he raised from pony
hammered him with no mercy
into water pure,
standing there, deaf to death,
paralysed by slow motion murder,
the eyes and teeth of the horse
with it's mane electrified
and hooves lancing
is all he could see
while life stopped in the sun,
and then there was calm,
his Grandfather's hands
slowly closed into that terrible water,
it would not be long before the boy
would see the spirit of Grandpa Tom
in the tobacco sheds, examining machinery,
scrutinizing the sheafs, singing the seed songs,
his spirit sight was not triggered by sudden tragedy,
throughout childhood he conversed with the "playfolk"
the children of eternal outdoor youth
but as he grew they did not
and age seemed to seperate
the sense of their consanguinity,
it was time to live amongst the fellow flesh
to say goodbye to good ghosts,
the schoolhouse was a strain
on his simple soul,
his mind meandered into mazes
of biblical antiquity
daydreaming of divine deluge,
of wilderness wanderings
and sermons that serve the heart,
the Bible was the only book
that brooked the heartbeat to heaven,
by the time Edgar was thirteen
he had read the Scriptures twelve times,
possessed by the pedigree of passion
he pledged to read them for every year of his life,
the meaning of ministry pulsing in his purpose,
immersed in the verse of Monoah
by the clear water creek of contemplative quietude
the wings of a resplendent woman
swept Edgar's honest arid hair
as his fingers pressed the pages of prophecy
which lay upon his lap,
she simply glittered like glory
in the existence of true happiness
she was an angel of auspicious alms
come to ask the aim of his spirit
to which he replied shyly
to help the sick and searching
find healing and headway through Christ,
the angel woman declared with perfect joy
that his wish would be realized
as she went away with spellbinding evanescence,
that night his Father would berate him
for failing grammar lessons,
over and over
Edgar would sink into the questions
and his Father the "Squire"
would strike his apparent stupidity,
the angel woman's voice
spoke within the boy's head
like violet against gray
suggesting that if he'd sleep a minute
with the lesson book under his head
the knowledge therein would be known,
when his Father woke him
Edgar knew the contents
as a clock knows the numbers,
the "Squire" was stunned
and a psychic gift had begun,
Edgar Cayce discovered a terrific talent,
an autohypnotic ability
that allowed him to read the body of the Universe
and everything in it,
he became a seer of stars,
in trance, his subconscious mind
could communicate with any other, anywhere,
the primary objective of his virtue
was to provide medical "Readings"
to those in earnest need of treatment,
the medical expertise which he effortlessly espoused
surpassed the skill of the best professionals
in every conceivable field of medicine,
physiology, diagnostics, pharmacology, psychology,
physical therapy and so on,
eventually friends and clients
would implore him to explore
the metaphysics of Man,
to investigate ancient history
and the rivets of religion,
reincarnation would rise in import,
Mr. Cayce would report
karma is colorfully constant
that Earth is a special soul port,
to return to flesh is to return to rectifying flame,
he remained a Christian not just in name,
he found justice in Jesus and grace in goodwill,
after dying at 67 in 1945
this unrefined farmboy of a 9th grade education
left a legacy of 14,000 plus "Readings"
that have given healing and hope
to millions of human beings -
This poem is dedicated to the life of "The Sleeping Prophet"
Edgar Cayce and his faithful wife Gertrude Evans Cayce.
I strongly recommend the biography, "There Is A River, The Story Of Edgar Cayce"
Justin A. Bordner
Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2017
Beneath the starry heavens, myself I found
Looking up to the awe-inspiring sky
My contemplative mind, questions asked many
That my reason, unable was to reply!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
11 OCTOBER 2014
Copyright © Demetrios Trifiatis | Year Posted 2014
Yesterday, late in the morning, I entered the empty room
Contemplative, looked at the pictures of your beauty
I saw the love in your eyes, and in the back of the room
I saw the piano in white, the painting of yourself!
In the time-consuming steps, so close, rested
On the bank of pianist poise, I dreamed
I dreamed the melody with the pulp of the fingers nimble ...
I stroked each key, binary colors .. Fragile!
When you arrive, engaging smile of tenderness
Melodic feel on the lips "pianette" burning
The touch of your hand, gentle love, hot
The two hands, played the melody bubbly!
Then dance to the music imaginary
Elegant, cute: you are kings, without
You invite me, I rise, - secure your hand region
We are one, tuned in love, living in tune!!
te amo my duncan of ceizar with love
Copyright © duncan chappell | Year Posted 2011