Safety used to feel like fixed,
Problems resolved,
Beaming hearts,
Innocent perspectives.
Safety used to feel like man,
Weight lifted,
Body desired,
Lust and codependency.
Safety used to feel like promises,
Expectations expected,
Attachment again,
Connection in small blips.
Safety used to feel like convenience,
Easy access,
Self abandonment,
Distress or over comfortable.
Safety now feels like generate,
Warmth unlimited,
Current generated,
Fluidity Channelled.
Safety now feels like help,
Resources shared,
Ways respected,
Mind open to difference.
Safety now feels like Faith,
Hope driven,
United uniqueness,
Hearing without speaking.
Safety now feels like stay,
Stand together,
Patience imperative,
"We will work this out."
A man was once Jung at heart
His dreams set him apart
He tapped the collective unconscious
People thought him preposterous
So he channelled his visions through art.
God is a poet, with Whom we resonate,
conjuring a verse, with no need to rehearse,
for the pulse of magnetism does not abate,
with which in vibrance we easily converse.
We do nothing yet all the doings are done,
channelled though our form, for God and we are one
and if in mindfulness we keep flowing on,
breath by breath in stillness our soul is reborn.
FORM : Tesla Form : 3/6/9
_____________________
[ Poet’s note of interest ~
Tesla’s Birth : 10 July, around midnight : 1856 : stormy weather |
Poem came through : 10 July, 3.33am : 2025 : winter rain |
Numerologically speaking 3.33 is the divine number of alignment. Standard time in Croatia, where Tesla was born & SAST is same | July is the seventh month : 7 is the luminal no. linking Heaven to Earth : compound number between 1856 and 2025 is 7 | 10 is the number of leadership. This poem came exactly as presented here : rhyme & syllable : no edit, so I consider it channelled]
*****
midnight struck on one to power of zero
birthing table seven decked heaven for July
legs open
waters broke blood
breath rapid heralded
lightning cracked sky broken
zodiac Cancer genius creation curious
another reality coded inventions
Light eyed itself transmuting token
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
His life came to a ruinous end
Plummeted into insanity
The red-bearded painter
With his self-hatred, despair and desperation for understanding
He drank yellow paint thinking it would make him happy
Locked up in a mental asylum that would shatter any person’s self-belief
Deceived Vincent cut his earlobe in an unforeseen calamity
But he channelled the awful torment into beauty
Immaculate and sublime
To find ecstasy in the ordinary
And in transforming the banal into a magical masterpiece
The Starry Night, Sunflowers, Self-Portrait, The Potato Eaters, Wheatfield with Crows, Irises, The Bedroom in Arles
Each a genius’s masterstroke into Eternity
A jumble of love, sorrow and rage
Painting the canvas in bold strokes as his heart and mind burst into flames
The King of colour, a whisper into the future unheard in his times
He died in a rut with voices all over his mind.
So, he picked up the gun
And the bullet went straight into his golden heart
Wonder how many colours lost their lives on that day?
Zenith of perfection is the aim of my existence.
My pilgrimage towards this, I know, is my persistence.
I align my senses like a predator towards prey.
My physique and psyche are synthesised in every way.
The social fibre in me, like thread in linen, is knit.
Doesn't the quiver of optimism endlessly transmit?
I dig the mines of cores of self-searching for the truth.
Thoughts, words, and actions are in unfeigned perpetual youth.
The fulfilment of feelings flows towards fullness of life.
Between uprightness and vileness, there is a constant strife.
Virtues, like treasures of vast oceans, are hidden within
Could stains of sin, before relentless goodness ever win?
Divinity, like vast skies, endlessly gets expanded.
Fullness of spirit within innermost shrines is implanted.
Values are revalued. Sensual pleasures are channelled.
Hindrances towards integral liberation are annulled.
All that the almighty meant for humans to be is won.
Eternally, in everything, the divine will is done.
Remember when the ink, a writer’s tat, like a cobra spiralling ‘round fingers and arms, wielded power. Splotches, balled up, thrown into the basket hoop, flooding the creative canal. Ideas danced like mad flames, charming, rhyming, flipping, flopping, finally happy, no crossing out, neverending editing, feathers flapping, inkwell splattering, until the words must be kept.
Eyes the color of dawn, never set. The romance never kept. Captivated by the sea, trees, and wolves. Hair like a cape ‘round the shoulders, as the cold swirls about, as the fire almost goes out. Only then does the poet gather her skirts and wood, and nibble a biscuit, pour herself into bed.
Her dreams and nightmares will be channelled into tomorrow’s inkwell. She lives inside a warm womb, in a butterfly's cocoon, in a bear’s hibernation cave. She spins fairytale gold.
Leaf
It wasn’t the time to leave,
but stem chewed and gale combined and the leaf fell.
Hairstreak, full green not yet ready,
not curled by summer’s end, crisped by West Coast salt, mottled by frost or holed by Sawfly.
Shadow dancing the lake.
Tumbling, a fairground shuggy, a mother’s touch rest onto the blackness.
The magnetic water pull.
The long float.
Damselfly platform.
Captured on lava foreshore whipped by the fell breath channelled down ice ravaged ghyll.
Purpose complete.
Its forgetful host fed, post prandial.
Unburdened.
Awaiting the awakening.
IDENTIFICATION
mishaps
moving
frantically
in
enchanting
shadows
becoming
shapes
contemplations
perceived
in
complex
serendipity
graffiti
with
innocent
creativity
channelled
with
intention
&coherence
in
manipulated
movements
INDWELT
I sense a voice on me descend
The Holy Spirit alongside me resides
These thoughts and words I now sift
Through this glass as they darkly drift
Verbal paintings to show You care
messages channelled from thee to share
O let these moments never cease
When there are no doors, all and sundry,
like the wee willy nilly winds,
are welcome to come and go, as they please.
Blow-ins, blowouts, are free to enter or leave.
But feng shui would like missing doors
to be not directly opposed,
or for something to lie on path between,
to keep the gi energy inside the house.
Install a door and everything changes,
someone must open it, close it and
decide when to keep it open or shut.
This depends on the wants, needs, will and whim
of the door-keeper, or you
if you have a key?
Feng shui is happier with doors
as the qi energy can't flow straight through.
It can be channelled within and absorbed.
For feng shui, a strong front door is essential.
It's the mouth of qi, where energy flows into the home.
The front door should be wooden, clean and bright, uncluttered.
The path to the door should be open, clean, bright as well.
This allows gi energy from the environs
to move smoothly into a home,
to enliven the space within.
Make your front door a cheerful, bright
and welcoming face, for you,
and whoever comes to your door.
Once upon a long time,
The silence blanketed my world
Like snow covering an arctic forest.
The nooks and crannies of my days
Were filled with the wispy webs of quietude
Worked by whispering limbs
Mine was a vast tundra
Of silence
Across which great unheard herds
Of thoughts could roam
Freely, gambol and graze
Encountering nothing to disturb them
Rivulets of words
Gathered and trickled
Over the schisty shingles
Of my mind
Eons passed
But one cold, silent, snow flaked January morning
A pioneer strode manfully, meaningfully
Into my wilderness without warning.
Falling in love with all that he saw
He began to sharpen his axe.
Now the hordes of herds have all but disappeared
And the rivulets have been dammed and channelled
Into a thousand subterranean pipes
And there is TV and MTV and DVD and MP3
And my world
Is rich with sound.
Once upon a long time,
The silence blanketed my world
Like snow covering an arctic forest.
The nooks and crannies of my days
Were filled with the wispy webs of quietude
Worked by whispering limbs
Mine was a vast tundra
Of silence
Across which great unheard herds
Of thoughts could roam
Freely, gambol and graze
Encountering nothing to disturb them
Rivulets of words
Gathered and trickled
Over the schisty shingles
Of my mind
Eons passed
But one cold, silent, snow flaked January morning
A pioneer strode manfully, meaningfully
Into my wilderness without warning.
Falling in love with all that he saw
He began to sharpen his axe.
Now the hordes of herds have all but disappeared
And the rivulets have been dammed and channelled
Into a thousand subterranean pipes
And there is TV and MTV and DVD and MP3
And my world
Is rich with sound.
© Barry Freeman – April 1984
pending
the Holy Spirit's call down
of
God's grace
&sacrifice
the word stays
sure&true
channelled anew
in picture
word
thought&deed
to meet
the saints'
every need
Oh,
The Midnight's Princess is awake!
She who brings light:
Shining upon the greenery of the forest
Penetrating through its coat of darkness
That overshadows joy... and let's fear linger
She who brings joy to all her people,
Sitting upon her cradle of stars.
Her light it is: that kisses each ripple in the lake,
Singing soft lullabies as it sighs in its sleep.
Her light that kisses the Earth with love:
Plants her blessed halo upon its beings,
And fears withdraw from a sleeping child's dream.
Her loving whispered voice, channelled through the prisons of bark,
She who sets all Dryads free:
Gives their freedom to dance free.
And Satyrs with their lutes and flutes,
Elven maidens, Nymphs and Dwarves,
They dance in the light of her grace:
Until the Midnight's Princess's chariot is driven away.
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