Channelled Poems

TESLA’s BIRTH

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 


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Vincent Van Gogh

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?

Acme

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.

A WRITERs TAT

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

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

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

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

Doors Perceived

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.

The Arrival of 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.

The Arrival of 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

An Epicleti

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

The Midnight's Princess

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.

Parad Em Ise

Parad(em)ise

Dangling from a stolid chandelier of empty shadows

Her threadbare strings attached to vacant promises

Jemima has tried every angle of escape and refuge


Her make up faded and the jester’s façade burrowed

Deep into macabre deluded weather worn charades

She tries to gloss her lips but all she draws is blood


The empty bottle of juniper spirits by her naked thigh

A cannula of channelled happiness on desiccated skin

She powders her limp face in the vapour of a light bulb


Wired on Tungsten filament’s flushed out enlightenment

Beyond reproach and one line closer to a final curtain

She smells the fetid dungeon’s stench within and gags


Draped in the puke’s perfume and sickly acid bilious scent

She walks no further than the seedy river’s edge’s contempt

Offers herself free to the highest bidder and bids farewell


Just as the fairy tale fails to fall on prowling taste’s demise

One lonely taker strikes her bust in one fell swoop at last

Takes her dearest ink pumped skin that spelt ‘Only For You’


06th February 2019

Simmering Intensity

Just a look
yet a torrent 
of hidden emotion

Just a smile 
yet a message 
of concealed affection

Just a touch 
yet an eruption 
of channelled passion



AP: 1st place 2022

Submitted on February 20, 2018 for contest LOVE POEM, RHYME ONLY sponsored by LAURA LOO  -  RANKED 2ND

Rubin's Cup

Rubin’s Cup

Rested in conclusion that water vessels cast push pull as they propel
                       the motions’ notion from confusion’s stagnant nightmares
into another settling day of canyons’ crevices in mid-day tinges
		       she searches an attic of mindful antics antiques anticipation
restores all crayons of the rainbow’s might progresses colours from 
                       within the lines proceeds to shade the shadows that await
outside her channelled tracks paints transfigures Rubin’s cup to faces
                       collaborates collaterals and relishes in wondrous ambiguity

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