thought spirals slowed, peaked awareness plateaued
calm lake of consciousness free from ripples
transcendental peace by grace so bestowed
became free from narrowness that cripples
poised for eternity in witness mode
one with oneness, condoned debts of love owed
Ghosts do sing too—
only their mouths
open too wide,
as if no commissure binds them,
like gates unlatched by silence.
They sing at the wake of each night,
while dreaming birds forget the sky;
when moonlight burns its brightest,
and the awoken owls can only howl.
Though they sing in graves of clay,
their melodies rise beyond the day;
they are melodious on heaven’s rim,
then blend with silence when the wind rolls on wheels.
Their songs are celestial fire—
angels their ecclesiastics, their choirmasters.
The notes are sonorous,
yet only danced to by
the flapping of their wings—
not by wriggling waists
nor kicking limbs;
for their legs no longer walk but float,
and motion keeps no memory—
a breath dissolved in thin air.
Their song—once mortal, once mundane—
now a chorus divinely condoned;
for they were composed
and filled with praise for the King of Glory—
the One who holds the crown alone,
who shares His glory with no one.
Something broken,
Something lost
‘Til what they found
Must pay the cost.
What was broken?
A heart, a mind, a soul
What was lost?
Your faith, your way, your control
So what did they find?...
Never moving,
Always bitter
Alone, in this pain
Alone, so they shiver.
Why wouldn’t they move?
Body petrified, legs rooted, heart stoned
Why were they bitter?
Existence subsumed, emotions betrayed, violence condoned
...But what did they find?
Once joyful they sang
Full of shine and glimmer
Now heads hang,
Hearts become still and dimmer.
What was shining?
Their life, their vitality, their prime
Why is it dimming?
Sweet death, new decay, old time
But what is it they find?!
Forever wander in the mist,
Or stray from the golden path,
Be lost to the ether cold,
Hope to find home at last.
We
notice
deception.
It is condoned.
We too once fell down
but then we made amends,
thus so shall this weary soul,
so who are we to pass judgment?
Soul’s presence centred in the void is
vibrant, blissful, nonchalant and tranquil.
Dwelling thus in the time stretched pause, the gap
where intent of heart throbs yet holds back.
Action begins but does not end,
thus extinguishing bondage.
As witness consciousness,
as both form and space,
at each moment
void-centric
soul is
free.
I went to unpleasant places
where there was no mention,
or even a clear defination
of the Holy of the Holies!
Those unholy places were dens
of fornicators who condoned
anything immoral and naughty,
many youngsters became victims
being bought for pleasures;
there all sinners practiced
what was against morality...
nobody was sinless and kind!
I went to unpleasant places,
where they chanted hymns
to Hadan and sacrificed a life
on a blood-dripping altar;
that scene made me run far,
thinking I'd be the next to die!
Youthful Eros was worshipped
and at his feet they prostrated,
then they danced around him;
he had manacing eyes so grim!
" Hey, come closer, join the feast! "
They shouted, " God doesn't exist! "
I went to unpleasant places,
to a town distant from the living;
there anything was allowed
to amoral gals and fellows escaping
the harsh judgement of others,
or being lynched by the crowd!
You’re beautiful to me;
Your smile,
your laugh,
even your deafening silence is beautiful to me.
You simply being you is something I love to see,
something I love to embrace,
and something I love to hear.
I wish I was able to call you mine,
embrace you in a warm blanket of love and reassurance,
and though I still can,
it doesn’t convey the feelings I have for you.
though I know they have to be condoned,
something I have to keep off to the side,
essentially on the back burner.
I wish to show you how you should be treated,
how I want to treat you,
yet I’m not aloud,
There’s an invisible barrier that I can’t cross.
I will still love you, regardless of what happens,
because for now,
our souls are intertwined in something that I can’t untangle.
So for now,
you shall be tangled
within my soul.
Everyday, is a different, fresh new day.
I can either make the best of it, or waste it all away.
Shall I be happy with what I have and shut the complaining up? or move on and enjoy each moment living it up?
I can't help it sometimes, I've lived by myself, alone, with long stretches without God, family, and staying at home.
I can forgive myself, it's the forgetting that gets me down, especially, when I see myself repeating a past, not so condoned.
Sometimes, I feel like I'm just breathing, but for a purpose worth being alive--my son's, my God, my so-called friend's, and my experienced past must be why.
stuporous
guard down
past tendencies
rise within instinctively
manifesting as rage
condoned by ego
as being fleeting
thus leaving residue
of past animal nature
within our radiant soul
the faint traces
of identity nurtured
enables us to bilocate
between the immanent
and the transcendent
unique wabi-sabi stains
like the spots on the moon
diminish not soul’s beauty
but rather accentuate
innate luminosity
we forgive ourself
21-March-2023
The church bell chimes in charming tone,
but watering the blooming rose plants
the cardinal is late for the evening Mass.
As he runs in haste in the squally wind,
his red Zucchetto takes a flight.
A cardinal then flies in the crimson sky,
in mid-air the Zucchetto wraps it around,
and turns into its red wings,
fluttering with blazing avian rhythm
in the floating fragrance of red rose.
The cardinal is allured by the red beauty,
flushed by the film of fiery patina,
harmonized with its own color.
In trance of love it swirls around the rose,
the tender petals fall scattered on the ground.
The spinning dance of the stimulated bird
inadvertently razes the frail flower,
that blossomed specially for the Lord,
but its cardinal sin is condoned,
for the cardinal is blind in love with the rose.
______________
January 14, 2023
Contest : The Cardinal And The Rose
Sponsored by : Craig Cornish
Our parental will has been broken
The dreams we had for our children are lost
We had the best of intentions
Now we’re incurring the cost
It happens so slowly
We coddle them and let them cry
We called it intuitive parenting
I call it Lord of the Flies
We selfishly rescued our children
We didn't account for the development of their brain
We wanted them to have better
So we robbed them of the growth that manifest from suffering and pain
We’ve validated their flawed positions
We monetarily reward their emotional truth
We don't want them to be hurt or embarrassed
So how dare you point out another view
Forever we've condoned their behavior
We’ve defended by saying boys will be boys
Now we pay for an efficiency apartment
Young adults with video toys
They say when a child does wrong
It’s the parents we should blame
Take a look in the mirror
Perhaps this is why they rarely change?
Truth is the first casualty of war,
it's death is silent but its cries for help manage to reach afar.
Everything is done for the sake of nation,
this is the phrase used as an explanation.
The only people victorious in a war are the one's which are dead.
When one fight is over the other starts in search of daily bread.
Men on field die on either sides of border,
sobs of the widows and cries of the orphans can be heard in every corner.
Truth is twisted and represented,
lies are told and frenzy is created.
Truth doesn't matter in a war,
cause there is no truth when there is a war.
Truth is killed in the beginning,
so lies can be told after the killings.
Truth dies a slow death,
gasping for every last breath.
Yet no one notices it's disappearence,
war is fought better without its intereference.
The real truth is never known,
history repeats and the perpetrators are condoned.
Those who survive the war are haunted by the memories,
dejected and defeated waiting for their turn at the cemetery.
Date:17/03/22
Contest name:Is truth the first casualty of war.
Sponsor:Sotto Poet
How can this murderous barbaric soul
Be allowed to exist or condoned
A mass murderer of so many innocent lives
Absolutely no mercy should be shown
This killer of humans should not exist
What gives this evil man the right
To posses a special atonement for past wrongs
No one posssess an absolute right to life
There is no reason this scum should exist
For the slaughter of so many innocent lives
It is so immoral beyond human comprehesion
A piece of times a million and five
Her name was misery . . .
And it was the only thing she owned.
Any joy had now abandoned,
Leaving pain that wasn't condoned.
Somewhere, long ago, the need was
Fed with false beliefs, that became true fear.
And it created a new reality, where
You could barely see and not hear.
With time, the loss was seen by
Most others, that would listen & attend.
Yet their grasp of the heartache would only
Repeat, and soon enough, it would only offend.
The history of this misfortune, was
Never owned by any fault or responsibility.
As you bled and screamed that of a victim,
With a passion lacking any civility.
If change is beyond the present, a
Future looks to be sad and solitary.
Where extremes become the accepted,
And the outlier beliefs, become hereditary.
Hardly does zero fidget
Wielding all the calculation rights of another digit,
In some environment wielding even the more;
In those said places showing 'How core',
By it a solver is dumped,
If by him neglectfully jumped...
The best Mathematician set ablaze,
If he doesn't make it his base.
The examiners tool for nullifying a performance
Preparing candidates and exam for another romance,
Ones animosities against it to wait,
Until one has Mathematics abandoned...
Our fervor for it our lot -our fate,
Until we are no longer by calculus condoned.
Always your Zero prejudices hold over...
Still your finer, better option
With this spherical naught settle your ruction.
Balance is beautiful,
symmetry looks clean
Perfection, unattainable
except maybe, in a dream
Love may be delicate
Yet incalculably strong
Lies can bring us comfort
when a truth, seems wrong
Denial has a reason
refusal, making sense
Acceptance is unbearable
vicarious life, might content
What really matters,
to me, perhaps others
Condemned, or condoned
poetry’s my release, not to suffer
By
David Kavanagh
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