We may liken lower vibrations as dust,
a contaminant opaquing light of soul,
so let us be wary of ego’s lust thrust,
since it but deflects us from our true life role,
inducing us to engage in deeds unjust,
distancing us from God’s light, our true life goal.
Now that the truth is known, it is up to us,
to meld our head with heart and board God’s bliss bus.
The center yields. The spindle turns.
A fragile thread of silk returns
To open air, to wild design,
To break the neatly measured line.
We spend our hours wound tight and strong,
Convincing every knot belongs,
Protecting all the spool protects,
Ignoring where the weave deflects.
But then the turning takes its hold,
And secret lengths begin to unfold.
The hidden past, the silent space,
Released into a wider grace.
It is not breaking, nor a tear,
But shedding every weighted year.
A slow unwinding, calm and deep,
Where promises we couldn’t keep
Now drift as dust upon the breeze,
And leave the spirit quite at ease.
To be unspooled, to be undone,
Is to dance within the sun—
No longer bound, no longer tense,
But part of the circumference.
facing mighty force
asymmetric resistance
yields.slips, bends, deflects,
so thrust finds no grip or hold
felled by its own over reach
The 50’s people are in a diorama
behind a Perspex window,
for the most part they are cheerful,
they cut grass with push mowers,
swim in circles in above ground pools;
by and large they are not serial killers.
The museum is new, colorful and shiny.
The 50’s people wave mechanically
at all on-lookers.
A young questioner asks
why the 50’s people are not all dead?
A reasonable question
which the handler deflects
with a long tale about purple dinosaurs.
The kids are getting bored,
handlers usher them into a cafeteria,
where two 40’s people linger over
a tasteless, sanitized meal.
Youths rib poke each other and sneer.
The two 40’s people have no diorama
they have forgotten how to make one,
worst still, their handler died
the same year Barney went extinct.
The glass once lucid
now deflects glow differently.
A chuckle clenched in the wind,
blanching and flaming.
Where were we?
Footprints echo, retreat, advance
sagging floor, missing nails.
Not long enough--
like a wheeze folding in and out,
a beam of light held in a still moment.
Sagging floor, nails missing,
steps forth, then retreat.
Where were we,
blanching and flaming,
a chuckle loosed in the wind—
now the glass, no longer lucid,
deflects the glow differently.
Shadow Games
While my back was turned, you slipped into the store,
Went to the washroom, then out once more.
You could’ve retraced your steps, stayed out of sight,
But you leapt the chain—made sure I’d catch the sight.
You lingered at the door, a ghostly trace,
A fading whisper with a hollow face.
What brought you here to haunt my day?
A question that simply won’t fade away.
You played your part, a fleeting flame,
Four months of warmth then cold with blame.
Your caring ways was merely a disguise,
Before you cut me down with an icy goodbye.
You turned to ink, your spite set free,
Penned your poison for all to see.
An “OLEFOWL from Penal,” you bitterly said,
Twisting words, calling me ugly instead.
You mocked my name, spoke of wood,
Called me mad—just as you would.
You whispered lies about me to my relative
using venomous word dripping with fear.
You’ll read these lines, I know you will,
Clinging to your shattered thrill.
Your fractured mind deflects your pain—
Blaming me while chaos still remains.
written by mjm 2025/march
I will be the shoulder to catch your tears,
The chapter where your stories unfold.
I will be the door to your happiness,
The pillar that stands in your sorrow's hold.
I will be the teddy that soothes your madness,
The mirror that reflects your radiant beauty.
I will be the warrior guarding your battles,
And the shield that deflects hate’s cruelty.
I will be the target for your arrows of doubt,
The land where your dreams take root and grow.
I will be the medicine that heals your pain,
And the levels that uplift your life’s flow.
I will be the melody that fills your music,
The king who reigns in your palace of grace.
I will be the fragrance of your sweetest perfume,
And the expense for the luxuries you embrace.
I will be the love that fills your life’s pages,
The spark that ignites your endless flame.
Through every moment, in every way,
I will be yours—forever the same.
When I say "fine," it's a cloak for the storm,
A veneer of calm that I carefully form.
Behind the calm words, there's a tempest of doubt,
A façade that shields what I’m truly about.
Fine is the mask I wear to keep peace,
A way to assure that my troubles will cease.
But inside the veil, there's a tumultuous sea,
Where my heart's deepest questions churn silently.
Fine is the word that hides what's unspoken,
A subtle disguise for the feelings that’re broken.
It's the smile that falters, the laughter that wanes,
The cracks in the surface where sorrow remains.
When I say "fine," it's not truly the truth,
It's a sheltering lie from my days of youth.
It’s the quiet retreat when the pain starts to show,
A way to keep others from truly knowing.
Fine is a refuge where I hide from the light,
A word that deflects from my struggle and fight.
It’s the surface of calm where deep shadows dwell,
An echo of what I’m too shy to tell.
So when I say "fine," read between the lines,
It’s not just the surface, it’s where silence aligns.
For "fine" often means that the heart’s not at rest,
A hint of the struggle beneath the façade dressed.
The kingfisher is the diving tip of a rainbow,
a chromatic splinter,
a deadly certainty
piercing sky and water.
All morning it has perched high atop a dead tree.
The sun rose softly (good for fishing),
but now it glares and deflects the eye,
yet
here in this swift instant, a gaudy arrow of light,
plucks a small silver fish out of nowhere,
rises
until it is not even a shadow,
for a harsh sun has already hid it.
A moment of truth
a century of lies
The left hand deflects
what the right hand decries
A little bit pregnant
the ending begins
A monster gestating
—and living within
(The New Room: December, 2023)
Observer observing the observed, both us
Inhibits spontaneity, deflects the flow
Until both aspects become one
There then is no one here
Save awareness
Self-aware
Free will ~ whose
Identity has vaporised
All that is, is a luminous mist
Which yet celebrates it's uniqueness
Within the womb of existence, so expressing
The manner of it's response in resonance with love
14-October-2022
The dance divine
The dance divine at play,
both reveals and conceals,
cyclic pleasure and pain,
deflects thoughts onto form;
life gift boon, becomes bane.
The dance divine at play,
where the dreamer and dreamed,
both being in truth one,
enter hypnotic trance,
till desires come undone.
The dance divine at play,
if witnessed from our heart,
where energies converge
in singularity,
manifests a bliss surge.
The dance divine at play,
allows soul to ascend,
by free will so choosing
single pointed focus,
God’s grace soul’s sole musing.
18-May-2022
A weaver of words in deep quiet reflects
In his mind’s prism, many a thought deflects
Within him the rainbow colors of passion rage
He scripts songs of beauty and rhyme on page after page
He has no magic, neither erudite nor clever
But hungry souls, his poems avidly devour
Stirring their hearts as wind on whispering leaves
And each line, some alluring fancy weaves
As from pen to paper his fancies flow
In a lingo that has an unusual glow
Though a great epic may not be born
His songs move even hearts of flint n’ stone
He sings the paeans of love and life
Of men in cross roads of toil and strife
He awakens dead worlds long forgotten
Taking us to magic lands never trodden
His songs have echoes of a heavenly rhapsody
Drowning the Earth in flooding melody
Fuelling hearts with thoughts one cannot name
Spawning tempestuous passions one cannot tame
Placed First.
8 Dec. 2021
A Strand (1045)Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Brian Strand
The reflection of what you see
To me, it deflects the purities that my spectral lenses catch
Matching with every insecurity of
Impurities overflowing as water through a gutter
Cluttering me from seeing my self-worth
Birthed from times of weakness down the road most of us have treaded
Yet,
a worn path others have made it down.
The thing about a mirror
Is it’s easy to break
It’s the shattered pieces we’re afraid to pick up
Those individual shards made to make up what’s left of your reflection
Your identity
The sharp fractures of what’s left from the whole cheval
Though it now reflects a peculiar perspective.
The intricate things that were once overlooked.
Crafted and handpicked by your own hands and not of that of another constructor.
Cuts and nicks
Pains and pricks will cut deep as you assemble your speculum
A Curriculum self taught to teach you your worth
Birthed from pain to be made whole.
liberté retrouvée
Poetry is a gateway, into a world imaginative and bright.
It however can lose its meaning, when jealousy deflects its light.
Expression can often be judged, by eyes that no longer see.
Don’t be imprisoned by your insecurities, that is not the way to be.
Should a poet be rated and condemned, by thoughts they choose to share?
How many words are lost, when poets no longer dare.
Articulate the beauty around you, or the passion deep down in your soul.
Partake in the poetry soup and never leave with an empty bowl.
Always start with a fresh canvas, share the words whispered from your heart.
Share with those that support you, and even the ones that tear you apart.
Imagine if we showed more love, to each and every peer.
I wonder what new creations, would emerge without any fear.
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