I used to live my life
by planning every step
factoring in every contingency
like a sales pitch for a Life Insurance policy.
I flipped the coin and it landed on its edge.
Souls arrive on earth compelled to survive dramatic impacts.
Each child of spirit will eventually reach for reasons to be here.
Living finds the soul striving for intangible roots, tangibly real.
Foundations are sought to lead, gift and uplift one’s true self.
Fertile roses grow blind to the forces aligned on their behalf.
Unconscious insistence diminishes man’s resistance to its menu.
Layers of intuitive insight incites and invites us to a spiritual level.
Colors of otherness within us highlight discoveries of all authentic.
Revealing layers of our source may be sought and found in prayer.
Uniting with God grants exciting stances on His supporting plateau.
Mindfulness is the plume of God’s rhythm that rhymes our bloom.
Line of Inquiry
- track where lies the fulcrum of the fragrance of a rose, then likewise find within, your soul.
People murmured, she’s the rose among the thorns
When they saw me playing with my brothers, not alone
Same line was heard more often around
When I raced with little boys, just to get a crown.
Then, I always sang the prayer song of my mother
Asking God to make me grow and bloom like flower
I felt God’s abundant care as my bud bloomed
Into a rose in my community started from home.
As first child and single rose who’d dawned so early
Petals’ exquisite hue displayed more prominently
As floral leaf burgeoned, sprawled... satiated their eyes
My doubt on fragrance, can they smell or feel me inside?
Then, I sang my own prayer song with fervor in my room
Asking God to help me track, diffuse my fragrance’s fulcrum
After a while, I felt God’s unceasing light and reply:
My child, my love's generosity with joy's in your soul, shine, emit, fly.
Line of inquiry: track where lies the fulcrum of the fragrance of a rose, then likewise find within, your soul. By Unseeking Seeker
From whence comes the fragrance of a flower?
At its fulcrum, the floral organs
attach to the stalk, which has poked
up out of the earth to sprout
the beautiful petals -
that sweet-scented face
which I adore
in the form
of the
rose.
My
soul is
like the rose.
I am planted
on this earth, but I
need proper nourishment
to fulfill my roles. Heaven,
please let your sun reign down on me.
My soul, like that of a rose, provides
no sweet fragrance without enlightenment.
Stamens and pistils
delicately poised
Shamans and pistols
making too much noise
Soft buzz preferred,
a silencer’s desired
Pollinator’s sense
the triggers just fired
Nectar brings balance
agape open wide
Willing the seeker
to do laps inside
Comes with a snag
also stitch in the side
Fulcrum of a rose
the thorn realised
My soul’s not a flower
just gives and takes
Wants what it craves
accepts all, even fakes
Opens too early,
closes far too late
Can’t tell if I’m full,
yet knows when I’m sate
Possesses a thorn,
and stabs by design
Fulcrum of my soul’s
human not divine
Protects at all costs
only thing that’s mine
Not pain or loss,
just my life to define
They say the scent begins in bloom,
But I have felt it in the fold–
where petals hide, and shadows loom,
not where the colour are bold.
It lives between the bloom and bruise,
a hush the sunlight doesn't see.
It stays with those who never choose,
to shine, but still learn how to be.
I found it's centre, soft and small–
and there, I heard my own soul call.
~hita~
Line of inquiry: Track where lies the fulcrum of the fragrance of a rose, then likewise find within your soul~~
The wired airplane
sits
upon a single
pointed fulcrum
It can be spun
around
but
stays balanced
Jesus Christ is
my fulcrum
my rose of Sharon
my stabilizing point
I met Him
when I was a wee
child
so young, in new faith
Years have passed
my faith
remains
He is my Rock, my Savior, my Rose of Sharon
I follow its scent; that does waft to my nose.' From thence
To my soul.' Where it sooths my senses in sensual glow.'
If we can only smell the soul,
will it then smell like the rose?
in gentle aroma of passing breeze,
in morning fresh dew-swept air?
can we at birth of a little one,
breathe-in essence of his deeper self,
past the innocence of his smile,
can we see a universe entire?
do roses then live a spiritual life,
and speak with god with incense deep?
in their brief life on earth, is scent,
a language to reach other souls?
many flowers wither and fall,
like us in this garden of life.
while we talk of souls we do not see,
the rose has a soul that we can smell.
that is perhaps the reason why,
we leave roses at a departed’s grave,
so we can speak soul to soul,
through the aroma of their mystic self.
million roses I would plant to
honour millions who lived and died,
if only we could smell their souls,
loving memories would smell as sweet.
Fulcrum of a Rose
A lambent sight, my morning star,
sweet essence on my tongue.
A mem'ry stirred—those bygone days,
a secret love so young.
That lambent sight, my nostrils seared,
trust wrought of hope and fear.
She loves me so, she loves me not—
I beg I pray, my dear.
I wonder whence this essence comes—
I close my eyes, breathe deep.
From time and space. A higher realm.
A tunnel one-way steep.
One velvet scale, droplets of dawn
falls—spirit rent in two,
Another pluck, my fingers twitch—
mere instants born anew.
I fear to count how many drop—
worse, how many remain.
That smell so sweet, now on the floor,
unraveled till insane.
Red petals, damn filthy petals!
Your right to choose, I do revoke!
I swear it on her name.
Underneath the earth, she starts
A budding, not yet known
A seed planted, unfinished, unloved
Roses grow best with bright sun and regular water
All of which she’s been denied
The fulcrum of a rose indeed passed her by
And headed towards the unhidden, the undamaged
Her companions illuminated
Their blooms mere reminders of her shriveled form
Until one day
One rare, unlikely day
The sun rose and landed on her
The rain fell just right
So she could finally taste it too
Her petals came alive, her thorns as well
She finally flourished
Her blooms came late
But her blossoms were just as sweet
Her companions began to wither
Their life cycle was complete
But still, she stood
Tall and bright in a sea of death
Flourishing amongst those she once envied
Her delay had made her strong
And every hardship, struggle, and stunt
Now culminated in creating her entire being
Indeed, the fulcrum of a rose did not pass her by
It came right on time
A single tiny seed bravely emerges
its root so delicate, yet so strong
bearing a single red rose
The fragrance tickles my senses
the pure fulcrum of the rose escapes
and I drift through a million magical auras
I gasp in delight at beauty rising
from roots in dirt, thorns sharp but the flower so fragile
That pure fulcrum fragrance lives, as well
within our souls — spreading joy and energy
You stand on a pedestal higher than the rest
You stand up there as if you are on a quest
A quest to find what you have been missing
A quest to find why you should still be living
You stand on a pedestal as if you are a frozen rose
You stand up there thinking that you will never face the blows
But just as a rose you will wilt and wither away
First your pedals and then your stem
This is all because you never let me in
You never let me be your fulcrum
You never let me hold your hand
You made me think that I was the problem
That I was just a silly man
Within the secret sacred shrines of any rose
Dwells a well filled with fountains of a unique scent.
This scent pervades the florescence as each bloom glows.
Though the rose may fade, its scent endures without end.
The fragrance is not on her peripheral skin.
This aroma arises from her spotlessness.
Facing each thick and thin of the seasonal spin
The fragrance finds the inmost shrine's bottomlessness.
My soul is the fulcrum of the scent of goodness.
It's from here that the scent spreads in acts of compassion.
With the unending showers of divine kindness
The stream of scent secretes and flows with dispassion.
Could any rose forget and forsake her fulcrum?
It's towards the lesser-known scent, I Am a Pilgrim.
A long-stemmed rose ...
Her finest silk gown of vermilion petals
unfurls in rhapsody of a bride's embrace.
A dewy little face of splendor looks up
and permeates the air with waves of scent.
Spilling sweet essence of a soft lullaby
A Duchess in her branch, a floating red cloud.
Bees gossip around her, whispering stories
of lush green love, and bountiful blooms.
But the rose said, I won't be always red.
The effervescent spring, December preys
Black Death turns all crimson to greys.
Wilting leaves to endure her frozen petals,
and thorns guard her with pricks of Truth.
A balance of fulcrum with equal weights-
you wish to be this, but you need to be that.
The rose lives not long, it's only for a while
But waits for the Equinox, for another smile.
A long-stemmed rose...
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