ARTISTIC INCARNATIONS-:-
intense
concentrated
conceptions
utopian
utterances
as SYMBOLIC SENTENCES
elevated
purified
crystallised
intact
senses
now SUPPLANTED
exotic
swirling
shimmering
glowing
geometric
In between incarnations, the butterflies nurture us.
In between lives, the butterflies uplift us and bring us truth.
At the moment of death, they begin their pilgrimage.
Landing one at a time, showing us a bit of our last life.
It is a gentle lesson, but one that must be done.
Each butterfly brings a glimpse of a sliver of a touch of our last life.
We see things we could have done differently.
This is why the butterflies come, for they are tiny angels.
Sent to help us make the transition from life to heaven.
And sent again when we reincarnate to help us return.
These empathetic messengers accompany us both directions.
From birth to life to life to birth to life to birth to life.
Upon death, they are there, and upon life, they are there.
Life and death, so intertwined, but the butterflies remain intact.
Accompanying us back and forth on our journey
From one realm to the other.
Incarnations Of What Love's Blessed Paradise Extols
Soft and slow each rising tide that your sweetest loving bring
that lush hush and touch setting eager seeking hearts aflame,
those luscious lips that invite passion's hottest heated might
that resounding chorus as our rendezvous night time sings.
Sensual swells of joyous ardor in each breast waiting
for the mounting ecstasy of our heavenly romance
resplendent glory, the power of our eternal Love
treasures so far beyond compare in our teenage dating.
Pleasure surging when moans found unison in gushing glee
dearest of gems stored as love's majestic depths were explored
Into Love's virgin forests as we took that first deep plunge
more than enough, memories for life- our Love you and me.
Destiny! What gift was cast to such young and eager souls
Incarnations of what Love's blessed paradise extols.
Robert J. Lindley, March 19th, 1973
Sonnet, ( Romantic Rendezvous Under A Glowing Moonlit June Night )
Syllables Per Line:14 14 14 14 0 14 14 14 14 0 14 14 14 14 0 14 14
Total # Syllables:196
Total # Words:132
Note: 6-23-2020, Edited slightly to maintain a uniform syllable count.
Every photograph is a death of the self you were,
Your life a quest to save your younger versions,
Or destroy them.
The Photo Album that holds your incarnations
Is a museum that opens like a child’s pop-out book
And every instance captured with a flicker therein
Is an atomic fraction of all iterations that have appeared.
In your future there is an old man, or an old woman,
Who is holding you, not all but a few frames of you,
Chainstoking breath, desperate to utter the words they
Need you to hear, for you want to save yourself now,
Your self now.
The rest of the Album
Is burned.
I find myself drowning
in the seafoam absence that slots itself
between the falling angel blood,
caught in the afternoon cotton breath of God
All at the edge of solidity. Rosemary eyelashes,
I can’t see you. I don’t believe you.
The twinkle of the sky, an individual.
Where are the diamonds?
They arrive, slowly in the sinking, and burn me blind.
A rose stem patterned heresy
finds a home in my eyes.
Condemn me. I can’t breathe you.
The song runs through me,
my face pallor and soft as talcum powder,
at the irregular beat that defines
the abstract of my divine repetition.
Where have you gone?
I can’t feel you, Superior,
Please let me come home.
Watching the ember embedded blossom of your throne,
I am reminded of previous entities.
The grass stained cheeks of the dirt-bellied dreamers,
the mud mush of their hearts, in carnations,
brings the true digression of my disintegrating odyssey.
Chopping sharply,
I take it off piece by piece
My chameleon hair, changing hues.
Please forgive me. I don't remember you.
Disgraceful, I find no issue.
p aul, to hear his name reminded one of apostles
a n ordinary man given to extra- ordinary actions
u n dieing in his legacy to children and the needy
l aughter always edged the corners of his eyes
n ewman, what a named revelation, Paul Newman
e nergized by a thirst for the fullest life
w as there ever a more complete man, this legacy
m arried for fifty years to Joan, fathering six children
a nd still one of the best actors the screen has ever seen
n ewman, a man’s man, a woman’s dream and a star.
January 26, 1925 – September 26, 2008
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