Long Heavenward Poems
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Miniscule dust particles float effortlessly in the sky
unaware of their imminent downfall.
Water vapour seeps heavenward from mother earth
condensing on the encountered dust.
The creation of raindrops – heavier and heavier
so dark rainclouds muster.
And then, the burden so heavy,
millions of raindrops fall.
The time is right for nature’s gala performance.
They sat on the hill ridge auditorium,
watching the valley theatre stage darken with the rain.
Behind them nothing until
the slightest glimmer as distant clouds part.
The sun in all its glory bursts through,
shedding light on the valley.
They watch in awe as, on cue, nature performs
its meteorological phenomenon with reflection, refraction and dispersion.
Every raindrop reveals its DNA;
red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet.
En masse – a rainbow which they see as an arc,
but nature knows to be a complete circle.
Encore! Sunlight intensifies, raindrops increase –
double rainbow – bravo!
They feel so close to this ephemeral wonder,
not physically but in their hearts and souls.
Rain recedes, performance over,
valley bathed in pale sunlight, silent.
They rise, make their way off the ridge uplifted,
no longer searching for that materialistic pot of gold.
As both the dreamer and the dreamed in this world,
if we would wake up here, etch these words in stone;
save by honing rough edges, by ego knurled,
being the optimal method to atone,
the flag of love within, cannot be unfurled.
This is a path each of us must walk alone,
since it requires us to change our direction,
by contemplative consciousness correction.
We shape ourselves with the power of intent,
which softens when we retrace our steps in time,
becoming a child again, here, now present,
shifting into the heart, feeling bliss beat’s chime,
going where love takes us, following the scent,
whence thus doing nothing, we heavenward climb.
To awaken oh hermit, let the heart thaw,
that we see God’s light in wonderment and awe.
Uplifted by grace, soul breaks into song,
contouring mists of love and strobes of light,
creating a rhythm for which heart does long,
borne on wings of bliss, ushering delight.
Breath by breath as rapture refrains replay,
a sublime fragrance engulfs feeble form,
inking us with bliss hues, now here to stay,
where heart’s the epicentre of this storm.
Divine magnetism grips us in its bind,
that in timeless time we become the flame,
head and heart aligned, truth of Self divined,
fulfilling our soul’s aim in life’s end game.
In the potent pause betwixt bliss beat’s chime,
surfing sands of time, we heavenward climb.
“there is nothing dividing, nothing to be divided. I have nothing to know with and nothing to be known. How shall I then speak of coming and going, my child? I am free from disease—my form has been extinguished.”
God is one indivisible being,
resplendent in His light, outside space-time,
wherefrom dreams conjured instantly seeing
journey of souls in their heavenward climb.
All being one, there’s nothing to be done,
since the flame of love shines in every heart,
mirroring lustre of the central sun,
breath by breath sensing bliss ignition start.
The truth always is the eternal now,
the stillness point around which worlds rotate,
as love does anoint all souls that allow,
ego dissolution when heart is chaste.
Oh hermit, have the cake and eat it too,
delighting as bliss beats within renew.
Nationwide Insurance twas on my side yay
cuz, earlier this July forth
two thousand eighteen ja way
windows closed, doors locked, and
car keys visibly splayed
on driver seat oye vay
feel free to call me a horse's ass today
utter anxiety compounded,
plus unable to locate master key,
thence fodder for poem and more to say
rifling thru boxes without success,
an impulse arose to call road
upon learning policy
doth include locksmith service,
ah felt less doggone snappish,
and uttered hoo ray
though modest aye,
congratulated awesome,
fulsome, and handsome
self on quick thinking,
and automatically became less tiresome
pondering for no particular rhyme nor reason
(as a getaway) Panama or Paraguay
then immediate decided,
sans ditto explanation,
but no how and nay
yet honest to dog suddenly felt
like a young lovestruck lad
during month of May
and without further delay
a compulsion arose
to putter along, though
momentarily gazing heavenward
and counting (just beak caws)
glistening black crows
plus painfully aware
a spike in recurrent
"senior" moment of forgetfulness grows,
thus starkly aware significant rustiness
increasingly, frightfully,
and chokingly coats
lix spit tillage harrows
resuming schlepping dishabille
crotchety bedeviled aching
body electric irksome
with fringe benefit (such as
momentary lapse of reason)
quite aware mettlesome
ness of youth nonrefundable,
non-reliable, and non-retrievable,
and guaranteed continued
pricking, viz nettlesome
degenerating aging telomeres,
sensate perspicuity, and oxysomes
leaving a once robust person some
what discombobulated
and easily toilsome.
Ten Thousand White Butterflies
Soft walls undulate like liquid steel
Metamorphic pulsations
Iridescent glow
Spiritual guides
Ushering departed souls
Rippling contractions
From cocoon-like womb
Bringing forth new breath
Replenishing blown out candles
Eyes scrunched
Painful cry
Drowned out by the rustling
One thousand butterflies taking flight
Soaring
Luminescent
Snowflake-like beings
Spreading their light
Within the night
Eternity is born
A baby raises his tiny fists
Mother's tears turn to joy
Floating heavenward on delicate wings
Announcing
Beating
Singing
A child is born
Written with Monterey Sirak.
Thankyou for letting me join you in flight!
The aborigine boy, his poor young heart was yearning
For the young raven haired girl, a passion was quickly burning
He was to carve his first boomerang to prove he was a man
If it returned back to him, he would carry out his plan.
He took the mulga branch and checked it was just so
The angle was correct, he couldn’t wait for his first throw
He split the branch and picked the piece that he knew would work
He had learnt from his ancestors, his walkabouts he never did shirk.
The branch he split, he took a stone and carved his mulga with care
He wanted it to fly and return, then win his maiden with raven hair
He inscribed it with his love and painted it with ochre of red
He took it to the outback and threw his first throw with a dread.
The boomerang did spin, it twisted and then dropped
The young aborigine felt his love and life, had suddenly stopped
He tried again he flicked his wrist it spun up heavenward
It spun it’s last spin and once again it was then floored.
His love was slipping away, a man he was not to be
His raven haired love, his bursting heart would never see
He tried and tried and then with a long last flick of his wrist
He had learnt the way he saw; he pounded the air with his fist.
His boomerang started to turn; it started on its first return
He danced as he watched it, and he felt his loins begin to burn
He jumped up and down waiting; he saw a glint of red
He knew he had done it, when it smacked him in the head
He had learnt to make his weapon
But his plan did not quite hatch
In learning to make the boomerang,
He forgot to learn how it to catch…
© 21/01/2013~GG~
Contest entry:
Inspiration came from Seren Roberts Poem 'Always To Return'
The day was cold snow had fallen.
He put on his great coat and strode out into the late afternoon.
We kept an eye on him from a distance.
Some reported him thrashing the undergrowth growling
as if forcing his way through some musical conundrum
others saw him pause, turning around
as he gazed heavenward
his large head listening to sounds only he could hear.
A lark sang; he noticed its hovering silhouette;
muttering he stomped onward.
That evening he lay down and would not speak.
The sky darkened and began to thunder
strange for that time of year.
I thought of the words of Jesus:
"Lord why hast thou forsaken me?"
It seemed appropriate.
His brow furrowed
as his fingers tapped some theme
upon the bed sheets.
Then as if seeing the coda of his life
crashing like a wave onto a far shore
he raised his fist
thunder shook the house
and when we looked again
he was gone.
Love begins with joy,
sidestepping thought ploy,
sharing and caring,
with all souls pairing.
Love is not a trade,
nor assigns a grade;
it's a warm embrace,
akin to God's grace.
Bliss bubbles passion
is love's compassion,
holding each soul near;
all to our heart dear.
When true love's seeded,
no echo's needed,
for the flame burns on,
each breath a new dawn.
Like the pristine dew,
each love hue is new,
magic on display,
making earth life play.
Fires of love let's stoke
in heart to invoke,
bliss fragrance sublime,
to heavenward climb.
21-August-2022
HMS, Rhymezone
The Meaning of Love Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
A Most Holy Vision Speaks in Mystical Tomes
Enchanted colorful images shine ever-brightly from
a wild cosmic fire appearing high in the evening sky.
As people gaze upon these unusually radiant images
there is, at once, a universal sense of calm and peace.
Poets worldwide observing this most unique heavenly
occurrence seize their pens to record all that they see.
As they begin to write what they see, it seems as though
their ink’s like a magical blood flowing through their pens.
As this sacred blood flows freely, the poets write with a
palpable sense that an amazing grace moment is at hand.
The true essence of this divine moment starts as the poets
witness the appearance of God’s Angels in the evening sky.
The poets seek to understand these unbelievable events in
real-time as they appear arrayed against the evening sky.
There’s an angelic message that now speaks fervently through
the wondrous magic of the poets’ pens—pensive and voiceless.
This holy missive canorously echoes visions from past lives,
whilst presenting highlights that speak vividly to future events.
With the past as prologue and the present now in real-time,
the angels’ missive of mankind’s future on Earth is positive.
As poets and other writers observe and record their notes, it’s
clear the cosmic fire is not the “End of Time” fire and brimstone.
Rather, it’s God’s way through his angels to capture mankind’s
attention and to refocus humanity’s efforts in service to others.
The holy missive makes clear that the path to redemption and
forgiveness lies within our own power as we seek to find God.
And that the angels shall always be with us as our souls ascend
heavenward one day on trails of cosmic dust to be one with God.
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid – A Collaborated Poem
Copyright © All Rights Reserved – November 26, 2018 (Couplet)