a heartbeat pulsating as living light
free from each and every limitation
I Am that dwelling in unbound delight
the source wherefrom arises creation
I was the silence before the first breath,
the nameless spark when the waters were deep,
older than memory, untamed by death,
waking the quiet where centuries sleep.
No cage of bronze can encompass my reach,
no boundary bends the scope of my sight,
I am the ocean, the wave, and the beach,
the shadow that bends to give birth to the light.
I walk through the world, yet I am not the clay,
I am the fire that burns in the marrow,
the endless horizon breaking the day,
the flight of the bow, the space in the arrow.
Unbound and unformed, yet forever complete,
I step from the silence and step into song,
the void and the fullness where all rivers meet,
the place where the stars and the echoes belong.
Repetition, Renewal and the Return
Sat in waiting
At the end of time.
Repetition stated it didn't matter anyways cause it was all the same.
Renewal spoke and maintained the differences were as vast as the changing seasons.
Return sat in silence,
Like breath held in suspension,
And then spoke
"When I come back to creation
It is as an End."
The mind borders on the sublime,
related to the divine source,
a powerful force pervading the universe.
I can write verse after verse,
but there is nothing worse
than reading someone's thoughts,
sounding like reports,
going on and on.
Know the difference between right and wrong,
where did you get your information from?
Pause before you speak,
your premise may sound weak.
What is it that you seek?
Curiosity leads to learning,
the lack of insight is concerning.
One must not digress, I just wanted to address
the current situation,
let's get back to the topic of creation.
It has come to my attention
that if you lack intention,
fall short of enough motivation,
you will be in suspended animation.
Stay with me as I continue this story,
take you on a journey inside my consciousness,
hold on while I clear up the mess,
I must confess I do assess
each moment, absorbed in the present.
*the full title is: Is It Art? (Something Higher than the Apparent) - Ode to Rudyard Kipling.
A Trickster mutters at it all:
"These pretty shapes from muck and clay,
And the sounds they bellow out,
Is any of it anymore than the shout,
Of a wounded bird?"
"And the politic, and the reason,
And the science, and all religion,
Is it ever anymore than the shout,
Of some triumphant lizard?"
"And when they mass and they mob
In armies like leviathan
Is it really anymore, than
A peacock in display?"
"And as they hunt and they harvest
In the field, is there any reason higher
Than, the ant hill crawling 'cross
The forest floor?"
"And why is it I will weep, as the mother
Coo's a babe back to sleep?"
. . . *i had to place the full title in the body of the poem because the title uses 3 different special characters not allowed in the title field.
Farm is,
Life and pride
Plow and horse;
Ground as soil
And interwoven worth.
Humility,
Of horse in stable
And the farmer
Bringing oats,
To his saviour.
As I'm here today, tomorrow a row away
Fibonacci conscious and novice of the fact
Eso-meta-psyche intact in static intersections
Theoretic physics listed
Spooky observer directed undetectables
Far fetched skeptic sketch initiated contact
Star Trek
I once read a living book:
it was my heart.
The pages tore when I touched them,
like prayers refusing meaning.
Someone, above,
was reading with me,
and wept:
not from sadness, but from truth.
They all admitted their hands had opened a piece of paper that no one had ever touched.
They admitted they had read a piece of paper that had never been thought of.
They admitted they had accepted the rules of a letter that never existed — or did it?
And they all thought it was given by a young boy they had seen in childhood,
but no one remembered his name, or where he had slept.
No one knew a single piece of memory about him,
but what they all agreed on was the existence of a letter
that had never been written before.
I am an enigma.
A cluster of hotness —
a beautiful dosage of mindfulness.
A sexy mess
that only an emperor could handle.
But until then,
I will be my own empress.
I have learned, faithfully,
how to love myself unconditionally.
The day I found my inner stillness,
suns meditated so I wouldn’t waste my energy.
The universe was created
in the abundance of my reflection —
channeled by the light of my circling flame,
a volatile creature that pervades all oceans.
Show me the illusions and predictions of essence.
It is no secret that when I give my attention,
I cannot have mercy.
The eyes that see me can only be precious.
"Little child, no gem is created without temper.
Each molecule should blush when you speak.
Insects should arrange themselves like a theatre —
demanding to be worthy of what God thinks."
A forever-ending journey can only be interpreted with meaning,
for the proteins of the soul
are found in cosmic pendulums —
a predictable chaos
that falls in love with every pure thing.
Bernice Zoleka Mannie
@LYAIOZ MANNIE
Mirrors stand sentinel in homes,
African homes, where they're often still,
unused, like dining tables turned decoration,
gathering dust, devoid of purpose.
At night, when men slumber, the shadows stir,
underworld spirits manifest, their forms shifting,
observant, operative, unseen by mortal eyes,
yet their presence felt, a whispered rumor.
Ghommid spirits lurk, invisible, yet real,
their existence a mystery, a hidden truth.
Some abhor mirrors, standing tall,
reflecting their horrors, infuriating them.
Their rage unleashes chaos, destruction's path,
frustration and setbacks, a trail of broken glass.
The mirror's gaze, a provocative act,
unleashing fury, a maelstrom of malevolent force.
To avoid conflict with powers beyond our sight,
cover the mirror, shroud it in darkness,
silence its reflective surface, still its gaze,
lest the metaphysical realm exact its toll.
In mystic forest, where human wisdom fades,
A world of secrets, beyond our mortal shades.
The forest whispers truths, we've yet to grasp,
As ancient trees stand guard, with mysteries to clasp.
A mahogany tree, tall and proud,
Became the stage for a supernatural cloud.
A sawman's blade, with intent to claim,
Was halted by a voice, an old woman's refrain.
The slap that followed, like a rock's descent,
Left the operator reeling, his strength spent.
Blood gushed from the tree, a mystic's tale,
A metaphysical son, with wounds that would prevail.
The tree, once wounded, healed with mystic speed,
Leaving us in awe, our footsteps to proceed.
We fled the scene, with hearts that still quake,
A lesson learned, some secrets we'd rather not partake.
In desperate hours, when darkness reigns
And worldly treasures seem forever lost in vain
When power and wealth, like fleeting dreams, dissolve
Leaving me forsaken, with no way to evolve
Show me the path, O guiding light
That pierces through life's plodding night
When metaphysical forces hold sway
And all my efforts end in disarray
My wealth, a worthless trinket, cannot save
My certificates, like autumn leaves, wither and wave
When situations, like unyielding mountains, tower high
And everywhere is blocked, with no escape to the sky
Oh, my creator, show me the path
Lead me through the right way, where love and hope forever last
Let me be a solution provider, a beacon in the night
Let me be great, not in pride or fame, but in the wisdom to guide others to the light
Show me the path, that I may lead the way
And in the darkness, be a shining ray
Oh, my maker, show me the path.
Sportsmanship
Trancend beyond
Athletism.
THE DOORMAN
He announced himself
as doorman pulling
veils of vortices
archetypes tumbled out
there was Einstein and
St Theresa even Blake
and Stalin
Floating like elementals
with elevated subtlety
he blessed them all as
enticing experiences
Excited he widened
a door to expose
emissaries stamping
time and space
Monroe curled
statuesque legs
around his waist
wobbly, said she
only resonated with
his doormanship
Then throated her
red lipped lust
with vapour dust
He closed the
door
©GhairoDanielsPoetry
&Song2024
Life is the epithet of extant intermission
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