I need an emotional healing
one only God can deliver
I need to be restored.
by my heavenly Transmitter
I'm brokenhearted
my spirit pulverized
I need God to come unto me
and emotionally galvanize
I need an emotional healing.
to be removed from further harm
I need God to stimulate me, recreate me
hold me in His loving arms
I'm brokenhearted
my spirit pulverized
I need God to come unto me
and emotionally galvanize
life has kicked me in the gut
spanked my butt
left me gasping for air
I need to be in the presence
of the Great I Am
the God of loving care
no longer brokenhearted
my spirit no longer pulverized
God came into me
and emotionally galvanized
I got an emotional healing
I was removed from further harm
now stimulated, now recreated
safe in God's loving arms
i dunno why
but have you ever come across a Somersetshire mob?
i'm talking squalls and screams in the night
sister of Satan stuff
i'm looking for people with a reputation for learning
and sobriety
will i find them?
i look through other alarms on my phone to see what they are called.
one reads, 'pretend to celebrate St. Crispian's Day'
i was intending to get in tons of balloons and pie
i saw the F1 movie and have recreated the press conference scene
in the kitchen. i am getting cheekier by the day.
Inspired by Ronnie James Dio Song : Sacred Heart
In the dark opaque night
across the space of silence,
through the wasteland of your ravaged existence,
you take the ordained journey forsaken,
but the track of travail in illusive time you lose
within the gloomy labyrinth of torment.
Trudging at the edge of tolerance you hear
the sane spirit whisper, this journey has no end.
In the fold of the desolate soul in agony
you see the dismal sky crash down.
Buried in the dark debris of mystique hope
you pray for the light of the almighty.
The broken dreams don’t return,
for you can’t mend their wings to fly
in the recreated sky of the mangled mind,
but time restructures your daydream,
raise you free from the ruins of desire,
you drift through the rainbow arch.
You travel liberated from the clutch of evil
on the blessed inward journey.
In the sanctum of the devout essence
at the edge of the enlightened eternity,
you perceive the divine glow of the inner sun,
ethereally illumining the hallowed soul.
Abstract ideas flitter about in my brain
like butterflies navigating a stiff August breeze.
I try unifying them into something,
a patchwork quilt of grandiose dreams
showcasing profound thoughts
that I feel are worthy of sharing
with strangers and sycophants,
maniacs and mentally sound,
downtrodden and dignitaries,
paupers and princesses
in hopes of making a lasting impression
that will forever change their lives.
But before unveiling my work to the world,
I scrutinize the stitching,
then question the pattern.
Thinking that it’s not good enough,
that it requires additional refinement,
I tear apart the completed piece.
Quickly I discover that it can’t be resewn,
reassembled
or recreated.
What was once coherent,
vibrant,
profound,
now lies in ruin.
These scraps of doubt then entomb me.
Unable to manipulate the fabric,
I remain immobilized
by a misguided attempt
to cover my perceived imperfections
and bury my profound neurosis
so my frail ego
will be shielded from nonexistent ridicule.
DEFEAT ON CRETE
A folktale from which we have been recreated
Remember that fight I’m quite sure you hated
For this rematch, many centuries I have waited
So keen and strong, now I’ve been resuscitated
But this time I’ll win, as many anticipated
Such an encounter set Greek history ablaze
But this second time extends into future days
I may even emerge blinking, in the sun’s rays
And your dead body left to rot in the maze
Then back to Pasiphae, a hybrid family to raise
So Theseus, for you I have a surprise in store
As you’ll no longer follow that thread, I’m sure
This time, it is me reborn, to settle the score
From the labyrinth, where we once met before
Behold, I’m back, it’s me, the Minotaur!
An individual is the blueprint for majestic art.
In unison with other souls, that person is greater than god.
A pure ****** of colors sees the act of creation recreated in a renaissance.
When white horses race for their life through red moss, you get pulled into euphoria and see it all.
They scratch your back, and you feel it now: an angel has been bestowed on earth, it is they.
Behold that wonderful stone, which has been thrown into the halls of Pantheon.
I heard footsteps approaching, and two knocks on my door.
I thought it was Oluchi, an angel recreated in human form.
I opened with curiosity to behold my priceless gem.
Stretching my hands to her waist, I felt the thick darkness in my palms.
“Who's there?”
A cool breeze greeted me, leaving the dazzling moon to gaze at me.
Is it my grandmother's mmuo?
My Chi whispered, “it is Ogbunabali”.
My heart danced to the beating of ogidi.
My thoughts flew faster than an air plane.
Maybe he saw when I came out of Oluchi’s hut.
No! When I hugged Chukwudi’s wife.
Ogbunabali, prince of the night, carrier of death.
Please spare my life; a kingsman, my wife and my farmland are all I have.
Then came another piercing knock, when I opened,
I saw a figure, like an Iroko tree,
his roundish head with a torch on it,
a goat skin bag and a gun hanged across his shoulder.
“Ebuka, are you not coming for a hunt tonight?”
Ah!! My thoughts and my game.
I tried to smoke away the pain,
Rolled it into a blunt and lit it.
I breathe it all in to feel something,
I blow out to release the suffering.
Too anxious for my own good,
I pop a pill every now and then.
The pills stop me from overthinking,
They give me a moment of peace.
I wish I could turn my thoughts
Into alcoholic shots.
I wanna black out from my thoughts,
Forget them and wake up hungover.
Let me crush up my bad memories,
And snort them with my diary pages.
Replace those bad moments with
The good ones I recreated with drugs.
These night terrors don’t stop at sunset,
?And the clock hasn’t even struck 12 yet.
I’ll take my dose of Vivarin,
And fight the demon that’s appearing.
My body can’t hold up the abuse,
Each time I’m down in the blues.
I’ll try to get high off my own pain,
I’ll use anything to stimulate my brain.
I promise next time I won’t overdose,
Even if that’s what I feel like doing the most.
Eastern Europe’s shtetl life
romantically recalled
Fiddler on the Roof
beloved by all
Recreated today
in Boro Park,* modernity! *a neighborhood in Brooklyn, NYC
Come see Chassidim
live, learn and pray
Stroll its streets
Blink twice
Glimpse Europe's past
for half the price
My mind and heart roam, like a cloud, gales, and breezes.
As part of the Brahma, like stardust, I'm spread and shattered
In the nerves of the leaves, in the flower scent that pleases
Like divine atoms, though unseen, I'm all around scattered.
With the goal and role of continuing the spirit's role
Like the dust of Param Atma, I have incarnated
I'm, like the blades of grass, though seen many, a single whole.
With every drop of flowing water, I am recreated.
The actors and the play are parts of cosmic existence.
Within conscious and unconscious conscience, I role about
In the spirit dwelling within me, I find my essence.
My life, like the strong cedar, flourishes in flood or drought.
In the flames of the lamps of the Gurudwaras, mosque, church,
With the whole humanity, meaning of my life, I search
In parts of Derbyshire and Yorkshire
there are still pit-valleys,
where industry and nature collide,
marry, and have their natural born children.
The earth once gouged, raped and laid desolate,
is landscaped by those who once despoiled.
Time plays its part, plants its seeds,
it up-roots high piled slagheaps,
softens broken mountains of concrete.
I have walked these valleys,
in some I had to stumble over the fractured bones
of abandoned and rusting machinery;
the fire scorched detritus of coal mines.
I have also strolled through resurrected Eden's,
vales recreated out of the unspeakable
into the bright eloquence of beauty.
The hands of men
and the wings of gardening angels
have covered-up all self-made wounds,
have put to bed the deeply trammeled.
The Lord of daisies and daffodils
strolls unmolested once more,
through the worst and the best
that good intentions can do.
I went to sleep weeping and woke a butterfly,
with fluttering wings to glide in the sky;
life not over but is just beginning- I sigh,
am magically reborn !
Everything within me is different this morn,
my spirit renewed to no longer mourn;
my soul converted to no longer be forlorn,
ego shorn and renewed !
I will dwell within my new found beatitude,
peaceful and tranquil in my solitude;
my life will not be difficult but one subdued,
I am full of love warmed !
A metamorphosis has me altered, transformed,
my mind is spiritually informed;
this girl is recreated, reborn and reformed,
I woke a butterfly !
ARTEFACTS
recreated
as
a colossus
in time
using
dimensional depiction
extended
into reality
a glimpse
of the past
with
the possibility
of consolations
begetting beauty
melancholy
steeped in
its ethereal glory
to reflect
on the
inspiration
fashioned
mirrored
in
conceptual space
discovered
by
visionaries
&
expressionist
glowing
in a
maximalist style
As far as Eyes could see
I never thought I could come back to thee
You untraveled my twisted yarn and year knots so patiently
Knitted my soul back together
And
In all your Glory, you recreated out of me...
A beautiful tapestry
Now, Im a flag waving in the wind
Declaring the victory
Of the God almighty,
Who's Glory has set me free
The unborn are even now
part of our story.
Once a fictional baby
was held in the arms
of a tale,
a recreation recreated upon every instant
of an on-going biography -
one experienced through
Gods clear looking glass.
Soon that unborn child
thought itself to be a being,
it thought itself to be a person,
a character
separate from all other beings.
However its true nature
(being unlimited)
was hidden from it
by the very fictional unreality
it thought to be its own story.
One day or night;
a day or night set in a singular iota of time
it put, as you would a book,
its story down
then it was that all the biographies
that had ever been
became just windblown dust
before that face of a perfect looking glass.
There in a placeless place,
the Unborn Creator watches
forever unchanging
far and beyond any fanciful tales
told by a child to its parent.
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