Our central vein is like a band of steel
As such, how may we speak of chakra points
Upon ego death we begin to heal
In a oneness field where God’s touch anoints
Embodying the light within we see
Boundaries drawn were merely thought constructs
Our pristine consciousness is always free
Known clearly when lower mind self-destructs
Manifestation is a wisp of smoke
Dancing as just do, puppets on a string
When fires of desire we cease to stoke
In the void of silence, we alone sing
Chakras was what we were talking about ~
That in truth nothing exists, have no doubt
That in truth nothing exists, have no doubt
Yet in life’s lucid dream of we but pause
Stuporous mind stilled and our heart devout
Clear light dawns as our identity thaws
In early days chakras were in focus
Representing realms we needed to cross
But ambling gently along love’s locus
Prayer on our lips, we discard the gross
In time nodes entwine, with God’s will align
That with map of our consciousness redrawn
We become the flame that carries His sign
As transcendental light that ushers dawn
On ceasing thinking we begin to feel ~
Our central vein is like a band of steel
It's that time of year (again)
Where hopes are being redrawn
Some did gladly reign
While others meekly mourned
Some are glad to see the back
'A year of toil and trouble'
Others eye the years almanac
With expectations doubled
Me, it's hard to find a word
That sums up 'twenty five'
From leaving home to things absurd
Just glad to be alive
So, no, I'm not resolving
A list of endless changes
As problems I'm still solving
And fate still rearranges
Instead, I'm going to stay calm
And learn new skills and tricks
Do what I can to steer from harm
And thrive in 'twenty six'
I'm teasing my favorite commenter (you know who you are) - lol!
My friends told me I'm not quite right.
So, I saw a doctor for some insight.
The doctor, at first, could only doubt it,
"I don't know how you live without it.
Medical science must be redrawn -
your personality is gone."
Salt a gin and tonic,
It’s too dry.
Assault my temple with sin,
Be honest,
You like the rye.
Look me in my honest eye,
Conversations with myself are the fondest,
Because no one understands me better when I rhyme.
Took a pen and across the paper it slides,
Scribble out the oddest lines.
Apply pressure to the page,
Trickle out ink until the pen has died.
Wet ink is promised to eventually dry,
But tomorrow isn’t promised,
For some reason I can’t help but question why?
After four portions of Moët fine wine,
I tend to think of life as if it’s all just a waste of time.
If tomorrow could be withdrawn then what’s the point of the “grand design”?
If tomorrow I wake up past dawn,
Should I consider myself only one step closer to dying?
Don’t overstep,
The temple has redrawn the walls and implores you to walk within the lines.
It’s not perfect,
But nothing’s wrong with second best.
When it stops hurting,
In comes walking Sudden Death.
We can’t always be our very best,
Attempting perfect,
It feels like burning,
The scars left behind showcase regret.
Bright summer flowers, wilt and die
Cold autumn rains, fall from the sky
My heart beats out a knowing sigh
The circle of life, the blink of an eye
One by one, I admired them all
The seasonal flowers, large and small
The beauty they brought is what I recall
As I look back to spring from fall
A lifetime in flowers, spring colors, sweet dew
The roses of summer, the thorns they accrue
Fall has the purples, the pinks and the blues
Now winter brings death to all but a few
The days of summer have come and gone
The sun loses warmth and nature moves on
Should I fall asleep and not see the dawn
Life will continue, the circle redrawn
Daniel Turner
Sandra Weiss
Of course it's being judged, why expect anything less.
Comes down to discernment between comfort and distress.
Biases are natural, otherwise we'd all be dead.
So logically you'll instantly judge everything you've read.
So read this and then think again, with new mind reborn.
As semblances of story surface, with plot lines redrawn.
Subtly steering focus from the objective given.
Then suddenly reminding you to judge what has been written.
The estate of my spreading life
has been plowed over many times.
Plantations have withered and been replanted,
grain fields have turned to dust,
have laid fallow for years
yet now the corn is high and golden again,
trees felled and burnt now grow tall.
Mind body and spirit maps
have had to be redrawn,
shorelines and boundaries moved.
However now I can walk my mind back into past times
and circle all the seasons of my existence
at once.
Barn doors are wide open to tomorrow lands,
My earth is still rich and good,
my store runneth over.
I am not the master here, just a worker following
a tilling, plowing, and seeding Owner;
I am charged only to oversee
this landscape of me.
When this soil I have worked
at last is blown away on the winds of time
a plantation of plenty
will be reflected in the mirror of eternity,
and I will be a servant of my most High Self
at home once more in my Master's mansion.
The town lost its street maps,
new plots of land appeared, houses were built
where just yesterday there had been none.
Her world seemed relocated,
changed, as if it had been redrawn.
They had not shared their likes or interests
they had not even shared an equitable life,
and at times had pawned and reclaimed each other,
negotiations and currency
always a part of an unwritten deal.
Now she understood how landscapes can change
minds see from their own windows
through different lenses.
She recalled with late regret
that each of them had not surrendered,
they coexisted in the same place
but a locality riddled with mirages,
scenes they mind-painted
with unseeing eyes.
Good writing sings and always brings
a sense of clarity and coherence,
out of chaos, strife, and cloudy nights
for those with perseverance.
Good writing brings laughter, sends smiles to the rafters
and can take us to places unknown,
like Venus, Mars and innumerable stars
and give comfort when we're all alone.
Good writing makes a mind keep trying
to figure out the next chapter,
around the bend where time suspends
while pondering things that matter.
But good writing doesn't always end
where its author thought it should,
as oftentimes we lose ourselves
walking in the woods.
Good writing can save a sinking soul
from drowning in crashing waves,
and make a new start with a brand-new heart
redrawn, a new dawn, a new day.
And good writing wins again and again
when it lands on somebody's shore,
where they're lying around with their feet on the ground
and finally found
what they're looking for.
To enter silence, mind-body withdrawn,
awareness poised in the void of stillness,
we sense within, pranic gridlines redrawn,
manifest as rapture of blissfulness;
currents divine in dance of playfulness.
Heart’s the centre, where energies converge,
each node of form celebrating bliss surge,
resonation with cosmic vibration,
melding head with heart, as with love we merge,
gripping presence in vibrant elation.
27-March-2022
Days are sharp as memories pass
As the idle thunder attest
to storms of unsettled wrath.
They gather together on the opaque horizons.
The engines of the highway HUMM
and
the grind with the heaviness of an iron heart
…eons-long!
Full of oily thoughts and rusted parts,
in memorium when machines ran
by our hand only in the theory of history, Grand!
The city reeks of oblivion and abstract thoughts…
Infinities' echos were sharp redrawn imagery…
Antiquated days nestled in idol thunder!
of tomorrow’s memories…ALL
In the theory of memory
Now all color is
…is the color of embers
As we rust like echos that pass
into the wasted days, abstract!
In theory of memory…
Only the bitter last!
at the growing flock
including male friends relatives,
minus yours truly, whose presence,
would merely generate a yawn,
though even a distinct black swan
received royal carpet treatment
particularly one named Shawn
encompassing another honorable guest
with illustrious surname Rawn
guests underwritten by Cupid,
whose presence surreptitiously withdrawn
(invitations distributed widely explained,
just beak cuz gerrymandering redrawn)
even provoking deer interest
of stray doe eyed fawn
hence lacking bravado and brawn
this bird den some seedy,
yet dove out crow kissing Avocet
trundled off to parts unknown you bet
far from boys stir russ, raw cuss, diss cuss
ting clacking clique, and thus this solitary fret
full ostracized, rejected, unwanted egret,
who heron there experienced many a let
down, not simply because of stork disparity
with the Aves and havenots,
but I never met
any other species so set
in their ways, hence off
on a wing and prayer
in search of other buoys and gulls,
whom this dodo bird they will coe vet!
She walks in the forest with crumbs in her hand
he swoops in for food and things, "contraband "
its a New Year of love a New Year of Hope
and all the pines trees are trying to cope...
Weighed down by the snow a snowman on gin
wants confetti for lunch with a mouthful of tin
She douses the light on the darkness so tragic
and all of a sudden we are clothed in magic
no quandary nights all past demons are gone
the Angel of Hope has designed and redrawn
The weather is lovely from her to down under
the brook gurgles softly with silence as thunder
When the ball drops in town we all clap in cheer
we're healthy once more like the Arlington deer
She walks from the vineyard all full of pure joy
the C words have died, thanks to Helen of Troy
Confetti is falling from a snowflake blue sky
we're healthy once more and we're ready to fly
Tapping into our neurons
where only brain cells should go
Past dreams mean nothing now
unconscious thoughts just flow
An abstract realm of reason
touchpad signals unbeknown
Fires up, post-human imagination
our intelligence genes regrown
And so it's all written in code
old commandments redrawn
Binary replaces ancient Latin
age of replicants has dawned
Interfaced with artificial reality
and engaged to usb clones
We marry terabyte processors
reproducing ten billion drones
Reprogrammed ancient scriptures
floods overwhelm our homes
Heaven and hell's using robots
I-God now accedes the throne
By
David Kavanagh
The Image in My Heart
My specs are in my pocket,
folded for now and safe.
My best…
perfect glasses.
With four eyes,
I can see…
just like a kid, again!
Miracles are real.
I can view the rainbow in the distance,
God’s wonderful promise to All.
I can gaze near as well,
to view and truly see,
your face…
your kind face.
Yet,
every wrinkle, they are missing.
every flaw; they are not there.
I can only see the lines,
and soft touches,
brushes with destiny,
colored by faith.
Time has drawn…
and redrawn every part,
over all the years,
that connect us,
and keep us…
near to each other,
and even closer to Him.
You are truly beautiful to me!
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