the vintage typewriter waits,
its keys resting beneath a page
that resists becoming ordinary lines
from that subdued expanse,
a mountain rises,
a cabin folded into stillness,
a blue stream slipping through
the distance the page imagines.
small white birds drift above the picture,
as though the typewriter has released
fragments of a dream instead of words.
they hover like thoughts rising
from inside the mind,
tiny wings carrying them
toward whatever waits beyond.
the light from the desk lamp
falls across the picture,
a gentle benediction~
remind me that creation begins
when machinery yields
to imagination.
the page becomes a world,
and the world becomes a doorway
through which the writer steps,
carrying only the brightness
that first rose from the keys.
Tear the Heart and Teach the Soul
Through all our lives we seek control
Darkness held at arms' length
Striving with our bitter strength
Forcing madness to submit to sense
To rein our Animus to governance
Though it resists, to try our will
Against its roil we set our minds
Lest we perceive what it divines
The razored truths it seeks and finds
The lessons it would give us still
That tear the heart and teach the soul.
Life eats life
As so it goes, without restraint
Necessity absorbs the spreading taint
That all must bear, the cost of life
Paid with death, born of strife
We are the ends of one another
As we destroy we must create
As we discover, much too late
Sister to Sister, Brother to Brother
This. The shared edge of the knife.
When you’re down in the dumps
And life’s giving you lumps,
It’s so nice to have lunch with a friend;
For occasional slumps,
Like a log’s many bumps,
Make it hard with a smile to pretend
All is dandy and fine.
Sometimes problems combine
With the natural ways that you cope
And your pal throws a line,
Which you take as a sign
That you’re not at the end of your rope.
So you sit and you eat,
Which itself is a treat,
And compare what’s been driving you nuts.
Though you do not compete,
Each admits to defeat
By not climbing up out of your ruts.
Still, a heaviness lifts,
One of friendship’s best gifts,
(Which can also take place on the phone).
Though the stuff that resists
Cheering up still exists,
You, at least, feel a lot less alone.
We search for God and He too so searches
for Himself in each heart, veiled by thought mists,
yet in silence, the bird of truth perches
on love’s moonbeam when we shed to-do lists,
spawned by the ego that always resists.
Such dear souls, is the divine paradox,
resolved the day when we choose to detox.
moonlight pools in the hollowed trees,
and sorrow shimmers through the quiet air
one trembling leaf resists the dusk
its fragile brightness holding back the dark
the sky breaks open into gold
as grief becomes a lantern in the wind
stillness gathers beneath the boughs
and lifts the ache until it starts to glow
A monologue free verse poem of Kiria the Kitsune
I'm pretty washed up ~sigh~,
and I couldn't care about how I felt,
But something about that interaction,
With Erika the bard I mean,
that spark I felt between us,
It was Like I've known her my whole life,
that shiny yellow hairs,
those cute round Human ears,
her sharing soothing personality,
How could I resists the effects she has on me,
when shes flirty of trys to get it on I feel really nice,
ike tho swarm fuzzy feeling around my icy cold prison,
while our love for music and gods blessings bind us to unite.
Erika Piper If I Knew You In Another Life,
I'd love to spend this life time and my next with you.
-KItsuko Dragonstar
,
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The third drawer down,
stuck sometimes,
resists like a child refusing supper~
then gives all at once.
Inside:
a landslide of faded cotton,
each square a surrendered flag.
Some still crisp with the ghost of starch,
others softened by years of fists,
damp with forgotten tears.
The blue gingham one
worn thin at the edges~
once blotted my knee
when I fell running toward her.
The white lacy one,
embroidered with spring flowers,
never used, as if saving itself
for a grief too clean to stain.
At the bottom,
one still folded tight
into a perfect rectangle—
the way she left it,
the way I won’t unfold it,
keeping her last touch
trapped in the seams.
related memoir vignette at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/lavender_time_and_mother_13659
“I never have the high, low, or middle state. I have no friend or foe. How shall I speak of good and evil? I am free from disease - my form has been extinguished.”
All that is, is but one energy field,
within which myriad objects appear,
which we may say is power God does wield,
wherein each dream image to Him is dear
and it’s but ignorance that causes fear.
Across all domains, God alone exists,
Whose love and light wayward ego resists,
so once this truth is by us recognised,
the light of wisdom banishes the mists,
whence our true Self in heart is realised.
—Insignificancy Crowned—
Morning comes; I raise the vanitascope—
Dust drifts where light refuses instruction.
I lean in; distance folds. Closeness pretends.
Air resists; I accuse.
Shadows gather. I baptize them.
A mark appears; nothing further.
Exactness devours edges.
Attention thickens. Mercy dies.
Sound repeats, stubborn.
I follow. Beyond reason. Beyond care.
Hardness calls itself diligence.
The rose breathes, uncorrected, mocking.
I touch; tyranny rises—
No crown, no empire, only insistence.
Time moves.
Nothing waits. Nothing falters.
Vast persists; I fail to see.
Motes hover. Flaws remain.
Life stretches beyond grasp,
Unobserved, precise, inevitable.
I step aside—not wiser, only absent.
The world endures.
Because my vanitascope observed too much.
life is in motion but our core is still
where presence dwells detached, drenched in bliss mists
as we sip soma nectar to heart’s fill
and since there is no ego that resists
in truth we have erased our to-do lists
but yet receive bountiful boons of grace
as steps toward God we slowly retrace
Poem 2: Learning to Listen
Listening is the first spiritual discipline.
Silence becomes an invitation.
Noise no longer satisfies.
The soul leans inward.
God is not loud.
God does not compete.
The world shouts.
Spirit whispers.
You learn to slow your thoughts.
To sit without answers.
To wait without urgency.
Listening requires humility.
It requires surrender of control.
Stillness reveals patterns.
Intuition strengthens.
Peace replaces confusion.
Listening feels uncomfortable at first.
The ego resists quiet.
But persistence softens resistance.
Guidance arrives subtly.
Through feeling.
Through alignment.
Through clarity.
You stop forcing direction.
You start receiving it.
Listening teaches trust.
It teaches patience.
It teaches dependence on something higher.
God speaks through calm.
Through conviction.
Through inner knowing.
Listening becomes prayer.
Prayer becomes relationship.
The soul learns discernment.
Not every voice is truth.
Stillness reveals which is.
Listening becomes obedience.
And obedience becomes peace.
Beside the white oaks of the king's ferry
the heavenly princess resists control,
swatting sand flies off of her acacia crown
Night eyes will not hide a spotted sun
its oenomel translating
Tira's blessings in thorn mimosas,
vistas of aphotic and alabaster stripes,
fingerprints of virtue and violence;
—
Opposites attract
I can't look away
The moment is all that exists.
Years are gone,the future resists.
In this present,life unfolds.
A story in time,bravely unfolds.
The worries of yesterday fade,
Tomorrow's fears, a distant parade.
In the now,find peace and light,
Embrace the present,day and night.
For in this moment,life is found,
On rock-hard ground,firmly bound
The present,a donation,freely given,
In this present,true living is striven.
Dark clouds part
Spring sun warms land
Sleepy tree opens wardrobe
Fresh green cloak covers naked frame
Squirrel gymnastics performed against vibrant backdrop
Ignored by blackbirds busy building
Summer arrives
Leaf’s heyday
Flutters in warm breeze
Veins pump life into dainty form
Nature’s simplistic beauty
Too soon chill spreads across land
Winds gust challenging life
Leaf resists but colour changes
Green tinged with brown
Tree draws inward
Leaf’s lifeblood turned off
Brown vista prevails
Then airborne in autumn sky
Dark clouds draw in
Bleak winter arrives
Grounded, shrivelled, still
Life leaves leaf
Israel shat on itself.
It's fine that Israel exists only for war crimes indulgence?
Once that piece of target resists my push towards it I'm already whipping it off my foot
Raising a Georgia 5th on it
Piece of garbage civilization done nothing but stimulate rhetoric attached to premonition Messiahs out of line
Fall in soldier
You get hurt out there without a battalion?
Good on ya then.
See what I gots to say?
You haven't finished your own minds questioning itself?
I type
Poor folks is prisoners of stupid
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