Freshwater ice, compressed,
breaks off, with tremulous lights
and shakes
and rotates
in intricate snowflakes
like wings, of ice crystals
then floats away, in the open Ocean
and she's tracing his steps, leaving white dust
like crushed shells
as she walks , gracefully, as if on
Japanese Okobo
They were attached, as if by circuits of frozen stems
with lacings , of smaller molecules
its microscopic
and its perfect
her ribs split open, and a mosaic of musical strings
reveal, what looks like melting precious silver
and her face, is draped in a mass
of webs, upon webs
she looks at him, through the haze
he's the parchment Worlds were written on
now a sychronized flight path, he illuminates
all the crowd of beams
of celestrial, night skies
and there, white noise combines
in steady, different frequencies
with excact, united, intensity
heard and seen, by only a few
is it choregraphed ?
Icebergs Dancing.
Tranquil heart emits a bliss mist
We just stay with the light as such
God within gently takes our hand
We feel his tender, loving touch
Soul star chakra above rotates
A disc of divine love and light
Omnipresence personified
Ushers in form heightened delight
a disc of light above our head rotates
divinity with body-mind entwined
below jugular notch a node pulsates
higher heart from where deep truths are divined
if we stand erect, with God’s light aligned
label not this light as we did the sun
ocean, earth, fire, air and sky, all are one
the after burn lingers
as kundalini moves
its centred everywhere
spine holds all energies
at all times self-aware
the after burn lingers
feet too radiate bliss
nose chakra also glows
above head’s a bliss blob
bubble that slowly grows
the after burn lingers
space flickers, we look on
our shoulders seem like wings
with forehead now aflame
spiritual heart sings
the after burn lingers
noose of oneness tightens
as we metamorphose
although the world rotates
we remain in repose
While most tread the beat of the world in tepid motion
I run in rhythm with its tune.
Thump...
The blood pulses from the vessel above
Flick...
Rapid motion riddles the melody
Coursing unwavering focus overtakes
Seeps...
Overcomes...
A fluid of such awakening arrives
One of awareness so atoned to the world it rotates with the soil of mortality
Heaving heavy breath, in time with waves of wastage.
Drowning the echoes of whispering unbelief
I rise...
Rise in being
Rise in vitality
Rise in existence
Soul, spirit, body...
I rise...
I fall...
I live...
I survive in the absence of creed.
crackers bang , the gathering cheer , big bell rings , wheel rotates, the giant chariot moves, an amazing scene.
There’s no such thing as electricity.
As the wheel churns with no power at all.
Not magic, just a lack of pondering so much.
The things that shock us into a state of being or worse.
The spinning is fast enough to grind anything at all.
But it only destroys the questions.
There’s no such thing as thoughts.
If they were real, they’d be electric thoughts with a microphone shouting out.
But instead, we live stale.
Would be against us but we are too nothing-like.
An electric thought that could pass on.
Without the breath of anger.
Which makes us live longer days.
There’s no such thing as electricity.
That wheel rotates, creaks, and groans.
Nothing splatters.
Just tiny sounds like-
Metal against pavement.
There’s no such thing as electricity.
Don’t think about it.
And maybe you won’t get pulled under.
The machine rotates , the white rice flour sheds like fog, and its fine and smooth.
This is how I am with clothes:
(Most won’t relate’s, what I suppose)
I purchase something that I like
(If it’s on sale, a lucky strike).
If in a store, I try it on,
Or if it comes from Amazon,
I grapple with the box or bag
To check the fit. (Return’s a drag.)
Then in my closet or a drawer,
I neatly place it, waiting for
The perfect time for me to wear it.
(Might be weeks or months - I swear it!)
Once it’s worn, it joins the crowd
With which my wardrobe’s been endowed
And rotates, as each day I see
Which outfit most appeals to me.
For years, most items I will wear,
But when they’re old or need repair,
They transfer to my country place
Where, in my drawers, I find some space.
To do that, other things must go.
I fill a bag of items, so
I have enough to donate to
Collection boxes (which I do).
Of course, some things I have to toss
And doing so is no one’s loss,
But maybe someone I don’t know
Wears something I bought long ago.
The way I am, I know is strange,
But at this point, I’ll never change,
Although, in logic that’s reversed,
I’ll wear the clothes I least like first.
Echoes of summons ring on.
With them a sonorous clamour for painted lines.
The rim of night stretches and holds fast to
a colossal nocturne hung on furs-and-clouds walls,
and a concentric image of life rotates on
edges of weak silver.
Long-dead poets campaign openly for verses –
among them Wordsworth and Eliot –
each putting a swagger to his arrogant gait of lines,
sauntering towards a nest of whited papers.
Initiation signs, nebulous, line the torso of night,
and are etched deeply into the black bosom
of distant whiffs of ceremonies, like faint
stars of a tumultuous galaxy.
A gentle breeze blows, commingled with light,
each morn greeting our presence without fail,
our senses coming to life with delight,
in thought rested calm where no fears assail.
Nodes within form are suffused with cool heat,
God’s disc of light rotates over our head,
with energy peaked at our palms and feet,
our vibrant presence is by bliss beats led.
In this manner, in but not of the world,
with all doings on earth done by God’s hand,
we breathe in grace, in the nest of heart curled,
in witness mode, imposing no demand.
Innocence plays, heart prays, awareness stays,
in time stretched stillness in form that decays.
grazed by spirit, our form is magnetised
we vividly sense our aura expand
the stillness point within is realised
soundless thunder mind cannot understand
bliss rises from a centreless fulcrum
each node the epicentre of this storm
rapture renews gong of the cosmic drum
our pristine presence chooses to conform
a disc of light above our crown rotates
the staff of power within stands erect
between earth and heaven soul bilocates
that with God’s mind we seamlessly connect
is-ness of being-ness has a new name ~
tempest of delight, God alone can tame
I do not want a neon God
Orange bright
Flourescent pink, glowing light
For all to see
In darkest night
I'd rather have
The subtle charm
With strength to hold in every arm
Or patient hope
And solid calm
I do not need
The flashy stuff on garish stage
With visuals on every page
As life rotates
Through human age
The wisdom now
To soulful dreams
Is silence it seems
That reveals
God's delicate schemes
The inner room
The heart space, clear
Where gratitude for every tear
Is soaked by love
Replacing fear
The worldly clamour
For my mind
The buzzing lights so unrefined
Revealed deception
Cruel, unkind
I neutralise
With heavenly truth
A mystery disguised to youth
Of settled soul. Of peaceful rhythm
Released control
A rhyme untainted
The ancient rule
Of beauty unpainted so old it's cool
The teacher's in...
Not classroom school
That neon fad
That tragic shouting
From soapbox square, no crumbs for birds
Meaningless pouting
Just empty words
So I resolve to dim the bright
Pull down the shade
So that there might
Be revelation by
Internal light
subtle bliss tingles in toroidal heart
personify is-ness of our being
enlivened spine holds erect energies
the disc of grace at fontanel rotates
steadying thereby our third eye’s blink rate
soles of feet and palms glisten as light dawns
cool heat pervades every cell of our form
though we’re void-centric we cannot deny
heightened delight as our soul so blossoms
being both immanent and transcendent
rotates without pause
love energy eternal
nourishing nourished
Line Gauthier-Bite Size No. 95- Honorable Mention
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