The wind leans in sideways to drink every word,
Just as sailors must tack sideways to go upwind.
It's only with angles we know the wind's wrangles.
Its riddles, scattered among willy-nilly answers,
Whispered as secrets, spilling to shake the leaves.
When gales blow hard; many tumble quaking in fear,
Others stand up to harness its power and steer,
Watching their vanes to predict omens ahead,
Hoping for kind winds to come their way soon,
In the wily wandering ways of the gusts and whims.
The wind is an oracle, chanting psalms on wing.
It carries the chorus of birds calling at dawn.
The rumble of thunder in an approaching storm.
The calls from a distance; bells whoops and cooee's
But it's no secret its gathers can ever stay still—
For all sounds are bent to the command of its will.
For sound needs winds in the air to transmit downhill.
Only falling silent; when wind's becalmed and still.
For with no wind, all is just silence, dressed to kill.
Being Alive
Miracle Man
1/1/2025
On January first of two thousand seventeen,
God reclaimed me from death’s certain throes.
Three days prior it was “The Widow Maker’s” scene,
with Sudden Cardiac Arrest both lay apposed.
Now, I celebrate New Years Day for being alive,
I was only the vessel that brought glory to HIM.
Memory of twenty three hospital days I revive,
drinking from a cup always filled to the brim.
The doctors had said they couldn’t explain it,
that a miracle took place in my life that day.
So with ink this day my testimony I transmit,
now eight years later my mind chooses to replay.
First the “Widow Maker” then Sudden Cardiac Arrest,
Each New Years Day I celebrate life and this test.
one with the vastness, conspiring with space
magnetised palms transmit radiant light
if the receptor chooses to embrace
healing mists infuse heightened bliss delight
that by God’s hands, wrongs suffered are made right
thus in monk mode, energies with love yoked
magic is conjured, divine grace invoked
healing heat in palms seeks release
love holding all in close embrace
energies play as God does please
all we do is transmit His grace
If I were in automaton mode
and wrote a digital poem
with binary code
in terms of two states
expressed as 0's and 1's
(positive and non-positive)
which when done
alternate
and run
in a lengthy string
then later transmit the data
with technology
it would not read
a beautimous thing
but repetitively tedious
or boring indeed
nought but a numbers game
of dreary ennui
it would positively be
I need a break from all of it,
people pushing and pulling me.
I’ll fight to the death to be free,
don’t discount strategy and grit.
Is there spray for what they emit?
Something to protect discreetly?
I need a break
from all the bleakness they transmit.
Their perfume stings aggressively
it’s like wandering through debris.
Treading in all that blood and spit,
I need a break.
Music that touches the soul. This is so wonderful.
Well, what kind of music can you describe?
The sound of her magic
She can say everything without words
And break the dumb silence
She is beautiful when she sounds in silence
So gentle with the touch
She touches every key of my soul
I love it, I listen with pleasure
She will talk about love and separation
She will cheer you up in an instant
When her magic sounds
They will cover the souls of a rusty scream
She will transmit everything that is in nature:
The sound of the sea and the melody of rain,
And the wind howls, and the sun is rising,
A golden sunset at the end of the day
Well, how not to listen to her, not to love her
She is a continuation of our lives
Blessed is the one who can make music
And give us beautiful moments!
As both divine magnetism and feeble form,
with fulcrum of consciousness poised in the void,
we transmit each nuance felt in the bliss storm,
to Self dwelling in heart, pure and unalloyed.
The soft, subtle, soothing hum of bliss invades
all cells within, transformed by God’s touch that aids
this beauteous metamorphosis of soul,
fulfilling the purpose of our earth life role.
Coat stand tree commingling clan protects
Quilted caterpillar sticks linen to spine
Pine foliage erect points to its apex
Before its born, spire spreads star shine
Swooping swivel neck owl huddles, human eyes
Scan heaven, hook beak hoots transmit signal
For seraphim shifting, shades of dove devise
Butterfly current shaken napkin nimble
Venture from avenues of arrow quivers
Dispell dictating army apostrophes
Barrel roll ballistic, blank space delivers
Delight due outside barracks claustrophobic
Antenna tuned owl throatily purrs
Pleasure for butterfly’s fast learned journey, laughed
Drift under dry angel feathers, breeze spurs
Freedom wish from wizard to aloof aircraft
27 January 2025
Written for Contest:
Embodying the Light
Sponsor: Unseeking Seeker
we are doing nothing
just the way we did
in the moment gone by
and also what we will do
in the moment yet to come
we wish we could transmit
the elixir of pure bliss imbibed
but we can’t so we shan’t
I can be something of a ham,
take my energy or leave it;
Here’s the deal I am what I am;
Imperfectly immaculate
is the vibe I aim to transmit;
Addictive I have no gateway;
Left so hungry with a tidbit,
come feed on a seasoned entree.
How may we share ethereal sights we see,
such as for example, flickering of space,
revealing light from heaven that set’s soul free?
How may we transmit bliss imbibed by God’s grace,
transmuting each cell of form that we may be
by day and night transfixed in divine embrace?
Pastors preach, scriptures teach but truth’s out of reach.
When will walls of delusion, souls choose to breech?
AN OPEN FORM
beyond
intense
ideas
significance
in evocative
detail
superfluous
phenomena
of
the spontaneous
ectasy
of life
in
distinctive
intimacy
metamorphosed
dynamically
with
minimalistic
harmony
to
transmit
existence
into
memory
as the membrane of space
thins and thickens
we notice
it so gently breathing
with all forms within its womb
acknowledging thus what is as is
we are here both this and that
or more accurately neither
since space too is but an entity
deriving its power from heart of God
the mind endlessly questions
but spiritual heart knows
yet cannot transmit
the wisdom so garnered
to those dwelling in body-mind
Achoo, Achoo
Miracle Man
9/7/2024
I rise each morning chomping at the bit,
because allergies are giving me a near fit.
As I blow, and I sneeze,
I breathe with a wheeze,
I’m glad it’s nothing that I can transmit.
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