I experienced early on the block
Don't respect a rebel
So I etched my own lane, created
On truth,
And battled every day just to
Earn my come-up
' Cause the streets only fear a real rebel
One who won't fold, won't flex from the truth.
Some twilights I bled for the cost of truth
But discomfort never immobilized my
Hierarchy rise,
It only amplified the fire in a rebel.
Rebel, truth, rise; the lore I transmit through
The shadows
The Engraved Silence
I was born in the obscure,
where light had not yet been imagined.
The wind spoke in spirals,
and my gestures searched for answers
in the shimmer of water,
in the curve of stone.
I saw forms dancing on the walls—
not as prey,
but as fleeing thoughts.
Each spark in the sky was a question
suspended,
woven silently by my gaze.
I did not paint to remember—
I painted to understand.
Each stroke a whispered thought,
each pigment a fragile hypothesis.
The world is harsh, yes.
But beauty slips through it,
like a vein of gold
in fractured rock.
And I, a pre-human thinker,
engrave not what I see,
but what I dream
others might one day understand.
For to transmit
is to give wings to fire
we never fully possess.
Joel Charvillat.
Touched by Spirit, we transform,
blown away by a bliss storm
but cannot transmit the mist,
which we chose not to resist.
Outwardly we look the same,
so can lay no claim to fame
but nodes within body urn,
metamorphose as they burn.
Grazed by divine magnetism,
we go beyond every ism
and yet we cannot translate,
this hum that does not abate.
As God’s direct transmission,
imagine bliss ignition,
that continues to renew,
with each life breath born anew.
The path kundalini takes,
our conditioned beliefs shakes,
as direct truth known by touch,
on relinquishing thought crutch.
Scriptures are both wrong and right,
for who can track flight of light,
surging forth from deep within,
causing worlds around to spin?
Hoping all become aware,
driven by love, we do share,
though this can only be known,
when we go in and atone.
On some height, and blown always
With arms fully extended
Embracing it.
If stiff frozed through!
If wails transmit!
A deep valley, o'erlooking
Or that, deeper
For a great sea.
Soul. A condemned
World - kindredly!
Love Conquers All – by L Milton Hankins
"If asked to repeat a time-honored passage
I would say it is that “Love Conquers All,”
For, whatever the situation, it is the message
If asked to repeat a time-honored passage,
I'd pass this adage in my far-advanced age:
“Love Conquers All,” sends a clarion call,
If asked to repeat a time-honored passage
I would say it is that “Love Conquers All!”"
'Love Conquers All' embodies in lyrical intonation
the ethos of L Milton Hankins,
exquisitely crafted in the difficult Triolet form,
a form in which he excelled.
The essence of the theme he championed
used to get reflected in his interactions with
and in his comments on the poems
of the fellow poets at PoetrySoup,
encouraging them with suggestions
to become poets of worth,
thus conquering the hearts of so many PS poets
by his caring and appreciative attitude.
For me, this poem embodies the message
he has been so keen to transmit
as the 'time-honored' 'clarion call'.
The spirit of the poem aptly reveals
the sentiments of many like me,
traversing the twilight zone of 'far-advanced age'.
Like frosted glass is this night.
Daylight’s clouds - restless like my love -
and scattered wildly heretofore -
somehow made a pact
to nimbly rearrange themselves.
Congealing in this chilling autumn eve -
translucent -
the clouds have blended in with dusk,
obliterating stars. . . and even shadows.
Luna, sad like me,
cannot transmit her moonlight
to cheer me.
Oh, to be again - enraptured!
To see your unique come-hither smile;
to hear the sound of honey in your voice;
to feel that splendid tingle within me
as you shine your gorgeous eyes -
radiant upon me!
Where are you now, my love -
my sweet, alluring boy?
And where are the stars
that blazed for me within your eyes?
Where is the crystal nightfall
of my fondest dream?
Oh, to feel again. . . enraptured!
But not even the smallest gleam
of you remains.
And not even Goddess Moon
can penetrate
this deep abiding gloom.
Though we cannot transmit the taste of bliss,
through words as symbols we try to translate,
the rapture felt by Divine Mother’s kiss,
tingle magnetic that does not abate,
God’s touch, immediate and intimate.
Likening body-mind as a balloon,
in which sun’s warmth and cool light of the moon,
entwine in heart and joyfully explode,
creating bliss bubbles that makes us swoon,
reflecting thus, let’s sing to God an ode.
Best friends are satellites
who orbit around you
like the moon and the sun
on a single planet in our galaxy
and constantly revolving around you
like an inseparable shadow
looking out for you
through every aspect of life
They always make sure
you are safe from every impending danger
that hurdle toward you as fast as a shooting star
and transmit some of their resources to you
whenever you need them
whether at work or at play
and the trustworthy transmitters
of your inner most hidden treasures
that are naked to the eyes
of other planetary beings
nights, days, seasons, months and even years
all come and go as quickly as the lightning beams
but satellites will always reside
close to your bosom until the end of time
Bodiless, that desert- formed
Slither-smooth felt as
Headless, of its dragon's fury
Breathed on. Burns the grass!
Sad irony! That safe place
Shades me off from it
Leaf-wizened, droopy hung. Heard waned
Rest, sweet did transmit.
Minds with different impressions
Eyes are of divergent quality visions
Mouths are of same but antithetic confessions
One thinks of Corona; another of secrets
Even with open eyes, we transmit different wits
To the world; world of colourful summits
My mask; behind it, I laugh and gasp
Like Moses in eyes of Pharaoh's asp
Growing rhetorical in my own silent rasp
Who did Corona and scientist take God for?
May be it would be difficult for Him to restore
And deliver the world He owns to the very core
Behind every mask lies fear
Even doctors' concerns shrinks to bear
And every lost soul let loose our cheap tear
I wonder if my mask is enough a credible care
In memory of covid 19
Words and gestures are not what matter
What only matters is what they transmit.
Btw, we all transmit, all the time
But usually it’s all just more bullsh*t.
Yet with connection we can connect
And receive the blessing of the scent
Long forgotten yet still it lingers
Making mundane lives at last well spent.
(11/16/25)
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
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