Flame of Intention

Poems, Soul heartedly

If there was a way to make you happy, I would.

I would sing by the Fire every evening and hope you’d be there listening.

I’d write out the reasons you deserve happiness

with a stick in the dried ditches of the Plains.

I’d sing Elton John songs persistently in the car

channeling your happiness of the past.

I could dress up in all the most brilliant costumes

making a fool of myself to the rest of the city.

(I already do.)

I’ll drive around town with my windows rolled down,

singing from the depth of my heart

sending fire into the air.

You know, beautiful people do not always have beautiful souls

but I believe yours may be the most beautiful blue soul in the land

And I see that those who deserve happiness shall have it.

 

In reality, We are not hopeless creatures–

there is always a way to create happiness for others in some way

with thoughts, rituals, writing, or public appearance

so that when those sad eyes fall upon You, bright light,

their hearts fill with a hopeful Fire

a desire to feel zest for life again.

And that future happiness may well be inspired by You, dear soul,

so go out and create smiles with your tone of voice,

with the energy you manifest each morning,

with the molecules you consume.

Feel with your whole soul,

feed and fulfill your body with Earth,

feel the Flame of intention

that will always save something.

 

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Hello, Home

Poems, Soul heartedly

One year ago I walked

barefoot through a cave

This year I walked

barefoot through a forest

twice.

I ate corn tortillas cooked on kal (limestone)

made by the strong

worn hands of native Mayan mothers

for forty days in a row–

Now my staples consist

of coffea arabica

and native Colorado flower tops.

Last year I drank Yucatecan limonada

Now I drink the flower essence

of Sedum lanceolata–

But I’ve done too much driving in this time

back and forth

for forty miles

Now I serve time (as well as Earth)

on my feet–

Feeling stronger after bouts

of vitamin, mineral, and essential amino acid

deficiencies

mold poisoning

an unbalanced place of residency

Lost my mind–

I’ve come to settle in a place of peace

where light pours through seven long windows

and I stand on green carpets like grass

Slanting walls like tree bark–

A home almost as old

as my old soul.

Home is home; home is everywhere here.

Here, we can drink tea all the time

together

I  feel how much warmer my hands have grown

I feel love radiate from every cell in my body

as I hold each cup and say each name

again

We’re so happy you’re back

Everything has changed

yet time stood still for four months

and still

I run through the rain.

the fight

Poems, Soul heartedly

what if

there was a way

to live without wasted time

what if

there was a way

to regain time wasted

what if there was a way

to regain time wasted by others

what if there was a way

to live every moment with meaning

to mend holes we’ve made with actions

that counteract our wasted time

and the wasted time of others–

i had a theory come to me

to live life as if

i were living for not only one

but 9 dying people

including some dying souls–

i am one of them

killing myself slowly

maybe even rapidly–

but in the process of realization

i am beginning to find motivation

and the strength to live this way–

it beings with every step

every thought

every word

every action

that i am living not only for myself

but for others who have strived

and those who are still striving

to live a life of prosperity

.

Threads of Destiny

Poems, Small Miracles, Soul heartedly

I know why the air is clear.

I can almost see those glistening threads,

some thick and some thin

 binding all organisms,

some large and some small,

Together—one silky strand at a time.

Some hang loosely, so fragile they may fall

or break with the slightest gust of wind.

Some are tight, pulling Us with a force

across oceans, hills, and sidewalks

Together—those transparent threads,

some short and some long,

are our destinies.

Some are attached to the heart,

others to the feet; only one string between

two of the living—

I can almost see them all, billions

springing from each one I encounter,

radiating like the sun in all directions,

connecting living grass, water, soil, and hearts

Together. And when a heart stops beating,

its threads detach and depart

from all cells, all hearts;

coiling and collecting themselves

Together—

I know why hearts ache.

Transforming into liquid form,

they unite with fallen threads of the past,

creating streams, rivers, seas, and oceans;

dancing gracefully, they form waves,

nourishing the remaining organisms

that spring from the aged Earth–

I know why water is clear.

Gradually the former threads gravitate

towards the warmth of the sunshine,

placing blessings upon threads still hanging,

some loosely and some tightly.

Ascending up to the heights,

They eternally evaporate

And fall into

the Web of Life

Together.

Pantoum

Poems

I yearn to paint under the morning sunlight

and sing to a new crowd of people each night,

to write stories under the shade of a tree

and drink tea in coffeehouses painted green,

To sing to a new crowd of people each night

in dimly-lit cafés and bars with warm lights

and drink tea in coffeehouses painted green,

to pick steel strings and bow deep harmonies

In dimly-lit cafés and bars with warm lights,

I yearn to hear voices speak loud, soft, and bright,

to pick steel strings and bow deep harmonies

I yearn to be somewhere my soul can be free.

Those Holy Bones

Poems

Sonnet 1.

I saw her relics last July enclosed

within a sheet of thin glass on a cross

inside the center globe, carefully posed

so that none of the magic would be lost

though hundreds of years have already passed

those holy bones remain preserved and blessed

and dispersed amongst nations east to west

secluded from the turmoil of her past.

Think of the bones buried beneath the earth

unseen by human eyes for centuries

yearning to reveal their stories since birth

of love and death and untold mysteries

lying nameless within the ground unknown

until we seek and hold those holy bones.

Masks

Poems

surrounded by beige bricks

and unsmiling faces

plastered with skin-colored cream

to conceal their real identities

stares of judgemental young eyes

engulfed in chunks of dried black liquid

while walking amongst creatures

smelling of cheap perfume

artificial stimulation

of computer screens and coffee

create dark circles and lines

for those who have not yet conformed

to a living shape