Celebrating the universe through poetic verse.
Transmitting from an open heart
the beat of phonetic, cosmic art.

All poems are my original works.
Copyright J.M. 2008 - 2017 all rights reserved
Celebrating the universe through poetic verse.
Transmitting from an open heart
the beat of phonetic, cosmic art.

All poems are my original works.
Copyright J.M. 2008 - 2017 all rights reserved
Jamadhi Verse
Jamadhi Verse
1 day ago

The meadow evolved with the wind,
loving how the breeze caressed everything.
Moving its thin stalks and delicate petals
in lulling, knowing sway,
gently letting go of tiny seeds –
now floating off and far away.
The day fades in spectrums of brilliant light
and delights in all angles of the blooming field
as it reveals the shadow, the colors,
the life that flutters and reels within the soil,
toiling beneath the sleek grass.
The challenges of being, seeding, eating
all come to and then they pass.
It is everlasting: the scurry, the shift --
billions of tiny creatures that feel and live.
They sift through instinct,
they take and they give
back to the warm, doting earth.
They are unconscious participants
engaged in divine work.

And the spiral keeps on twisting --
the movement beckoning, persisting.
A silent whirlpool spinning without restraint
in all souls, in all bones resting
deep within the ground.
The old growth withers,
then silently falls down
with a most graceful ease.

And so it all vanishes away.
But the light remains.
It stays.

The buds grow infinitely, intimately with the sun --
overcome with delight, blessed and ripe.
Blissfully, they sway and then peacefully fade.
Forever safe.
Unafraid, the field abundantly lives.
It does not resist.
It gives itself instinctually, freely to love
even as it comes undone.
It never dwells upon, nor does it succumb,
to wretchedness.

J.M. 2017

#life   #eternal   #being   #bliss   #acceptence   #meadow   #cycles   #spiral   #ruin   #ripe  

I am utterly transfixed by this score --
forever changed since its
movement embraced me.
Never shall I forgo the experience
of how completely the music takes me
through its fury of bows.
Slicing through the trembling light
like a frenzy of piercing knives
tearing through the silence
in violent, passionate strikes.
It invites the greatest affliction
deep within the soul.

Then suddenly all is slowing, poking, lulling
like a needle pulling a soft, white thread
to suture through these minor note wounds
and gently stitch it all up, again.
How beautifully the bows now mend
this spent and aching fullness
in tender, soothing strokes,
while oboes breathe relief and coolness
from rich, consoling throats.
All evoking a most surrendered trust --
a vow of beauty despite the pain,
that swirls to life an exhilarating dance
that glides blissfully across the graves.

'Joy spins this way, this way, this way'
says the guiding call of the bassoons,
rotating us along with earth and moon
as we turn enchanted circles through
the dense and driving dark,
waltzing towards an expanding dawn,
that rises deep within our hearts.
This euphoria spreads like a bloom,
banishing all of the former gloom
with its wistful, tempting notes.
It resonates a deep urge inside,
moving all to lasting life
with enduring, surging stroke.

Then once more we are broken
by the sudden wave of strings,
that usher in those most fevered pangs.
The cellos echo in strained lament
as the cutting refrain lashes out again.
But scars now lessen the stings of this dread --
a dull ache enters, but is constrained instead
as we recollect the joy that courses and flows
after the hurt, after the throes.
Beneath our mortal skin and bone
there lives an eternity.

We can now listen with elated certainty
as this heaven unfolds --
the dark and the light, the pain and the growth.
The notes have shown us -- we know how it goes:
joy spins this way, this way, this way
in graceful repose.
It divulges itself before us,
within us,
meticulously composed.

We are slashed and healed
by the same godly bows.
A contradiction now suddenly transposed.
Rapture and mourning dancing together so close,
they go... they go.. they go...
they go on

J.M. 2017

Mozart’s Symphony No. 25 in G Minor is my earliest memory of music and what I consider the first song I ever truly heard. I was 4 years old, but that first listen immediately aged me to eternity. Such excitement and intoxication it gave me. I feel it as a beautiful lesson in navigation through the trials and pain in this life toward the dawning light that rests within all experience. It resonated something deeply affecting within me that has grown ever more insistent through the years. I allow glimpses of myself to people, but if you want to get to my root, you need only listen to Symphony No. 25. It somehow perfectly brings to life and form that untouchable place, from which I pull forth it all. Music is alchemy.


I have been broken a thousand times,
and a thousand more I will break again.
Always on my knees sifting through debris
of experiences long since dead.
I feel the dread as I gaze upon the shards
of those things that will no longer be,
and I lose myself inside of every piece
as they reflect my face back at me.

And I’ve spent too much time on the floor
staring down upon myself
when I could pick up the fragments
of what’s broken and stagnant
and create a mosaic of something else.
A beautiful vision of live-and-learn wisdom
that only an injured heart can tell.
A creation where people can gaze unafraid
and use it to heal bits of themselves.

~ so ~

let us no longer dwell in undying regret --
nothing long past has ever killed us yet.
Let us dance to the beauty that lies in coming undone.
Let us finish these songs that we have left unsung
with absolute dignity and grace.
Let each and every chorus flourish
and resound in the hollows of our fate.
Let us embrace everything that has come thus far
and gratefully gather up the shining shards.
Let us begin again to live again fearlessly,
as the masterpieces that we are.
Let the mistakes that threaten to break us
be the highest form of art.
Even our most broken parts
enfold a tender, sacred heart
of absolute beauty.
We shatter so that we can truly see
the unimaginable complexity,
the sheer invincibility
of what, and who, we are.

J.M. 2017

Remind me of what I am.
Show me who you are.
"Try to keep yourself awake. This life ain't like a book."

It needn’t even be a word --
just a mere sound emanating from your lips
penetrates me deep, flips an electric switch,
gets me buzzing, fluttering with an energy that emits
a charge so strong it moves me along
into immediate, stupefied orbit.

So often have I heard those breathless words
transferred from your throat to my heart.
It jumpstarts my blood and seizes my lungs
and vibrates me right apart.
Your conductivity builds effortlessly,
sparking a reaction within me,
as you arrest and possess with a binding current
that overrides and drives me completely.
Magnetic, your essence courses and runs,
powering me up and turning me on,
so that my mind is never mine for long
as inside me you electrify your dawn.

I am attracted to the static of you --
utterly drawn like electron to photon.
Absolutely seduced, addicted and fused
to the friction of your diction.
Your voice is most bewitching –
a persistent, elevating conductor
that beautifully orchestrates this excited state
into an accompaniment like no other:
I am the lightning flash of your allure amassed --
a sudden jolt of ecstatic shudder.
Desperately urging the next surging rumble
of your sweet and rousing thunder.

J.M. 2017

The silence at home was deafening
in those early days when fear moved in.
It was a presence hovering outside,
arriving deep within the night.
It stood looming at the doorstep,
coming to take what little was left.
Foreboding and immense
it peered in from between the blinds,
watching the sorrow of our trying lives,
and with a great flash it’s form moved inside.
I realized then, that it was already over.

If I had been older I could have perceived more
than those empty rooms and threadbare floors.
The carpet stained, tattered, and worn,
as I huddled each night upon it.
And even the babies seemed to lose their light.
They slept closer for comfort through the dark nights
while my eyes stayed open – more dead than alive –
surviving only for the sake of them.

Fear was the shadow that peered around each door.
It was the reflection the bathroom mirror wore.
It watched our nakedness like a carnivore:
hungry and insatiable.
We were never before so helplessly alone,
yet fear’s eyes hid everywhere inside of our home,
piercing through our skin right down to the bone --
it’s mortal blow leaving a deathly chill.
Fear never had its fill of our pain.
We woke every day to more of the same,
playing a bleak and hopeless, unspeakable game
as we silenced our terror to pretend all was okay.

The nightmare played out its horror inside --
left my soul for the vultures in the heaven-less sky.
So tired of strength, at night I would cry
in the empty bedroom where none of us lied,
unafraid of the blackness, because I had realized
some things were much worse than the dark.

We had been marked for an ending.
Condemned as every day the pain was relived.
Our heartbeats dissolved with the cooling winds.
We lived each day imprisoned within
those hollow walls and our fragile skin.
I remember the hunger of a life so grim.
I remember absolutely everything.

J.M. 2016

I was 12 and living with my mother and my toddler siblings after a cross-country move when we lost our new apartment and nearly all of our possessions to an infestation. We were forced to move to a run down complex while we tried to get back on our feet. We had next to nothing. A few weeks after moving in, my mother fell ill and was diagnosed with an aggressive cancer. Unable to work and provide during that time, we relied on a poorly funded assistance program and lived a bleak and fearful summer. I remember the fear of knowing we were likely losing our mom, the hunger in our bellies, the near empty apartment. Everything was unravelling. We had only the unspoken terror as we saw our tangible life fall away, but held on through the love of each other.
Jamadhi Verse
Jamadhi Verse
Dec 28, 2016

The wind blows its promises
like a revitalizing breath
coming in from the west
where even the sun cannot help
but lose itself
in the hope of the endless beyond --
bowing its head and setting regrets
to rise enlightened, in golden dawn.
There I will find
amongst the mountain and pine,
the will to keep flowing on,
where time cannot be traced
nor the daylight erased
and heaven unfolds like a song.

J.M. 2016

Thank you with all my heart for the kind person who gave a sun to my poem. I did not catch it when it went up to see who gifted it, but I am so grateful for your support and enthusiasm for my work. ❤️
Jamadhi Verse
Jamadhi Verse
Dec 22, 2016

I watch as rays of orange light
reflect upon sheets of dazzling ice
that lie one hundred miles away,
inlaid thousands of feet high
on the towering, awesome mountainside.
I should feel reverence at this sight --
a height of mystified awareness,
but I’ve grown careless with myself,
shunning the bountiful wealth I once felt.

And now I only see your arresting eyes
glittering up there near the sky
as they tantalize and paralyze my every sense --
your presence growing so immense
that you must look down upon me.
15,000 feet of mountain that I cannot see,
because a glimpse of you became an eternity.
The earth spins to display a new, precious day --
another you'll never return to me.

J.M. 2016

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