we will take our fires
to light the stars
and paint the horizons
with its flames of red

and from the ashes
we will rise again and again
with phoenix wings
to soar the heavens
searching for the real meaning
of love.

We will take our fires
to the icy polar winds
if we ever feel the chill
of not knowing
what love means.

we will take our fires....

Author Notes

Simple and adorable, trying to create imagery opposing each other.
Indian Poets did a great job of poems like this.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 18 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11569677-We-will-take-our-fires...-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.TJvWEH­7g.dpuf

I am neither  the body, nor the mind that bridles it,
   the realization strikes, my moment of awakening
             the horse and the rider
  will submerge in the river at the limits.
          The consciousness , the storm petrel
   alone  would cross the limits of the 'sky of the mind'
           - painted by material world, through life time-
to super consciousness, beyond the bubble of universe,
        " the presence before the beginning", timeless
  where there are no two, "I am that"
        nothing but the primordial One

Love is a mask
                                                            ­                                      I
choose not to decipher who is behind
or what they're hiding, because I
                                                               ­                                   feel
like my heart will shatter if I find
anything out - if the trust will be lost
or if they'll break my heart, because
how can something so innocent turn
into something so dark? It is
                                                              ­                                    like
an angel waiting for your entrance
to heaven, only to laugh when they
see you
                                                                ­                                  falling
back down to hell.

We both lie in our beds
And we look towards the sky every night
And we see the same moon
Every night I imagine
That when I stare at the moon
You are staring at the same spot
That I do
So I can finally say
We see the same thing

Everyday
I look up at the clouds
And look for the shapes I can see
And I hope that you stop
And really look for the details
Because the way the clouds parted today
Reminded me of your eyes
And I thought you finally saw me

On a lonely night
when my moon
refused to show her face,
even after pleading
till my heart broke,
in to pieces of gold
and diamonds,
dedicated to her
all covered with love
dripping like drops of blood,
darkness forced me
to confess the love crimes
I never did commit
I thought it will set everything right
but in vein....

Wolves howled with
a mad glee to make me
nervous thinking that
you'll be frightened,
the owl, in silence
pretended to be all knowing
but not a wee bit
about the gravity of our love
registered in his mind,
hooted again and again
"She doesn't love you"
in a  voice reeking vengeance.

My love, I never thought
of a cup hemlock, a bodkin
or a flight to darkness
from the hill, we used to sit
heart beating against heart
when
          you
                  gave
                             me
the portion of your love
for the first time from your
trembling lips....................
I am enscorned in you
you are in my veins
immortal I am
I'll meet you in your abode,
even if you fail to keep your word
and don't turn up in our rendezvous.

the jasmine bush, whose
fragrant buds just bloomed
took me in her ***** and
wrapped me with her scent
of love, what a solace!

"Your love is immortal
never grieve, your true love,
never would perish, it would
stand the tests, however tough
she is always yours, you are hers
in this life and lives to come"

I slept like kid under the jasmine bush
like a kid in his mother's bed
she covered me with her tears
of falling flowers, till dawn appeared,
at last I saw my beloved in my dreams.

I miss you.

2. I miss you.

3. I miss you.

4. I spend two hours or maybe four wondering where you are and what exactly happened between us. I spend more time wondering about you then I do about the world.

5. I still miss you.

6. It's been over 68 days since I last saw your face, but it doesn't matter because I can still recall the way your lips felt, the way your hands touched me. I even remember the way your skin smells, I remember everything about you.

7. I read somewhere that you shouldn't beg someone to stay in your life. If they need to remove themselves allow them too. Perhaps there is more reason behind that fact than I come to justify in my own mind.

8. I think I fell in love with you.

9. I am in love with you.

10. I still miss you.

11. I still love you.

12. We were so bad for each other, but maybe love is a type of poison. One that we learn to endure.  

13. All of these are messages I wish I could send you.

14. Find happiness where ever you may be.

15. I'll still love you and I'll miss you dearly.

15. I'll be waiting for you.

The Canvas
(c)08-25-2012

A canvas sets on the edge of greatness and beauty, blank, waiting for the touch of the master’s hand. She takes charge of what is to be. Gentle strokes, broad strokes, strokes that caress the canvas… leaving the marks of imagination, transforming nothing into beauty. The image emerges revealing the thoughts and desires and power of the canvas. It is breath-taking to the beholder. She understands the difference between OK and great. Nothing will do but great. It must emulate the original. It must be the original! So it is with our canvas of life.

We start life as a blank canvas. Brush strokes are made by those around us as we begin to grow. Made by mom, dad, friend and strangers alike. All try to add their image to our canvas. An image of who they think we are. As we grow into the artist we strive to be, we accept or reject the strokes of others and create a portrait we strive to become.

Some strokes by others can leave an off color, covering who we really strive to be. A brush stroke that is not us can be covered by our touch, our color, our imagination of who we are, adding integrity to the texture and hue. Revealing an inner beauty as the artist of our life takes control, guiding our hand, adding the touches that transform the canvas from OK to great.

The Artist chooses the colors, the brushes from which she wants to define her life. The decisions are hers to make as she selects the shades of color, or even black and white, that will define her life. She paints a portrait of peace and joy, of self-less love for family and friends.. All else is unimportant. The things of past are covered. Today and tomorrow are forming a painting that will be great.

Letting the Master’s Hand guide our hand, we find freedom flowing freely onto and into our canvas. In doing His will in our life, we are set free. A freedom indescribable at times as we are lost to the distractions of the past. Caught up in the hope and love of today.

The Master guides our hand, willingly or even unwillingly at times in our artistic endeavor. As we learn to relax and give Him control of our hands, He reveals the beauty that is within us. It is great.

I have heard being an artist and painting described as being easy but living life as being difficult and unsure. Life can be described as a series of brush strokes, choices. Some can destroy the beauty intended for our canvas. Some strokes can create breath-taking beauty which radiates outward, inspiring the ones observing our portrait.

This was inspired by a young friend of mine, she left a few brush strokes on my life. They will not be painted over. They will be treasured, remembered for a long time to come.

When I look into a mirror, I want to see Jesus, the Creator of my portrait.

Mime me a river
Silver with salmon
Running forever
Clear, cold and free.

Mime me a mountain
High as Montana
Headwater's fountain
Top clad in snow.

Mime me a meadow
Lush green with lark
Holding clouds' shadows
Fast in her arms.

Mime me a time
When sweet sky was open
And slow moon could climb
Shine right through the breeze.

Mime me a river
Silver with salmon
Running forever
Clear, cold and free.

r ~ 5/28/14

I entered a church
Or perhaps it was a cathedral?
But it does not really matter,
Because its all the same to me.

I am not particularly religious,
But I believe in a God, and a Devil,
And Souls.

I like the stories,
And the smell of church candles and incense and hope and guilt mixed together
With the tantalising intoxicating feeling
Of having all your sins spilling out of your throat and every
Single part of you.

All is seen.

So looking at saints and windows and benches
And the colours that filter through and leap and dance
I sobbed.

Because I am scared
And because I have sinned
And because every moment I am thinking
Do I want what I have been given
Or am I ready to leave everything behind

In the search for divinity.