I am not a poet
But when thoughts, like rain,
Drench me in my solitude,
Words, they flow like a stream.
I am not a poet
But how can I see
The simpler joys of life,
And not create a song to be sung.
I am not a poet,
Nor an artist.
I am myself,
And you are my masterpiece.
I am not a poet,
If you are not the dream.
If I am a poet,
*Then you are what sets these pages on fire.

It was like a
nuclear explosion
the day vision
caught fire,  
atoms were fusing
  and reverberating
titillated skies were
  in accordance,
the force of power
    by which poetry
       is reckoned,
eyes full of mist
heart ground to grist
at least 1000 lonely
   teardrops kissed
mind overflowing
with notions impossible
then it occurred to me,
   words are unstoppable -
irrepressible as
  hot steam locomotives
   and star combustion,
  waging a crusade 'pon
fire breathing dragons
'tween undulating cloudbursts
       of empyrean's ' stardust
amidst the conformation
       of an unrestrained utopia

May I...
      trace the lines
                on your face?
                    and read what's written
                           in your palms.
                                  I want to know
                                            If I'm a part of
                                  your future
                 and if such a fate is
written in the stars.
            I wish I could know,
                    what to do with every
                                 freckle on your skin
                                            May I connect each fleck
                           to the ones on my arms?
               near my heart,
I'd create a galaxy
            of lovely stars
                        and new worlds
                                        for us to see
                                          and I'd know it'd be so
                                                                heavenly...
                                                 so may I take
                                your hand in my own
                   and let our tapestries
collide for all time.

Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day,
Myriad summer colours of an abstract view,
Curling up between and under the far away.

I’m lost in the mix, a melting *** full of play,
My own shade of Dark, a subtle blended hue,
Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day.

Beautiful retro splendour, asking me to stay,
Flower in her hair, white petals, edged blue,
Curling up between and under the far away.

Smiling, she raises my soul from feet of clay,
Dark and Stormy cocktail easing me through,
Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day.

Cuban rhythm dancers give a riotous display,
Bohemian sight and sound unleashed on cue,
Curling up between and under the far away.

We sample dreams from an enchanted tray,
Allowing hearts, minds, and spirits to renew,
Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day,
Curling up between and under the far away.

©Paul M Chafer 2015

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.

I ate all the stars last night
every single one
Then I had a comet cone for dessert
Now I have starburn
and I'm burping up rays of light
that sunburn my throat

The comet cone was too sugary
So I let it spew away
Now I have to learn
all the new constellations
And of course
it's all Confucius

Path #1

Forgiveness is the sinking
head into heart..
The head dwelling in separation
concedes logic's demands
but confronting questions
time after time:
Why? and What?
Surrendering at last
to the sinking..
dissolving..
becoming..
the Heart...


Path #2

Forgiveness is downloading
of new software..
Our old software
employs the ego rampant
rendering forgiveness
a difficult dream
searching in forlorn places
finding only traces..
New software finds it all
Here and Now...!


Path #3

Real forgiveness is Now
not in time..
Events in the past
seeming in need of
forgiveness
are only known
Now..
and what of the Now..?
it's other name
our true identity:
Forgiveness...



Path #4

Chaos
is an iteration
of Forgiveness..
a shading and
concealment of
formulated light..
Our awaking brings
the repentance
the return
the feedback
to never absent
Forgiveness...


Path #5

A shock it is
to learn that
Forgiveness is not personal..
It is a realization
of a substance common
to all concerned
transparent and eternal
the real Self..
With that realization
duality of conflict
dissolves in the
Light...


Path #6

Quantum forgiveness
is the only
forgiveness..
A leap into
infinite non-locality..
The suddenness arrives
within painful progress
or perhaps
strangely enough
out of the blue...!


Path #7

Forgiveness
an experience of sealing
our separate brokenness..
It is mandatory..
Yet the sealing
can be accomplished
only by those who see
there is no need
for the sealing...


Path # 8

Immersed
in a separated
dualistic reality
seeking forgiveness
in thought and time
is not satisfying..
The lingering pain
from a fruitless search
for forgiveness in
all the wrong places...


Path #9

Forgiveness
is a restoration of
peace and happiness
with new clarity:
The Awareness of
peace and happiness
was never in need of
restoration...


Path #10

We need to see clearly
that all relationships
take place in
infinite Awareness..
But wait..
not in .. but as..
All those hurts
are constrictions
of Awareness
crying out their
illusory separation...