Flower of the spring to winters child
vibrant beyond her ever unfolding
horizons of sweet beauty blooming

There is color in the heart of winter
rainbows in the eyes of spring
and life is the character of summer
never sought and never seen

Love blooms on her branches
the seed of beauty, eyes abloom
lips of lilac, and kiss of wine
Intoxicating, cries of June
under lamplight and under moon

Silver are her rings, and auburn hair
dancing glimmers everywhere but here
yet closer, my heart is there
With her dawn of ecstasy in the hallow morn…
as the autumn wind or summer sun

When you build a fortress around your heart,
you not only make it harder for those who approach to enter,
but make it harder for exiles to find their exit.

In other words: the cage you build around your heart is a prison, not a sanctuary.

To the great brothers and great sisters of Her womb
To the great Mother and great Father, shifting through and through
Calling upon them for the great wisdom of our age
To bridge the gap between science and the sacred

This land has no boundaries, all conventions are made believe
and we are made to believe that politicians have our backs
while the preasts of a false language preach hypocracy to our faces
This is not our Shangrala, we have lost our grasp of Eden

Turning our garden into a guard, lost, we have turned a paradise
to a prison; old men casting aspersions of disrespect to a newborn,
blaming a victim of an obsolete tradition, casting salt onto the soil,
and calling it a blessing.

The prophets throughout the ages have seen a brighter world,
one that had, at its core, the truth; we are all one spirit, inhabiting these many forms.
This illusion of form and distance, made to be overcome, has illuded many, but not them;
They gave us the wisdom to escape the eternal womb of the mind,
and grow gracefully in the warmth of the Father Sun.

Trained to be beaten and broken, our new prophets have been beld and misled.
We call this machine, cold and calculating, Education; beaten and broken from the inside, our prophets are internally bleading: rose red ink on term papers with F wrote large!  

*******! The first words of resistance cries. I am my own authority,
I seek the truth, not your lies!
Tearing down the walls, and begining to tell a new story, we new prophets challenge "the way things are," because nothing is certain;
Our conscious evolution transcends to the stars, and starts in the grasses slowly showing their infinite patience and strangth, like a soft blade breaking the solid ground of traditions floor.

Be the evolution, brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers, be the change, and the change becomes you!

Agape and Appreciation

~M

Body of the shadow
slowly creeping out for dawn
to cover His light with ours gone

In the hours before dawn, they call us Leagion,
and we are many
cursed with the gift of eternity;
life dances above us, broken and alone.

We ear the sounds of lingering silence
drawn from the mouths of babes
sacraficed at the ashen altar;
to remind us: death comes for us all!

And it's all for you, my nightmare
Night Mare!  We ride the horizon of your iris,  
deep as the vacuum of space,
collecting this occular accuity
for a chance to inhabit our grace.

Creating a new poem is like creating a new story
a new paradigm from the depths of history's bowls
from a nightmare, we are to create a dreamscape
something that tantalizes the soul, and draws us near
to the greater perfection within ourselves... who knew?

Creating a new poem, much like a new society
has to start from within, and be drawn out somehow,
and some will be more inspired than others to invent
their own approach, to instill their own values,
to be critical enough to recognize what is most sacred

Creating a new poem demands the ability of the artist
to take hold of his or her feelings, thoughts, and intuit
the flow of consciousness in just the right cadence
remembering the song of ages that goes and flows

Being the poet that you are, your heart is stretched and open
yet you are afraid to be as the caged bird: freedom frightens you!
And in creating your new, new poem, you would be as angels
singing from the achrimony of the ages, singing light and dark
good and evil: but remember god and devil are just a letter off both ways.

Creating a new world is like creating a new poem: if you let go
and just do it, the miracle will wash away the banality of a bygone age
and the new **** will be born as a rose red flower in flames
before the technocratic temple of bright lights and *******

Create a new art, artists, poets, and those average ager's
be a revolution in the heart, an evolution in the swing,
bring first the arrogance, then the confidence of knowing:
you are the master who makes the grass green: the universe in your eyes
the solar flare in your step, and change this world from a prison
to a paradise!

Create your new poem, and singe it like a caged bird!
Give your language the power of princes, without the pomp
believe in yourself and let go of the awkward moment you had
with the love of your dreams last night; create your new life
and transform this new poem into a rally cry for the poet class!

What deliberate words--contrived symbols--convey
this withering dissatisfaction, this love lost and unrequited?
That I am too good to be loved,
too beautiful to be tainted by your narcissism,
too innocent to be scarred by relationship?
My heart dreams of a daily death,
ribbons of rose red, seeping into a skyline I recognize as my own face,
and it's beautiful impression makes my heart too true to be known,
too real to be understood,
and too lovely to be shared and passed over.

The power of the almighty surges through contact with a chemically induced innocence
drinking **** and alcohol, one sage experiences a heightened level of unity consciousness.

That quintessential flower
        resting between thy breast,
               crowned with thorns,
         silver, chalice cup of flames;
               the light within light,
         the spirit that remains;
              far from extinction
         the scarab of all ages
                    rises as the sun,
        and I the phoenix, just begun.

    These constellations, Orion's belt,
        and illuminated fractals in the sky;
       as iridescent clouds shift by
     The cold breeze, and that creaking tree,
         For I am the snow, and the stars; I am

  Everything that you are:

Why does it seem that the most beautiful things are the most fragile?
My glass heart must'ave been blown mere molecules thin
because as much as I thirst to be yolked from within
and find union with the soul of another just as agile

I am broken, shattered into pieces, every piece repaired in time.
And as selfish as all of this may seem,
there is nothing about me, I have committed no crime
in wishing that my life were held dear... a dream

I suppose I am asking too much from these droves
of human animals compelled to suffer and starve for meaning
Meanwhile I cry out of sanity for their suffering and mine, which proves
that there can be no sense in leaning:

Reliance on other leads to sorrow,
when I look to you, you see you, do you see me? I wonder
do you see me? I will be here tomorrow
to ask again and again, do you see me, or is that your blunder?

Were all just machines, bound for the train station that’ll hightail us out and over
To the junkyard where we never sleep and the foundry melts us down to make room
For the new undead, but non-living, to starve for what their computers say they need.
But when you smile, your eyes show me that you have a soul inside that’s beautiful,
And it proves my heart is something more than what the factory made it for;
That my love means something more than a series of chemical reactions in my brain,
That the mornings and nights we spent were worth more than we ever knew,
And that you are someone more special to me than I have ever known.

So, as we fly down the track of grayest metals and coldest weather, into the north country
To God knows where to as the sun is at dawn and dusk at the same time,
Remember that your heart doesn’t need to be held like coal, that your eyes are soulful,
That someone, somewhere thinks you’re more than a piece of electric meat,
That I think you’re worth more than my life,—my holy hunk of steel—but don’t let that
Get to your head missy! And that when we’re laid upon the cutting board
To be scraped and melted down, I want to be laid there next to you
To kiss you one more time, while I look into your eyes, searchingly.

We Lost,  
are children now—
though we aged quickly
to become loveless, depressed, and
sighing.

Lying
a moment next to you
incognizant, impressed, reminiscing,
forever Immature.

Simple, damp hair down,
resting on my face, loved;
true eyes emoting.

Calm cinnamon lips
kiss my heart, (beating inward)
my life, to die slow.  

Gentle
is the lover
who dies to spring more love
and kiss soft upon the shoulder.

Riding in that car beside my father so,
Windows shut, a silent-glide,
The pond below
Was fingered up—and mirror glow--
And out, to the black-purple sky.

Hanging was an orange slice jewel  
Shimmering like an opened furnace
--A door to hell, but only creaked—
I even saw a daemon eye,
Scowling for my left and yonder sins.

I’d have plucked its cat’s-eye color from the sky,
But by god, I tried, and tried and failed.

A portrait of the pain:
   Endless time and sorrow in the soul
            Evoked. The arid vein
   Of blood that wanders wax and wane.
  
           Aimless feet and eyes
     Pursuing air, in breathless love,
          Seeing not of aching lies
     Of longing hearts that now reprise.

           As arrows, seeking not the mark,
            nor the pleasure or the pain
           instead the hour when we embark
    to discover love in vain.

I am not my self,
And nothing is as it is.
Everything is nameless, blameless.
Truth is perceived thoughtlessly;
I ignore them.

There, in truth, is no language to make simple
the complex.
Reality is truth.
Experience is now.
  Everything is now.

Beauty is a symptom of rarity.
Everything is relatively rare.
Everything is relative.
Time, now, exists as a singularity.
Love, now, is life.
  
“I’m sorry.”

Nothing is incomprehensible.
Everything is incomprehensible.
I am incomprehensible.
You are incomprehensible.
Love is accepting anyway. Love is life.  

“I love everyone.”

But you do not understand me.
You are more understandable to you.
Make me more like you, your Desires!
You love falsely.
I’m sorry. I love everyone.

An arid desert
hanging tear-like in the eye
of an unborn child.

Pouring, the bucket
splashes gifts upon the rich
leaving slaves to starve.

Waking, a dreamer
from lands untouched and unknown;
he sees the madness.

Honey wine sups serpentine,
Sweetness blended from your mouth,
drips droopily from lips to feet,
from eyes to meet eyes and lips to lips

This heady mixture's supple spirits Electrifying,
Your hand’s soft skin flows sparks and light
and prismatic auras like a thousand butterflies
From smiling eyes, and soft soul lightening skin
Embrace my hearts subtle ecstasies  

Behind the cornucopia of your apparition
Beyond the vague attempts to charge  
Distracted by a thousand butterflies, wings a flutter
Smashed off honey-wines that flow from your lips
Yet all the more I focus on that silence in your breast  

Without a season, without a compass, without a question  
The first thought when I wake
That last before I sleep

In culinary art, honey is my medium and my muse,
And two orange slices compose two butterfly wings.
Every piece I make is eaten
With equal joy as a painting brings.

My canvas is rose red with strands of white  
And when I paint, I use the spices:
Turmeric, oregano, chili, and old bay.
I use them on a salmon caught by a friend yesterday.

Detached, our distant smiles seem for another,
for another dream that might insist upon one happiness,
joined in the winter by a fine fire of our hearts content;

Upon this earth, we are but slaves to love:
to give and to be received, to take and to be taken.
My heart yearns for the in between, and yet for the extreme...

To be eviscerated by the spinning flame and scattered by the wind,
to feel the torrents of a thousand wounds, and to taste blood and sulfur on my tongue
and yet still compelled to love, though selflessly compelled.  

Silent bonds to lap at the nectar of your heart
lull me deeper, deeper, into the altar of your mystery,
showing the distance between us; the cold and heat are but a dream
to be accepted, learned, and in learning lost.  

I have sung songs for you, on the triad steps you stand,
Perfect in the eyes of men, and in me a seraph, yet my impatience climbs those steps,
grasping at the subtlety of your stares.

For you I would stand alone, watching without a care,
wondering, and wandering the earth, lying with some woman, deaf to her heart
that beats like yours, and only yours

Simple condemnation breathes into my neck,
through my lungs, and from my breast
curled into the center, emanating vibrant
warmth of the hidden fire consolation from my face;

I know that you are the mystic heart,
sent to consent my transcendental start  
in life as in death, and in death as in pre-life
to discover the mystery of our mystery.

In this dark chamber, I am brilliant and cold,
vibrantly awaiting the moment when I'm told
that there is no reason, to be worried, to be scared,
that time has met its end, and space has been prepared;
for freedom dangles at the doorstep, a wedge of mistletoe
waiting, perfectly opposing, for our eyes to meet and know
that love is beyond the darkness of self and season,
beyond the charms that mock the right of reason,
and beyond the tides that bring forth treasures-
from lands beyond effulgent minds and measures.  


In this dark chamber, the world is but a mystery
unfolding before the eyes of dawn, and misery,
pretend victim of the thorns of love and life
stands as a messenger of the sacred knife,
to sacrifice the comfort of this ****** confines
and transcend into the heart, the center where he finds
the truth, the sun, the mystic heart, and yields
standing humble, arrogant, in Elysian fields
beyond imagination, beyond the darkness held,
a world beyond the mystery, where everything has meld.

Cans of fresh Bear, stockings of the last line: arctic affair;
blue, white, a hint of green and grey.
  Marbles rolling off cool ice infinity.
Fellows, the pillows petals fall as marshmallows to our ******* mouths;
devotion to the holy ****
the holy sacrament:
arctic affair...