Breathtaking beauties, they all are..

Ha.. but They'll cut your ******'  heart out
if you ever turn to face them

Yet even with this  slice-n' diced
brokendown, blood-pump
I can still.. so very much, swear

that every single one of those gorgeous
little sunsabitches, 

    were sent, directly  to me
    by the very hand of God

There is the core of who it is that you are..
inside of you,  my beautiful ανάσταση

                           and it will never, ever leave you.

When we are hurt real bad..  and in such unjust ways,
we can sometimes lose ourselves--

                                          from ourselves..

But that part of us will never  not
                           want to be found.

We become afraid because the pain from the hurt
has been so bad.

There is a central part of you  that has been protected  
from every bit of that harm--

                                      that is the core  
                of  who  it  is  that  you  are.

    I­n its utter and magnificent beauty,
    it is wholly  unable to be corrupted
              by this less than loving world..

And in it's perfect ability  to see,

       it will always let you be the chosen one
                                                     to find it.


This is the picture painted,

             of you,
                finding you.

You are beautiful forever--

the core of who you are..
still  wholly uncorrupted,
is made in the very image of God--

It is intertwined with your flesh
so that your flesh may become healed.

But your flesh is immersed in
the stupidity, placed there by others,  not you.
But you are the one that still  chooses
to believe its ******-up message--

The one that says   it will not work
or that   it's all too much
or that   no one cares, anyways

or that  you are not worthy
             of the magic that is in you.

The relational part of your own  healing
that already exists  within you
will come to you from those
who love you enough
to want to tell you the truth--

That the message your traumatized flesh, carries
is nowhere near the truth,  but instead
is immersed inside of the lie.
I tell you the truth, in response to your
acknowledgement of my faith in you
and you respond by treating me as if
you have no value for me whatsoever.

What tells you inside of yourself
to respond that way?

So, I make a play for you again,
not to make you mine..

  but to remind you of who you truly are.

All of the healing you will ever need
is already inside of you..  through the
Image-bearing nature  of the very core
of who you are.  Its deep ache  to permeate
your broken flesh  is held at bay
by Love's beautiful choice to  yield
to your own freedom of autonomy

Because love, without freedom
is not love at all--

but only control.. with a smile.

I weather your storms
because not even your own  lack of
believing in yourself  will ever
stop  me from believing in you.

--And yes.. you are at times difficult--
sometimes to such a degree,  that the dream
you actually are to me..  at those times

can feel to me as if instead,
like a bad nightmare..

But that is only the stupidity, of your flesh
and your own temporary stupidity  of actually
believing  that,  in itself..   as if  to be life..

 and as if  to be you.

You are my beautiful,  forever
that will never, ever  change.
One day  you will see, beautiful girl.

I know that one day,  you will see

Along the priarielands--
rolling hills   previously
  roamed 
by wild buffalo.

Grouse
sage hens
prairie chickens
pheasant
hungarian partridge

     and now you--

You, in that pretty, flowing
summer dress- walking that
line.. between planted field
and wild prairiegrass

    and not a blade is broken.

Wind-- moving the grass and
nearly-ripened crops like
slow rolling waves 
        out on the sea.

Me.. watching you
      move.. just watching you-- move..
along that line between
beautifully-planted
and natural.. 

   and moving with understanding;

   flowing--
   ever-growing

   knowing.. sweetly knowing
   that there's a glowing
   from what you are showing--  me;

   Not a blade of grass or crop is
   ever harmed by your movements
      instead.. like me, they thrive--

      leaning into you 
      whenever you are near.
             .       .       .

      I am the grass
      the blade
      the crop-- ready for harvest
      the bison
      and the upland bird

      the forever wave hello
      of the tall grass of the prairie.

      And you are as much a
      part of it all
      as you are  of me.

      Like the native grass
      and the native Lakota
         that have  both
      always  known its ways..

      you were always meant to be here.

I don't want to be   p u l l e d
in  to  your  world..

My hope is to  become  able
to lift you out of  your world
    until you find your  
                   true,  own..

  Instead of the one  you
  have  fallen  in to

That which is of the heart,  capable
of making its stand  in the world
  calling "good", that which it sees  as good..
and then bleeding  from the inside
on its behalf;

  This beautiful Art..

This magnificent creature
This one who  is capable
of raising from the dead
    That, which has fallen:

In to despair
In to the Blackness of the pit--

  An un-supported suffering
  An Un-loved, grieving
A fallen-one
falling between the cracks

--Until,  with a Kiss
and a hand-chosen
prairieflower,  gifted--
Bringing,  back to life
all things..  once, dead

in the heart of a little boy
in the heart of a little boy..

The Life-giving embers..
stoking the hearth-fire,  heart
in you  that had nearly gone out,
is nothing less that the deep
gentle,  Loving-kindness
of the Wellspring's  warm flow.

Love  feels, more than it sees..
but when one truly sees, beautiful girl--
as you so well at times know..

the view is utterly breathtaking.

You are learning how  
to breathe  the beautiful, free air.
Grace does that.


You are the most incredible of spokespersons, love...
Your very voice-tones..

You've made yourself  miniscule ..

in order to fit in to my Bloodstream
You are unsure..  not knowing

That there is a  chamber  within me
that has been carved out   solely

     for you--

The warmth of blood-flow,  caressing;
Bathing,  the you that feels you can't..

  That feels  there isn't..

That believes  there can never be
  A Home such as this--

       .. for you ;;
Residing, in the central part
    of me.

Alone  in the  chamber
  of your room..
You can't understand  why

things are different,  now;
..Why  everything you do

and everything  you say

   Feels so incredibly,,

   Incredibly  Warm

When Love's scalpel  comes
towards my beautiful Gloria--

  she leans in to it

What is it that makes  this one
  believe
at such a tremendous  cost
to to herself

and yet, so many others
turn and run..
turn and hide?

I was built-- from the ground,  up
to help  hold ones
such as yourself,  up

as the bright   healing light  
of loves ache

dismantles  the intricacies  of our
once-necessary, life-built  
war machines..

yes, my beauty--
down to the very  core

of  your  foundation,
where you can finally  
have the chance

     to become  rebuilt:

from the ground's  true bedrock,
up

Let me get this out..


Every night, I would tell you goodnight
And that in the morning,
the sun would rise again..

   making all things, new.

I wanted those first rays  of light
to find you, still alive
You were so very much  hanging
by a thread  back then.

I am a strange, strange  man
as if you didn't already know,

But I have been gifted  with the ability
to truly save you

   (And you know it,  
   through.. and through.)

If you die..  I will take it on
as solely, my blame--
for not pushing you  harder
with everything I know,  Love can do..

It will make you hate me
as it saves  the precious life, in you.

She's gone

And all the years
of holding in
Of denying  my truth
in order to protect her
from-

     the truth ..

Of the horrors that she has done
Of the horrors
they both have done.

They are both gone now
No longer inhabitants
of this earth
No longer here
to bring the risk
of making little
what it was
that was not so very little

Even if they owned it
who could find the words?
There are not words
to describe the horrors

Are there left  enough years
to make up for the ones
the locusts have eaten?


    There  are no words
    to ever be able  to describe

    just  how  much  
    the locusts have eaten

PaulSN

She moved towards me
with an  unparalleled
Grace;
and in doing so,
poured Living water  over
an ancient, Jezebelian wound--
  still bleeding;
  cut-- deeply

across  my battle-scarred chest.

And,
in a timeless,  ancient world;
the healing she brought  to me
b e c a m e
a healing  for all mankind--
  in,
and through
the healing of woman-kind;

as she   b r e a t h e d   out to me
   a kiss,
along the edge of
a faint scar-line;

the one  that
just above my hip--
gave hint..

of a missing rib.

I wrote that to you..

from the waiting room of my eye doctor
but I didn't know it sent. I was grinding on my jeep Sunday
and got a piece of metal in my eye the size of a farm tractor,

    but all is well after this second visit  👀

A couple of reasons for the multiple accounts..
Originally started as my way of satiring the many people
on the site that use multiple accounts to put likes and
comments on their own work in order to make it trend..
or even make the 'daily'..
or to stroke themselves  with compliments
so horrendously..  uh, dishonestly.
But me being the battle-hardened, ******* nonconform
that I am, the first time I commented on my own piece,
my own account made fun of myself
to such a degree..
   it ended up in a fistfight--
But it was me..  just ******* up
the whole trolling process.
I always tell the ones that I care
about  who all is 'me'.
I also phase popular ones of mine  out  
      and replace them with new ones  
          if that one is getting too noticed on the site.

That way I don't garner too many followers, which I believe
quenches one's freedom that is lost within the  obligatory
'give and take' mindset that is a cancer  on this
and so many other online writing sites.

Vogel started talking to you when I was no longer
scared of how quickly you got in with me.
I talk like crazy when someone like you gets in to the inner-core
of me so easily..  just by being the way that you are.
The babbling provides a canopy of structure..  Love's structure.
Strange, I know..  but I don't like being scared.
Its a boundary-thing..
and there is so little about ones like you
that even remotely slows down
the process of getting in..

and   I'm-a..  uh..
"I'm a loner, Dottie.. a rebel.."
~Peewee Herman

yeah.. that.

The accounts keep me safe from the
general public  by bringing
pieces of me out, relationally onto the screen  as a way of
providing for myself, the warm cover of love's structure--

   me..  with me.
All so very strange sounding, I'm sure.

I really enjoy watching you, kid.
I'm so sorry for bombing you with all those wordy messages
when we met. Your unique heart, mind, and spirit
are everything perfect in my eyes..  yes..  even with all of your
current broken,  fragmented pieces.
You were recently maybe under some form of a psyche-hold,
which is probably where the psyche eval came from.
Some in the mental health field care deeply..  many are just
going through the motions-- originally thinking it was
for them, and then finding out what the true cost
of love really is,  before slinking back into a foot-shuffling
process..   even as psychologists,  
and often  even medical psychiatrists (prescribers)--

    Who love to find a name for things so they can 'expertly'
    enter into relationship with what now has a name,
    rather than the deeply-hurting person.

Everybody wants the ****, beautiful-voiced girl who stands
a very good chance of making her mark so well in this world.
I would trade access to the 'best' part of it all with you,  
just to have the chance to be with you,  for even 5 minutes  
on that **** and tear-soaked, psyche room floor.

That is where I want to be.

My multiple "friends" keep me free..
unencumbered..  deeply-loved..
  .. ready.  
Broken-down, and pitch-black within the darkness of all its
despair. That is where it is that I would trade all things for,
    in order to be..
with you..  deep in to the very   r e a l   of  it  all..
if you ever fell down that temporarily far.

Everything I do is for that moment.  
My "friends" give me strength.  They believe in me
because I so deeply believe in my loved self.

       Hence, the ability to go anywhere
       you may one day have to go.


       Sorry, kid.. but you asked.

Selmhem Naise

Remember the movie
"Terminator"--
the first one?
Sarah was being hunted
and Kyle was sent back
in time
to protect her from
the machine-made Terminator

  whose only purpose in life was to end hers.

How was he to know that
when he entered into her world;
    he was going to fall so deeply?
And without his entrance
into her life--  he
would have no reason
to come across time for her--
the fruit of their love
would have never been born--

the very reason
for the very reason  of the killer's mission.

To try to figure out
and understand
where this perpetual cycle
of love began,  would
bog the mind--

      all that can be done
      is acceptance
      or rejection
           of that love.


      Yeah, but what a love it was--
      Kyle came across time for her.

Would that I could gather your houses into my hand,
and like a sower scatter them in forest and meadow.
Would the valleys were your streets,
and the green paths your alleys,
that you might seek one another through vineyards,
and come with the fragrance of the earth in your garments.

But these things are not yet to be.

In their fear your forefathers gathered you too near together.
And that fear shall endure a little longer.
A little longer shall your city walls separate  your hearths
from your fields.

And tell me, people of OrphaIese, what have you in these houses?
And what is it you guard with fastened doors?
Have you peace, the quiet urge that reveals your power?
Have you remembrances..
the glimmering arches that span the summits of the mind?
Have you beauty, that leads the heart from things
fashioned of wood and stone to the holy mountain?
Tell me, have you these in your houses?
Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort,
that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest,

..and then becomes a host and then a master?

Ay, and it becomes a tamer,
and with hook and scourge makes puppets of your larger desires.
Though its hands are silken, its heart is of iron.
It lulls you to sleep
only to stand by your bed and jeer at the dignity of the flesh.
It makes mock of your sound senses,
and lays them in thistledown like fragile vessels.
Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul,
and then walks grinning in the funeral.

But you, children of space, you restless in rest,
you shall not be trapped nor tamed.
Your house shall be not an anchor but a mast.
It shall not be a glistening film that covers a wound,
but an eyelid that guards the eye.

You shall not fold your wings that you may pass through doors,
nor bend your heads that they strike not against a ceiling,
nor fear to breathe  lest walls should crack and fall down.
You shall not dwell in tombs made by the dead for the living.
And though of magnificence and splendor,
your house shall not hold your secret nor shelter your longing.

For that which is boundless in you
abides in the mansion of the sky, whose door is the morning mist,
and whose windows are the songs and the silences of night.

~ Khalil Gibran

From the sodden, trundled forest floor the trees reached higher
than he ever imagined possible-- pine needles from the conif,
blending in  perfectly with those, broadleaf.. a strange, almost
absurd-feeling; symmetry- in a world, nothing more than
cluttered and confused--
           in the eyes of a small-one, now subject..

And now as a grown man,
I return to the disenchanted forest..
       in order to bring enchantment.
At the edge of the rustic, one-room
cabin, I pause..
choosing to peer in, rather than enter--
my world-hardened hands,  now pressed against
cracked window glass--

opaque, but still..

           I can see..

Inside the small room is as if a cosmo to itself-- there is a large
ring of dark water, surrounding what
seems to me to be a small island,
     yet still, I can feel her..  
           sense her glow..
And magnificent   within
her solitude and silence..
she is strong,
and firm-- her war-torn heart, gathered and secure..
all boundaries, seemingly intact--
        but there is a teeming..
        a never-ending movement
        of some form of life-

..in what I had once thought a ring of dark water,
but can now see as if some kind of a fear-hewn moat..
and the movement within, none other than that
           of those trying to reach her.

She is the prize,
pulled away from the threat of harm
       by her intricately created world.

And there is this black movement above her..    what is that?  
Moving in rhythmic synchronization..
             like a flock of starlings maybe..
The wings that give them flight, are bat-like and sharp..
and only varying sections at a time  of the flock's movement
alight on to her..
as other ones take flight and rejoin the ever-moving,
          ever-shifting flock's shape..

..and as each changing of the guard takes place,
the inhabitants of the moat change color--  

the light, now reflecting through the small window
and bringing a matching glow to my arm..

And though I remain unaffected by the color of light,
I see the whole nature of the moat, conform to each color's change..

And it is then that I realize
that the birds  are the pieces of her fragmented heart,
and the changing colors,  her perceived reality..
based on whatever portions of her heart are inside of her
at any given time.

The moat provides the distance,
yet one without its inhabitants even knowing
they are in it--

changing color in order to fit in to
              her ever-changing reality.


I will never enter into the moat..
and the color change is hers, not mine.
I am more distant to her now
than even those, of the moat..
and my refusal to change color
will always be a point of contention--
but for her, I am the only one who sees,
I am the only one who knows

about the island, the starlings.. the moat.

She loves me so much,
she hates me.

My prayer for her is that one day,
that whole flock of starlings will alight on to her..
      and never, ever leave.

Maybe on that day also, her moat filled with
Mona Lisas and Madhatters,  will finally, dry up..

and that her color perception  
will become  the colors that truly are,
            rather than those, of her ever-changing, shift


A disenchanted forest--  enchanted, once again.

Darkness...

As she once again
slips back into herself--
down beneath the ocean's,
tumbling waves.

I am yapping alot..
about things..
those pertaining to Life--

about things that make us well
about things that make us un-well.

About a world
that acts so much  like
it cares.

She withers..
within her heart's  need  to Love
within a much less  than loving,
world

My beautiful has slipped under,
but only for a little while
or maybe  a couple of those whiles
if necessary

She is re-grouping..
           re-charging..

Often,  just very barely  
holding on

.    .    .    

I will wait here,   Believing..
that within the Universe's
deep Love for her,
there will be a re-gathering

Leading back
to the most beautiful,  

   of gatherings.

"From the days of John the Baptist until now,
the kingdom of heaven has been advancing forcefully..
and the violent, seize it by force."
--Jebs


ahem..

By 'his scrawny little neck' she grabs him
and  pulls  Him,  from  his  Throne--
"******' know it all..  he don't know ****.."
    blurts out  she--

    the all-seeing,  ever defining one.

The paint on her war-brush
is the blackest of blacks..
     as she  brands  me

     for  the  o r b it i ng,  of her
     that  I  so clearly  lack

And an ability that is all hers,
       not mine--
      The one, self-given..
      the  power  to define.

And, she wonders where mine came from;
me-- who was once a mother's son..
As I  ******  the grown-up  a l l  of me
in to every unhealed part  of her
      that  f e e l s   just like 
      dear-old Mom.

I was young once, my beautiful..
helplessly.. (almost hopelessly)  
subject,  to it all
        --but no more,   my sweet
          ever-painting,  honeybee

That black, babe-- it don't stick..
                        no,   not no more.


Ah, Baby..
   ...   can you hear me..?

Stephan W

The key turns,
and each tumbler falls into its
pre-honed slot

There is an infinite magic
in  her world of words--
her heart finds them
through special agreement,

as the door opens wide;  no
resistance at the hinge,
and it is at that very moment  that she
  gives
everything that she has.

Her relationship with eternity--  it
calls me to her.
I want to be near her--

    be her friend..

And with both hands,  brazenly
touch the hem of her garment--
slide  it  off  of  her;

      share..   in the eternal.

  Love, taken in.. on the inside--

Deep into the tummy
makes all things possible.
You are now feeling the dream.
You know very well,  within
your unlied-to  core,

  that you are more than enough.

It is your gorgeous flesh
that still carries  within you
the residual, dark shame
of the (unfairly placed into you),  lie.

You are enough to be the dream
within someone's fullness of dreams..

Mine.  You are beautiful.

Selmhem Naise


She stands at its edge
looking back

looking into.

Who is ‘unafraid’ enough
to come near the edge;
Her searching eyes ask
as she looks back.

You see you, girl—
through my eyes
as I see how alone you are
There..
at the edge of it.

I am you also—
standing at the edge.
Wondering.

Is there enough
love in this world
to swallow up  this fear?
Apparently there is

tho often
only seen
clearest

    from the edge.

(note~ This is a rather lengthy story about trauma and brokenness..)

I have a patch of skin on the back of my left hand, indiscernible to the
human eye as being any different than any other part of my skin.
It is my heart of hearts.

Five days a week I am not with my little ones.. there is a place I go.
A broken one awaits me there; Unknowingly. On 'day one' of my
non daddy-time, I go where the longing of my heart leads me.
When I am not with them.

There is a vertical shaft-- hidden in the tumbleweeds at the base of the
mountain's foothills that leads down beneath the surface. There are
rusted rebar steps in the shape of hoops, embedded into the hardened dirt
and rock of the shaft that gives me access to what lies down below.
With each ten steps, the shaft becomes noticeably darker. After thirty
steps, there becomes a pungent smell in the air that begins to cover my
skin, and a dank mist that enters my lungs and begins to coat the
inside of my skin. As I continue to descend down-- all becomes covered--
everything.. but the 4 inch square patch on my left hand.

There is a foul 'burning' in the permeating mist that wants to place a
film over my eyes and cause them to water, but as I descend I grow a
new pair of eyes over the top of my old ones, and though it is nearly
pitch black now and the pungency completely fills the air;
I can see.
Faintly, but I can see.

Directly at the bottom of the shaft is a room barely lit by what little
light has made it down the shaft through the mold and musty mist.
I get a strong sense that this room is the antechamber. Dirt and rock
line the walls as if they had been there since the ancient days. There is
also a black mold and an unavoidable saturation of the wall. There are
two doors in the wall, but I sense that both lead to the same room, so I
take the door on the right and slowly enter into a windowless and
nearly pitch black room-- old and partially torn up asbestos-tar tiled
floor-- filthy ***** with strewn about rags and used up things. The
pungent mist would be completely overwhelming had I not already
been fully permeated in it and received the new set of eyes in order to
be protected from its permeation and also to be able to see through the
darkness and wet, fine dust that floats throughout the air.

On the walls, there is a saturation to such a degree that it almost moves,
and there is a permeation of mold throughout. Mold on the walls, floor,
ceiling-- everything permeated in the mold.. and whatever it is that has
saturated everything. I have now entered so far into the room that all I
can see is shadows.  It has become that dark.
There is a sense of movement.
It is large-- behemoth even, methodically slow in it's self caught-up world.
It is perpetrator. Abuser-- And it only knows one thing--
destruction of anything of life for its own gain.  It cannot see me
because I am permeated in the foulness of its own perpetual emission--
The walls.. they are *** soaked. The air is filled with an ever-evaporating
mist of pungency. The only life form attached to it is mold, a fungus
which covers every square inch of floor, wall and ceiling.
I am not afraid, because I know that what I want is in the room also--
and I know that the only thing perpetrator can see is what hasn't been
permeated by the filth-- and so as I move.. remembering to place my
right hand over the back side of my left--
covering the only part of me that is not his.

Protected by the fact that I have become permeated in and with the
outcome of his abusing ways, I am hidden from all that he is,
as long as I keep that part of me covered.
I begin to move slowly around the room knowing that I cannot be seen,
but needing also to make not an ounce of sound. I am looking-- searching.
In the corner is a small discarded pile of ***** rags, and there my
eyes focus as I slowly move towards it. Perpetrator has begun to
shuffle off towards another smaller room that I have just begun to
become aware of. I head towards the small pile of rags.
I can feel him-- someone else in the room. The one I came for.

I move towards the rags on the floor there in the corner of the room
and I can see him-- just a part of his hand sticking out from underneath
the pile of rags; he is face down. All my focus is on him now, as I kneel
down next to him and sit alongside him-- pulling the rags off of his
head, revealing the side of his face. He is face down with eyes closed,
barely breathing-- barely a pulse.. only kept alive by the perpetrator to
serve his purpose. I am with him now and his brokenness takes over
me. I cannot touch him with any part of the permeated filth.

I reach out with the unaffected four inches of skin on the back side of my
hand, and touch it to his face. There's a slight movement, but he
remains face down. He's just a little boy, but because of the horrors
he was subjected to, I knew not to try to move him--
the trauma of just the slightest movement would **** him.
And if I were to look directly into his eyes, the light I had brought into
his broken, dark world, would have burned the back of his retinas and
ended what little pulse and breathing he had remaining. This is where I
want to be, even if the only thing that I can do just let him feel the
warmth and cleanness of my skin through the back of my hand against
his face.

I feel him quietly breathing it in.
He never opens his eyes-
face down still-- pain.
It takes all the energy he has;
just to survive.. to breathe.

And outside of the warmth of my hand, I know
that he may never again have the chance
to see the light of day--
he is broken, abandoned.

This is where I want to be.. but to be near the broken-one of my heart, I
have had to wear the 'full outcome' of perpetrator, and know full well
through what I have learned when young that I'm putting myself at risk--
of forever being banished to hell for what I have 'chosen to wear'.
I will stay with the broken one wherever that may be. This is where
my heart is most at home (the times I'm not with my little ones).
If heaven doesn't want to let me.. or the broken one in,
then I don't want to be there.
I will stay here with him, and if hell is his final resting place..
then it will be mine also--
perpetrator cannot see me here-- destructor will not see me there,
and I will sit with broken-one forever.

But for now I must return at the end of the five days-- climbing once
again back up the shaft and receiving the washing that happens once
daily life sees the four inch patch-- I am clean again in order to play
with and love my little ones.. holding them and protecting them from
the daylight-perpetrators as best as I can.. and as I love them and look into
them, I look into the broken one also. He is with me in my heart even
then. I will be with him again soon and also once again with my little ones.
    I am both.
They will grow up and become responsible loving adults with children
of their own. Broken one will always remain young and broken.
I will remain with him forever--come hell or high water.
He is me.. and every broken-one who has ever had to suffer alone.
It is with the broken ones that I will always want to be.

I live within the four square inches of my skin.

They don't exist yet,  you know--

the words' Babe..   the words..
At least..  not here on Earth   yet,
  they don't.

They are hurting--
the broken-ones  
that you love so deeply

And  the ones  
such as yourself--   chosen
to bring them the Message,

are broken too.

In fact, it is within your brokenness
that pieces of the Message  
                are made perfect--  
You

who were  so unjustly treated
at such a tender  young age..

You have Chris's  presence
and Chester's,  fragmented heart
You.. who are the New-Light's  flame..

     Sent down..  for us,
     to overcome
     this  ****** up, Death-sting.
.

Within you, 
will be  the New Unfolding
    And from you,  will come
    the words Chester and Chris only knew,

                                             on the other side  
                            of their devastating  choice.

There is a stream
  in our theme,
a  river that flows through us--
that stream is us.

In the stream, whose name is
"All it is that We Are",
there  is a continuity--  
a common ground  
in  everything that the
    stream contains;

    it is ours,
    our substance-- our essence.
    .   .

Place your hand
into your stream
and feel
    who it is that you are,
and know that as you do,
every part    of
what it is that  m o i s t e n s
your arm  

    is that which is of you..
        you are   t a n g i b le.

The stream is yours--
    who.  you.  are.  
ever-flowing, yet tangibly  felt
at any given time.

This stream, also aptly named
"Substance of Being"--    from
beginning to end  contains
    within it
    all of what it is that is yours--

      and yours alone.
      .   .   .    

Jump, beautiful one--
right smack dab  into
the middle of it, and
feel yourself  in its entirety--

        beginning to end,

    yet,
with no beginning that can be seen
and no end.. save the vast sea--  
the  beautiful final destination  
  of all streams.

    .   .   .   .  

  Feel yourself flow in it
  and know it is you--

  bank to bank;
    the stream is you.

Selmhem Naise

Ive been thinking--
and theres
     something
I just cant  shake off

its your eyes
    they give you away
  and its your very own  smile
    that they betray

They carry in them
  a cry
in almost  every
picture of you I see

    Your smile is genuine
    but your eyes dont agree
    
    .. and you have  no
    idea   what it is doing to me

I picture your life
    happy
with a fullness
of its own

So why do my  eyes
well up with tears
when I look into  those
beautiful spheres of yours?

Im not such a fool
to think its about me
but the pull  I feel  to
hold you close--

why cant I let that go?

For your sake I  try
to keep it all to myself, now

as I glance up and
smile at you--

   truth-hidden  behind
   cheap sunglasses

Huddled..
now, befuddled
tell me  once again

why any-one  would
want  to  return here?

And what did a child do
that was so wonderful
as to be brought back  

into a world,  so cruel..
so horribly  inhumane?

Oh, but let me believe in it
let me embrace the thought
of returning  again

and again
and again

to subject my own
young, tender innocent spirit..  
      to what?

Or  just as bad--
grow up to be
bitter.. war-torn worn

only to have  to
face it all again,
in order  to overcome?

No, leave me to die   in this one.
And if asked to  return
I will self-annihilate

rather than come back
to this dishonest  *******
ever, again.

D Zwieble

Remember the story,
about the beautiful-hearted girl,
trapped in the ship,  sinking..

     and how he saw her--
    through the porthole,

        made his way through it,

                            and saved her--

by pressing his mouth to hers
so that she could  become  able to breathe,
as she finally exited the ship

        and made her way back up
                               to the surface..

    He loved her enough
    to be her very air  at the time she
      needed it most.
      He still loves her.


      I always will.

A small box of candy hearts
were  being gifted..
as if being
the most intricate  of Tonka Toys.

Small, trembling hands,
reaching out
to  a small one,
         dirt-encrusted..

There's a half a box
of ******* Jacks:
prize... still intact,  in the other.

Two scabs.. and the bite mark  of an
alligator lizard,

   on just the one  that receives.
.
She had walked all the way across
the school's playground
to find him there.

Brought with her a nickel
for helping Mama fold the laundry
down to the 7-Eleven store,
last Saturday morning;

Not  any old box of candy, would do.
Not just any old box of candy..
                            would do.

Beautiful gouls, they seem
to be,  as they shuffle  
along the walkway,
late at night.  Hooded
and unassuming..
sometimes,  barely seen
avoiding possibly,  even
the pain  that the very light
of day, can so very often  bring.

There is a horrible  undoing
of what once  was
in order to leave  for them
what now is.

And when
there was a gold
to be found
in these hills  of black..
the non-ancestral  hearts  
that so clearly, lack

the humanity that tried to stop
the very same thing  that had
happened  in the east:

    the crave  for gain
    caused these tears of pain--
    and a glympse into the true
    nature  of the beast.

These rocks--
round,  not suitable for skipping
centuries of rolling along
the stream's flow--  all
the edges ground smooth
in the most ancient of ways.

These ones making walking difficult--
when one rock doesn't fit well with others
it rolls
and shifts;  not
wanting to find its   place
with the other rocks, making
footing unsure--       unstable.

I see this one;  there--
unconcerned with the fit.
It
has an edge or two--
   still..
as of yet  not ground smooth.
It stands out--  not
for the safety of step it can provide,
but for it's utter uniqueness--

               a stone like no other;
     with it's almost chosen-rough edges.

I want that one-- right there.

                         That one.

D Vanlandingham

Boundless..

In its ability to extend beyond all forms of containment;
the big circle contains within it, the little one
And if it is true relationship through genuine volition of the beloved
that is to be desired most of all,
then spirit, wrapped in flesh is the autonomy most needed
     in order for the dream to become true.
Spirit is being.
Spirit cloaked in flesh is being--
feeling its relationship with its own self.
Spirit, mastering its own flesh by reigning in  its emotions  along
with the synaptic-firing of every one of its nerve endings into full
submission of the spirit's own core nature, is the root-basis of all true volition.

Spirit, in its raw form is perfect-- wholly unable to undergo
corruption, or decay..
     but the flesh..
     the flesh,
     Always needing to substantiate itself through its never-ending layers
     of self-promotion  apart from the realities of its own spirit's  core.

Yet,  pure Love--
wholly unable to see itself as that which is to be rejected,
enters in to the very act of the rejection, itself;

..that autonomy may  continue to  contain
the uncorrupted core--
     and the smaller circle becomes established:
     smaller.. yes.. but in truth,
     its parameters self stretch all the way out
     to those of the bigger one

And so, with the necessary advent of autonomy
into the relational equation,    comes also
The necessary advent of God's wholly-volitional
self-depletion of God.. entering,  in to it all
so that, in time, God(Love) alone  might take the full brunt
of rejection's unjust hit--
     in its autonomous movement  away
     from its own incorruptible core..
     away,  from its own true self.

So, follow the smaller circle, if you will, my beautiful--
either way, you are still following God.

paulSN

Johnny in black
a girl's heart attack--
his perfect-guitarred-croon
made all them girls swoon

and for her...
              her name was June

A stint in prison
for freedom-- the reason
dude learned his lesson
came back to sing-them

and brought along a girl
                                 named June

A ring of fire
his heart's desire
no line to walk
when you walk the talk

Johnny simply had a thing
                                       for June.

And through his heart
though worlds apart
she saw what was true
and it carried them through--

that beautiful view of Johnny
                                              in June.
Yeah..
there was hurt in it too
all things-- covered
    in blue


all because Johnny
                    loved June

Selmhem Naise

Too much pain in this one
it's no longer fun--  no
not so fun.
Another world--  with
another Sun
    where I can run.

I just want to run in the Sun.

But it can't be too far from
this one,  so
I make a parallel one--
with a parallel Sun.

Where I can have fun--
                                   as I run.

In the safe one,  I
can run,
and in the parallel Sun
with
my parallel fun--

                   I run in both.

paulSN

There was this one bench we
used to sit on with our legs
   dangling.
Do you remember that-- how
we used to look down at our feet
as we swung them
back and forth?

I did so well--
       until I would look up at those eyes.

You said that when two people
care about each other
their feet should swing in unison.
I was too embarrassed to tell you
the truth--

   that every time I looked in your eyes
   my legs would go numb.

I tried to tell you then that
nerds weren't supposed to look
the way that you do.

Even now I look at your picture
      you left with me--

           and my legs go numb all over again.

And one more time I try to forgive myself.


Nerds aren't supposed to look like that.
It says that--

         somewhere in the manual
      it does.

                               I think.

Stephan W

I have seen you there,
standing alone, along the shoreline
    --if you only knew--
Your thoughts- a poetic buffering,
spoken out- onto weathered paper,
through trembling hands;  words
let in to the ocean wind--
the dreams of your heart, the needs,
ah, yes.. the deep needs of your heart...

    among these rocks,
    you are always alone.
    ~

At the tip of your fingers-- the small ridges;
fragmental, yet monumental imprints, etched
in to you, the moment your spirit entered
your temple. They tell the world of your story:
through fine, texture-perception, you feel it--
your trembling fingers grip the pen, expressing,
conveying your truth into a world that does not
hear.. a shallowing, that deafens..

    You glance at your fingertips--
    to assure, you're really there
    ~ ~

(The sea has picked up a bit, now
the waves, crashing against the rocks
rocks, that still won't hear..)

And here also, outlined
within the warm beat of the
human heart,
there is a sound that can be heard--
one similar to the aliveness
of the crashing waves.
Place your fingertips against those
that are real-
the sound blends-in perfectly
with the sea
as the uniqueness of imprinted ridge,
moves up against that of the other--
contrasting, here.. fitting together
perfectly, there..

    Scream, "I am!" to the sea; and see, love..
    scream it out, and see.
    ~ ~ ~

I am everywhere near you-- encouraging,
celebrating.. at times, weeping;  hands
outstretched, the uniqueness of my
own finger prints, longing
Along this shoreline, I have watched you
for an eternity, hoping
that you might somehow take it all, in.
Clouds beckon, asking again for the
earth's moisture

      and I respond,  e v ap o r a t i ng.

      ~ ~ ~ ~

Your small, beautiful feet, now
all pigeon-toed- now, standing
at the water's edge; as the
rain cloud gives up its prize
just beyond the breakers--

    (my imprint remains,
    but I am of the sea now..)

    Wade into me, love
    that I may wrap myself around you:
    Along this shoreline,
    may you never be alone again.

D Vanlandingham

Death only has power  when entwined with flesh;
as it is the pathological.. and its need to be propped up
--which is all there is   to embrace the illusion.
Yet, no flesh can stand  before the Face
and so  is burned-off  in an instant.

Now, with nowhere left to hide--  
the hidden..  becomes, fully known.
                   (the illusion,  and it's deception)

And so  separated,  (but not really)
all things  known
will eventually be brought  back home--


A boat, now empty of its captives~
the last to step off;  

                shining  as  bright

                         as the Morning Star

--And,

After picking her beautiful
jaw  up, off the ground
over the shock-blast of  realizing
that  she (after all of these years)
   had been  finally seen..

there was a shuffling  noise
that I could hear in the background
over the phone..

and I couldn't tell  if it  was her--

scrambling to finish  filling out
the restraining order she started
last week

or maybe  
just  flopping around  in the dark
in her search for the block button

But perhaps..  just perhaps
she is running upstairs  to find  for herself,  
a dry pair of *******

Or better yet,  in order to
race into her room,  her clothes--
strewn,  in a wake behind her
in her overwhelming  need

to knock out  a whole series  of
wildly uncontrollable, release (s)

Strange how it is
that  far too often  these things
can go either way--
yet either way, sweet love

your beautiful jaw
will never again,  be the same

Xo

Lost  into the wonder of it all:
The Realms, in their entirety
and every single one of the elements

hold, fast..  in their deeply-syncronized
                                 longing,  for the shift.

Watch her now-- appear out of nowhere..
feel her breathing in,  deeply
all that encompasses  the word,  hope

My heart, races
I stumble around, alot..
trying not to dishevel
my small corner of the Universe--

The one she dances in and out of
so beautifully...
as if a whim, on the wind

Shifting- everything, within me
that forgot
what it felt like,  to believe
That forgot

what it truly means to breathe..

Stephan W

My beauty is resisting the worldly pull-- to
slip into lethargic un-consciousness,
in order to no longer feel the anxiety
brought about by non-response to the
primal-question's asking,

But instead is choosing to feel it all-- and in
doing so- it, is costing her everything.
Everything.
She is showing us all what true courage is about,
suffering for the greater good:
for that which is within herself
for her children
for all womankind-- and therefore, for all of man-kind also.
She is the firstfruits of the Universe's
deepest dream; that of a full restoration,
allowing herself to be cut-open, internal parts, rearranged,
heart regenerated, rebuilt through love's magical ways
her mind, being renewed through understanding,
repetition of love's true ways, washing it clean
from the shame unfairly pressed upon her
by the broken, fallen love of man

She is the new Eve-- this beautiful-one,
free from the need to re-create what love is--
she is open, believing.. her beautiful receptors-
perfectly aligned with the harmonic-tones
emanating from the garden, as she walks.

And I.. Adam, love her deeply.
There is an ache with in my side-- a reminder
of my consent of its removal
so that I would no longer have to be so alone in all this magic
and as I struggle, taking in all that is beautiful about her,
I see now that she was not produced from me,
the man

But that I was the oyster,
and she, the beautiful pearl--
the one beyond all price,
the shimmering diamond-- formed,
within this lovestrong lump of coal;

over millions, and millions of years.

I sit in awe as I watch her
she has been worth every moment
of the wait.

"What,  you just love me
and then move on..
is that what you do?"
They weren't steps away from her
they were paces

and in an instant, the arrow flew

There is a seam,  
if you are able to see
as there are terracotta dreams
from which

we were  all  meant to be freed

Broken shards  fell to the ground
and inside of every single piece

     is all of the 'hers'
     she thinks that  she needs to be

Not sure if it is the aim
or  the flight  of the arrow
that brings about the aloneness
of an unspeakable,  heart sorrow
and these.. the sufferings of hell.

     Chloe is not dead--
     because  left standing
     when all else fell
     is her spirit's core,  now glowing;

     ..no longer hidden  
     within the confines
     of her terracotta shell.

Ah, beautiful Chloe
baby, there were times..

                remember knowing?
      The water-well;
      ..its  never-ending flowing.

      Believe again in that, my beautiful

              not  the shell.
--Anything is better than this hatred.

         I'm looking forward  to
         an eternity, spent in hell.

Aw ****,  another apology
for what it is she hasn't done
there's a coat,  wore
a done, done--

one,  never to be undone

And she'll wear it, yet can't share-it
but with something like this
it can't be helped
but, to share it

It is every where.

They say they care
so why in the ****  are you  pulling
out all your hair.
Maybe they just don't care
about anything
but what it is  you'll wear

so they don't have to.

Stephan W

Muse-induced,  I slip
into a dreamstate--

                      I am floating.

Third-heaven bound,  I am
caught up into  a
galaxy-pull,  cloud hidden
I am bent around objects--
    the very empirical nature  of
    light itself,
drawn into an orbit  that,
always mine--  had
    been waiting for me all along

                          I am home now--


                   Away from this pain
           Away from  death's  stain
  ..away from all of my inabilities

paulSN

Is it asking  too much
to want to hide away  safely?
I never should have met you

yet, I have been  looking
for you all of my life--

  unwillingly.

You are in me now
so deep;  our spirit's gears  perfectly
synced- each gear a pre-honed..
  precision fit--
                even when we clash

                Especially-  when we clash;
                and somewhere,
                in the depths of  my love

                I hate you for that

                
      In a broken world...
      dreams were  n e v e r  meant
      to come true.

      I think I read that  somewhere,
      or maybe someone told me..

      maybe

    
              or something.

One fine, postdiluvian day,
God glanced down on Noah and crew,  midfloat..



((ding)) "NOAH.."

                        
                          ­  "Hmm..? what is that?


((ding)) "NOAH.."



                            "Oh, ****.. its the boss.. everyone, ****** chill"



((ding)) "NOAH.."


                               "yes Lord..?"



Noah, now concerning being fruitful and.. uh..  whatever
you know-- lala,  and stuff.."


                                 "Ya..?"


"Ya yourself, Noah.
Hast thou considered the howler monkey..?
That wild-assed little pair going at it up there in the crowsnest
are tantric AF."



                                 "Dude.. you should bless those cute, hairy
                                   little love-machines with the most *******-sounding
                                   lovehowl on the planet.."




****.. I wish I was the one who thought of that..  
    :(

A funny thing about forever..
--it never, ever ends..

and so   neither will we.

The spirit is free from
all of this-- it will  always
remain lit..

only the flesh goes dark  
as we  leave  its earth-laden husk, behind..

But the core-heart of Love's true ache  will always,
always Remain.

~M Vogel
(sequestered from the status quo)  


Sitting here in front of this screen
my Artist Peppino, across my thigh--
[the greater (for the time being)
giving way to the lesser]

One day, I will be able to breathe life
in to your strings, my love..
the way I do words, on to paper

And on that fine, glorious day
I will no longer need these cheese-****
stupid ******* online poetry sites
to bring forth the music of my soul

Nor will I  continually  need to wade through
this never-ending barrage of classic  hiders
and their bastardization-like misuse of poetry~
in order to hide behind the very words
that should be  given the permission  to make them
become, truly known.

There is no alone-ness within the magnificent  resonations

of the perfectly plucked string
of the most perfect,  of guitars


     Like this one, sitting  right here  
                                             in my lap.

PaulSN

Wheels cranking
gears clanking

a precision machine  that
would make the
   Terminator's ***** rust wi-....

Silly little spilly
open-mouthed hippy-filly-  yappin,
   all *****-nilly

A crane in
your brain to
keep thoughts   sane--

but you talk so   funny
through that smile; and
     your heart--
it is melting your   mental
contraption

  How do you always  find
a way to speak to me
through it all?

And I'm still  trying  to
figure out  how
all that brilliance
fits into your pretty little head

You must sometimes get
   fatigued
beyond all recognition--

and the  only way
you can deal with it all
is to find  new ways  to
   b r i n g   it to us

        without us  even knowing.

Youre not quite ready yet:
beautiful-one
   and so..  in your creativity--
y o u  don't walk from your machine-  

    we do;
every time  we walk towards you.

You are screaming at me and I'm in tears
your face peeled back
in deep contempt of my need
I am just a little boy and my head hurts and it
is a sin to hope that my aspirin could be cut

because I can't swallow the pills and they get
stuck in my throat, burning. My head is
spinning

and I'm falling down, a shaken baby
syndrome..
black around my eyes--
which one of you shook me?
Who did this to me, I'm just a little boy
peaceful in heart,
yet horror stricken; and the anger builds
Unexpressed words defining injustice, are
swallowed

once again, deeper:    evil excels in its clothing
a child in shame, within the denial of its own wrongdoing.
Years of hard work, dismantle the shame..
remove condemnation's heavy, mantle;
but this rage.. this deeply embedded injustice-scream?

A lifetime has not enough years to  undo
what the locusts have eaten

And I am only half of it...
a ***** in my armor, and I fall
A cheap shot, my hands now empty
the fire of my temple, now dust..

Lay me there, beside her--
she, that tore me down, she who I now
forgive
a beautiful boy, a broken son
in death, makes his peace with mom
his burial place, once again
back, in her arms

This is the home I choose
I forgive you, Momma, be my resting-place now,
my home--

my anger, my hatred.. contempt
purged, by cremation's holy fire
all glory and honor,  now yours

as the once-broken little boy
curls up safely, in your arms
Your beautiful son has returned,
back home:

     God.. and a mother's love,
                             rest his soul.

D Vanlandingham

Never more clear to me, than when the  rusted gate,
swung open  did I see the  great fullness, in the value
of choice  to suffer oneself into a place of substance--
forces pulling at me, unfelt.. realms crossed over into,
unscathed.

When she opened up her heart to me..
all Hell, broke loose

A plunge,    into the wonder of it all
eyes wide open
(and then, shut again)
there is a survival  that thrives
but, only in seclusion.
Deception and evil,
and every form of illusion

(things, once clear..   made opaque
                      within the confusion)

         can exist  only here on earth
                  Of that  cold hard truth

                     there can be  no other
             logical  form of conclusion.