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..

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.

the forming of substance 07
Stephan W

Radiance.

Within the void  are
the greatest mysteries of the universe,
as matter and anti-matter clash;
only to create a newfound energy..
un-owned, unaccountable, unconcerned--
the energy emerging from the clash negates itself
through mutual annihilation; leading to an increase
of space between what it is that is lit; and in
the accelerated rate of expansion of this space,
Illuminated/illuminating  matter takes on the risk
of being removed from participatory perception,
or better said-- to a place beyond retrieve..

and so it is also-
within the void of space that exists within us;
the galaxy-within--
ever-swinging in polarity between the gravity-pull
of illuminating/illuminated substance,
and the ever-distancing properties of
an unowned, unlit space...
dark Energy-- a repulsive force,
attempting to quantify the space between
all that truly matters--
yes.. creating space,
and therefore more room
for it to engage into its ever-increasing
chaotic activity.. quantitatively participating in
its fine art of distraction, dilution
and extortion of time
through nothing other than the negation of matter,
and therefore, the negation of potentiality--
of substance, and so also
the transmission of light.. luminosity:

      parts within the heart, lit up with
      and by the infusion of our own spirits,
      through the beautiful act of volition,

of which, the countless galaxies in the universe
exist as a type, given.. (what-if)...
if only to encourage us through amazing,
mesmerizing example--
surrounded, each.. by a circumference of support
of the dark matter of potentiality--
providing the gravity of containment,
solely in and through its belief in its own possibility,
giving way to its utter inability to deny itself to
what has become already lit,
becoming then.. not only a defining part of the galaxy,
but also a gravitational-formed hedge of protection
against the everpull-entropy of the repulsive force--
of all that is unaccountable-
in its velocity-based separation from volition.


      And, so it is with the universe,
      so, also.. the universe-within;
      Having left its glass-globe sphere,

      this spirit-centered cosmos
      now unfolds, within skin.

"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.

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.

And it was at that time.. in group..
when I realized that I had attained
enough healing, and could now enter
back into the normal   every day, world
that I looked back at her..
she.. who I had struggled alongside in
the trenches with for over two years
now-- each of us struggling just to hold
on.. in a crazy, ****** up world, that
just did not care

Yet still, she struggled to hold on to
who she was-- her spirit, coming and
going at will, as she attempted to deal
with the depths of her trauma..
her beautiful blue eyes, turning to dull
grey in those Ichabod-like moments,
when there was nothing left,  

but complete emptiness.

And as I announced that I was leaving
the group, she gasped..  I saw those
beautiful blues  go grey-- her small
hands, reaching for me..
her once, cherub-like face, now ashen
and tear soaked,  quietly pleading..

and it was at that moment, that I sat
back down-- putting back on once
again, death's skin.. all past dreams of
normalcy, fading away in to her grey..

the color, blue.. the most beautiful
thing I have ever seen..

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

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..  
    :(

There is a hush
that opens behind the hush,
where breath is no longer
taken in,
but given.

A mouth made
only for receiving—
not food,
not air—
but something finer
than sound.

It happens in the stillness
between moments,
when hope ceases
to lean forward
and simply
arrives.

There,
behind the chest
and deeper still,
are lungs
that do not breathe
until spirit finds them.

They do not swell
for want—
only for wonder.

Somewhere in the unseen,
the Breath of God
hovers.

And the lungs—
those deeper ones—
wait with necks craned
like mystics beneath
an unseen window,
opened only
by grace.

Not every wind is of earth.
Some are shaped
to fill the holy hollows
in a soul made ready—
a mist that sings
without voice,
without name.

And when it comes,
you do not speak.
You expand.

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.

the forming of substance
Stephan W
(stepped out to get some air, and never came back..)


It presses its face
against the inside of the glass-like globe,
It is vaporous, unformed; globule. It can
experience the moment.. but, formless--
it is unable to hold onto the knowledge
of that experience.
It is  k n o wn  by Glory-- referred to as; being
~
There is laughter in the newborn baby's sleep..
dreams- present-moment flashes--
of funnyface smears, left there-
on the outside of the globe by the angels;
Left only to a startled jump, and then tears--
the initial shock.. the aloneness of being born-
into the imperfect world of potentiality,
and into the new and as of yet unfamiliar feeling
of unmet needs.
The glass encased Perfection gives way into
the only true access into love--
found only in the movement towards volition,
as the crystalline-like glass
that once encased the spirit
is now traded for skin.
And so that which once experienced Glory
from within the protection of the glass sphere
now enters into the world of participation--
first, though- as an infant..
wholly dependent on those
who (hopefully) will give
who will nurture.
~ ~
Perfection gives way to incompleteness
made perfect again only through love--
Touch brings love right up to to the skin,
baby takes it in.. unconditionally,
yet, in a way
still pre- volitional-ly--
It is outside the globe, now-
and spirit is participating in its own needs;
the little baby cries.. no longer 'complete'
and protected within the sphere
Now wholly dependent on love and care-
from the outside.. taken in, solely
through the repetition of warmth
and the primal longing for its own gift--
that of volition.

Yes..
a small baby has now become
a little higher than the angels.

~paulSN
(in exile, for failure to rise on the third day)

~

There is a spectrum of light
so deeply embedded into darkness,
that it is no longer discernible
as light to the human eye,

And so it is beyond the scope
of certainty; the realms that
this spectrum of light operates in.

And there is an observation point, wholly
outside the realms of human introspection;
as is there is an enduring nature of
the spectrum of light  that transcends
even the fire of judgement;

(in the simple fact that it will remain
after all else   is burned off);

Yet, until that day comes,
it will remain suspended; in
an almost uneasy uncertainty--

even  of its own salvation.

Yes, it is a light that transcends it all, yet
being no longer discernible
as light, to the human eye,  

it  is subject to human judgement.

I have seen those familiar with that
spectrum.. and with things, real.
I am overwhelmed with sadness

   --wondering how very lonely they each must be.
         I hope to get to know more of them someday.


And, as for their spectrum of light--
   I would trust it with all of who  it is
        that I am.

the forming of substance 06
Stephan W

the true nature of the beast

~
It  c h o se
to consider itself
made complete--
in its own self--  apart
from relationship,
from connection..
a p a rt  from   a n y
attachment to glory

And so,
it found itself
from with-inside itself
made complete

in its own,  utter incompleteness.

~  ~
Beings-- created for
growth- back in to into glory
were built to be
made complete
and so it roams
the face of the Earth--
looking for ways to
complete itself..
an attachment.

~  ~  ~
Life, in itself
has a built-in safeguard
hedge of protection
in every-thing on Earth.

But we,
who have undergone
severe trauma
at a young age
have had that  h e d ge
torn from us
as the  d i s m em b e r i ng
of our souls took place--
and so that which roams
searching for its
addiction--
for its attachment...
then finds.

  and then attaches

lying to itself each
time--
that it can gain
t h e   f i x
the indwelt-access-
back into perfection--
the one for it
that never-was
that never will-be--
its way back into glory.

It knows that,
so it attaches
with a vengeance.

~  ~  ~  ~

You, quisling--
only the power of
deception do
you have, ******.
You do not grieve
the loss of eternity--
because, for you-
it is unobtainable. ******
You do not feel the need
for Redemption
because, you  o n ly
know the word contempt.
And yet, wholly
unable to feel self-contempt,
you only know one action--

d e v o u r.

We will transcend
your attachment

your usury..

       your devouring--

Gnawing our bodies away from our spirits..
  a   d i s m e m b e r i ng--

making us believe
that is all we have ever known;
And making our bodies
a d d i c t ed  to you-
in whatever form
that may be
as if they were
built for nothing
but  y o u--

to prop up your own emptiness.


We will  f i l l  back up
with Love.


    And then you'll be the one
    who will be ******.
    ******

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

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.

~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.

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.

Your beautiful heart's glow is so often hidden behind the clouds of stubborness--  your lack of ownership within pretty much everything that is about who it is that you truly are. You ride.. skirting on the edges, never truly committing to much of anything that is inside of you.. putting pieces of yourself out there, yet never truly taking ownership of much of anything that truly is of you. You may feel things in their fullness that is of you within certain, contained moments, but the glow of those glimpses into your own self is far too often short-lived-- within something in you that almost completely washes it all away..

The nearly predictible pendulum-swing now so far the other way, almost completely denying those very real moments of connectedness and inner clarity within you..

And I am not one to want to live and operate between the swing's extremes, as it is there at that place that you expect others to pick up all of these un-owned pieces for you, and it is there also at that place that you have a whole string of men-- now.. and in your past, who all tumble and orbit in your wake in their desire to put together for you things that were never theirs to put together..

They were always things for you to take ownership of and become accountable for, but you will have no part of that, and so here you now float within all of your unaccountability, and will continue to float- as long you continue in your choice to not fully engage within yourself.
.. And you go on and say that I do not care about your heart, but you do not own much of anything that is about that amazing heart that is within you,
so how would you even know?

You don't..  but even if you did,
it would all but become buried once again within all that is unowned within you.

Loving in to a system like that, is not a good stewardship of one's ability to love.. so if there is some remote form of goodbye embedded within these nearly indiscernible conveyances..
then I thank you in advance for its  gracious release. You are not getting any younger, my beautiful.. one day this beauty-laden, cloud to cloud game of hide and seek is no longer going to work quite so well

the forming of substance 02
Stephan W
(fallen, from grace)
~

It is with the finest of graces  that
lips were seared into a silent forgetting;

    the burning coal was a gift--

The newly-born cries,
but with a long lost forgetting.
What it witnessed from within the sphere--
what it saw, no longer a menace in its perfection

And so, trust and hope
enter into the young child's world-
not as an unnatural occurrence
or that of chance,

but as a natural attachment into the primal,
residual imprint left on the spirit;  pre-birth--

That of perfection--
needs met before they were ever expressed..
before they were even felt--
The spirit-- wholly encased in being Loved,
in being fully known.

Hope and trust, a gradual remembering
of that perfection- an aligning into what is
already imprinted into the DNA of the spirit,
(when attached to and within a body of skin)--

    by being given a chance..
                        just a chance.
~ ~

Warmth, and kindness
is Love's re-lighting of the candle--
flickering dimly at first, but- if not abused,
always received-
much like one would receive an old friend.

The hope and trust of a child
is Love's way of introducing Magic into the world-
Through the spirit's own remembering  of
its own primal instinct--

That, of perfection;   fully loved..
within the  presence, of absolute perfection.

And from the abyss
of an un-owned, nothingness
rises up the majestic image--
supremely crafted,   from
well-smithed words;

this something..
formed  out of nothing--

this counterfeit  substance
this ancient, hide

this cowardly, self-formed answer
to the Universe's primal core question
this childish refusal to grow up..
to own up,
and face the music

This fooling of the whole world..
this glory  of the moment..

and then, one final  pirouette,
before your unavoidable death-scream
at that final  moment of truth..


Ah truth, baby.. what a concept.

~M Vogel
asleep  at the wheel

A smoothe sail, set
a body of water, deep
brings about the greatest need
for trust

And who are you to me
as we float?
And I, to myself  whether under full sail
or land-locked,
the waves.. as they roll, will not scuttle
whether  within a depth, beyond fathom
or a curbside built dam, a child-made puddle

there is nothing that can pull, down
but the weight  of my own, bitter keel
and there's nothing in the ocean, lower
than the way, my own actions
can so often,  make me feel
In this ocean, floating
there is a world of un-doing

                            and re doing

The water, being a conduit
pulling from me, nautical miles
of the, unforgiven--
an ocean of changing emotions
under late-evening skies of sometimes, torrent
pulling me deeper into the need   to contain
the containment,  of the need

The dark skies, are where I go
within  the allowance of the need, to become freed
of all  of these obligatory-vestments.
This ocean, so deep--
the one  inside of me

carrying me away  

to a place called, containment.

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.

Selmhem Naise

Keep writing
about the
indescribable
because your way of
describing it
is a description all its own.

In the magic of your words
you are able to somehow make
the intangible almost feel
as though it can become tangible.
(obtainable)

And for myself-- It takes all
I have to keep from being
drawn-in too deeply into
your words. I do best
by letting the words
all but destroy me; so
that there's not a lot left of me
(my-destructive side)  to
bring itself to the table.

The destruction I feel-  there's
an immediate tearing down of
    despair

and an instantaneous building up
of hope and celebration--

    the true  deeper side of me
    absolutely digs that ****.
Ya true story.

A skyrocket across the horizons,
she is carrying her pain with her
everywhere she goes..

but my beautiful is owning it
and therefore, suffering  into the real..
into true substance, formed.

Within the realms,  
the entities know this--
those hellbent on harm,  they shudder
while those for the good

oh, how they celebrate.

Sweet Jane us truly kickin'
as the Clock of Love, keeps tickin'--
tapping out its sweet message
in quarter tones, so pure.

The swing of this little wild-one
throughout the whole universe
will bear the most meaningful,
of weight..

The beautiful girl, really  c a n  hit--

     oh man,  
     that is for sure.

I move through the day
with my headphones on—
not just for the music,

but for the remembering.

A wire,
a pulse,
a quiet line
that tethers me

to the hush on the other side.

I charge them every night—
because she might need
the warmth of soundless presence,
the kind that doesn’t reach in,

   but wraps around.

She is hidden,
but not gone.

She is beneath
the hush of fabric and mercy,
where no eyes ****,

no explanations are required.

And I—
I go on,
lifting and lowering weight,
cutting silence with work,

holding space

for the one who is learning;
that Light can contain her
without devouring.


So I charge the headphones.
I keep the line open.
And I carry her
as lightly as I can,
because right now—

   that is how
   love breathes.

And underneath this blanket
of containment,
she is unfolding.

There is a safety here
that her spirit
so desperately needs..


As she learns how to Become,
   again

PaulSN

She clutches her heart
with both hands
in hopes that he will not see it;
(But hearts like hers--
they cannot be held back; and
who it is that she is cannot be hidden),
but it instead was built to be out there--
right out into the light of day.

Her fingers look so cute as they
work so hard to hold the view of her in--
she oozes out between fingers
in the most beautiful of ways.
And with a heart like hers--
even that which tries to contain it
becomes beautiful--

she seeps out
through the most beautiful of fingers.

paulSN

You remember..
  and you know it

you were  on
the swing
  and I walked up to you

You were too young then—
not yet quite in high school
and I was not yet old enough
  to drive

  but old enough to know better

Still.. I needed you to know
so I walked up to the swing—
the one at the park- on
your way to school

and I stopped you  mid swing
and I gazed into your eyes
by grabbing the only thing
that made your swing,  swing--

          the  c h a i n s.

  They bring  you forward
  as you keep trying
but the they're fastened  too
  tight--

       to keep you from flying..


          the very thing
       you have always wanted to do

M Vogel
(et inpaenitens boheme, infidele)

When your worst horrors have come to pass
     and you did not die
and sleep  is actually a comfort,  
instead of a curse
Because dream-themes are no longer hauntings
but  instead,  flow in and out of consciousness
as random acts of grace
And the death that should be coming

becomes, instead
a replenishment of living cells--
a surprisingly-unexpected regeneration,  
this bracing for a Fall that never comes.

Winter is coming,

and this death, has a warmth
that will carry me through
And though the ground will be frozen soon,
there will be no death this year
above the frost line

But below,  in what is still warm
there will be a death,  that brings life--
encased in fear, yet floating within the midst
of a subterranean stream..  an ocean, of peace

Winter's chill is coming;  
there is a strange feeling in me
that tells me, I am ready.

There are cries that come
like weather—
loud, sudden,
gone before they finish saying
what needed to be said.

And then there are the others.
The ones that wait for years
to find a home
safe enough
to be heard.

Tonight, it wasn’t just a song
that broke you—

it was the quiet
after the song ended,
the part where someone stayed.

No questions
or fixing.
Just presence,
while you folded
into the sound of your own heart
finally unclenching.

You didn’t cry because you were weak.

You cried because
you were ready
to stop pretending
it didn’t matter.

And the silence that followed
wasn’t empty—
it was full of everything
you never got to say.

So let this be the night
you remember not what shattered,

but who stayed
long enough
to help you gather the pieces.