It is not somewhere over the rainbow
beyond Mother's breath or
in the devices of ancient
or modern hands bereft

we touch it in our pathos
and empathy from
time to time
through a shallow fading
gravel bed
filtering a bitter water table perhaps

whilst the tender leaf of spring feels it
in the autumn of unconditional
acceptance of the inevitable
morning frost
cold relentless rains
and colourful leaves
falling to their death
in beauty

so far removed from our bipedal posturing
and upright positioning at the computer
desk knowing there is no mystery here
no wild cry in the night
only electronic and organic
bleeps and drones and…

aw! there… I heard it again

a lost chord
a missing link
that the wild
creatures understand
of what we sometimes feel nearer in our shared limbic
brain seldom penetrated through
our domineering eyes planted firmly in front
of the gray dross from an eternal fire

we spend our given time on
this planet trying to douse when the rest
of creation knows the need for its
purification and leaps willingly into its
all-consuming heart as we
live in fear of the unknown
and of fear itself

keeping us estranged from the cosmic mysterium which provokes us to awaken
to the wondrous eternal
which will
alter our deluded consciousness
to see what has been seen through the
unknown eons to help us take to the fire

we only catch a whiff of in the twilight
of our hopes and selfless dreams
so we will rise through the
dry brown leaves of our once tender
green vision of an ever-changing universe
which whispers louder and louder in our darkness
until we cease our chatter and
learn to listen to the serene silence
of an eternal vibration heightening

morphing less organic much more
ethereal spiritual crawling further and further
from the pulse of the earth
as we shed thickened skin which
once replaced thin soft unprotected flesh
needing protection from extraneous
sources to cover what should have been

eternally naked bare to the elements
not limited to a frail carcass which
will ultimately be left behind as we
transform into our individual eternal temples to
join in worship with the rest of creation
to be the living offering
at the foot of the
eternal voice ineffable
not waiting to be obeyed
in mass procession but

as individual as one spark igniting
a plot of trees newly released as mystery
revealed ever so slightly in the wake of
the burial of earthbound mind steeped in
temporal ancient tradition fermented in
oak casks which were made to remain
and grow in their ****** state

as we hear distant yet distinct whispers of
the origin of our human calling above and beyond
Thoreau's distant drummer’s near silent tremors of the
most ancient rhythms now mostly echoes as we
march to
and follow our own drummer
leading the way back home

as we at times seem to distinctly
hear original rhythm's calling
as we try so earnestly to
respond like a dying sea
longing to once again sway
to the beckoning moon

often keeping in step
with our
own inner drummer who
is always trying to keep
time by asking

"are we prepared to give
in to what we will
inevitably meet in the end?"

It is an eternal dusk
where clocks , still dreaming ,
useless as before ,
watch  the passage of light
on the shifting sands .
☆
In the distance
she is leaning against a wall ,
the marble cool on her skin .
☆
She belongs here ,
she is from here ,
☆
She has created here .
☆
Drawn from the pure light
of this alien sun .

Across the boundless tapestry of time,
I have wandered through forgotten ages,
Shrouded in myriad guises,
Each existence a thread woven into an eternal fabric,
Circling endlessly, always seeking resolution.

Every life, a fleeting echo,
A delicate brushstroke on the canvas of eternity,
A dance in the vast cosmic symphony,
Reaching for a union so profound—
Yet slipping away, like mist before the dawn.

I have carried the weight of centuries,
The ache of memories etched deep in my bones,
Trapped in the cyclical dance of transient meetings,
Glimmering for a moment
Before dissolving into the shadows.

In order to perceive yourself as worthy;

How many more achievements must you accomplish?
How many more ‘wins’ must you have?

How many more followers must you have?
How many more likes must you have?
How famous must you be?

How many more characters must you create?
How many more images of yourself must you envision?
How many more masks must you wear?

How many more versions of the ‘self’ you need to create?
How many more ‘to become’(s) must you be?

How many more times must you reinvent yourself?
How many more times must you meet yourself?

How many more of your parts must you hide, silence, ignore, suppress, and crush?

What more must you consume to come to know your worth?
What more must you pretend to be till you allow yourself to ‘just’ be as you are?

There is no amount of ‘doing’ that elevates your self worth
There is no amount of sins that can ever depreciate your worth

The ‘self’ is eternal
The human’s ’worth’ is a sacred eternal gift
A gift that can never be robbed

In this acceptance
There is no longer a chase to actualise the true authentic self into this world

In this acceptance
The magnificent self emerges

Thank you for being here.

By NwK