We've grown wise in truth through the ages of time and space
we share only light
we remember only our bliss
our ink scribbles only in shimmering light.
Our Kama zutra tantric marital intimate bliss
isn't dust to compass bearings nor playing winds
it's not writen to hurt any
beloved ex mates
it's our private collection beloved poetry
not for sale or public graffiti
Our tantric bliss poetry
blooms with the seasons
in the holy fertil clays
in our blessed childrens seeds
and later on with our grandkids kids good soils.
We truly did succeed
we earned the inherited
health intellect good genes longevity of our ancient sages
all lives matter to our
dear beloved frienships among many
ilite families world wide
our seedlings sprout free
in their sacred garden
our true love
shall bloom from that Adam and Eve to eternity God willing
in Jesus name! So mote it be! And so it is.
By; Mr and Mrs Andrews
Dreams do come true and are written
and no it's never too late to show love compassion understanding self and others.
no need to send anyone to hell lest the sender goes there as well.
for Thomas Raine Crowe
...These nights bring dreams of Cherokee shamans
whose names are bright verbs and impacted dark nouns,
whose memories are indictments of my pallid flesh...
and I hear, as from a great distance,
the cries tortured from their guileless lips, proclaiming
the nature of my mutation.
NOTE: My “mutation” is that my family appears to contain English, Scottish, German and Cherokee blood, meaning that my ancestors were probably at war with each other. Did my English ancestors force my Cherokee ancestors to walk the Trail of Tears?
How many burdens do you carry? How many have you passed through your kin? How much of your burden is not yours to carry?
I have struggled with these questions.
What burdens are mine? My shoulders are weakened by these unanswered questions.
I know that maybe this is just family tradition, I was given them at birth. Yet, I did not pick them. I would like to know why I have inherited them. Have my brother have them? Does my sister struggle with similar questions?
What if I did not care to nurture them anymore?
Would they die with me?
Or still be gifted to my kin?
And if they were given to my kin, how would my kin feel?
Would they bare it like Atlas, strap it to their backs and lift with their knees?
Or never speak of it. Hide it in a locket around their neck, neatly tucked under their shirts.
Would they take time to calculate their percentage of the age old burden? Or bury it somewhere in the country, deep into the side of a mountain, with the rest of the ancestors.
I’d hope they would give the burden back to the rightful owners.
I hope with all my being left, they are mighty enough to confront the age old tradition. I hope they give each burden back, to each dead being in the grave.
I am weary of carrying the ancient decisions of my elders.
I wish you luck, my child.
The size of the burden does not determine its weight.
It is heavy.
It has nearly buried me with its ominous weight.
I now understand why the burden is so easily passed without a second thought.
I just hope my guilt does not add to its weight.
And...it's here. A future. Agile? I was not enough to be.
Black in it's entirety. A new beginning and a new me.
Clockwork. As though a plan hatched by some supreme being.
Dear dog, which came first? Was it the white or the black?
Either way, it effortlessly taints your profoundly glorious genes.
**** this! Atrocious. Drugs?!
Goodness me. How did we get to this?
Horrible, dehumanising, and it's here to stay.
"It suppresses". But really only in the mildest of ways.
Just to remind you of the control you once had.
Killed! And now ceded in it's entirety to a tad bit of a fad.
Let me just turn back the hands of time!
My fate I leave with you alone.
Nothing seems to relieve this pressure and irreparable pain.
Oh God! Could I be spared such a destiny?
Queuing from my heart to yours.
Respectfully admonishing your power and grace.
Simply, do I ask for that childlike sense of serenity.
To take me to a place of restoration and hope.
Unlock my mind. Repair my soul. For vaults of this kind are too strong.
Audio Narration @ https://anchor.fm/shlomotion/episodes/A---U-e30cvh
The big boat, its belly full of colour
bodies, sailed out into the clouds
is not moving anymore
around the high mountain
which starts growing down
Like a seed capsule, it snaps open
fertilizes the slopes with blood
from the old world, with codes
of the secret of life
going to travel over the earth
as little arks, swimming arks
crawling, walking and flying arks
little blood trunks
full of prehistory
of the world
the real world
not the true one
Colour bodies: chromosomes
Armies of words gather in my head
To march so boldly onto the page.
They work their wonders
Who knows how?
Why they pick me as their channel
For their landing craft
I’ll never know.
Some accident of birth:
Genetic fluke –
For which I take no credit –
Makes me nectar to these ants
That line themselves into verse.
Compulsion drives me to write
As salmon must jump those water falls
To return to their spawning grounds.
I have to speak, or rather type:
No matter what,
Whether good or bad.
Is there a cure for this affliction of mine?
Can I ever stop myself from writing?
I very much doubt it.
© PB 16\11\2018.
A congenital affliction.
To come from the line of a man who tamed the snakes
Gazed into the fire
And breathed life into wombs of women
Dying to be the shell
Broke down plants till they became medicine
Healed the hands he touched,
And what am I but a vessel of his life,
A broken one?
His blood must have ran right through me
Like the monotony of a lecture
In one ear and out the other
love is evolution window shopping for eyes
shopping for genes