Harvesting
Feeding your mind with knowledge,
quenches opportunity to inhale wisdom.

Pressing
Squeezing wisdom into a humble reflection, ripens your mind.  

Fermentation
A mind connected to growth,
provokes insightful sophistication.

Clarification
The abundance of one's progress becomes obvious to the cultivated mind.

Aging
A clear open mind inspires your full aging potential.

Jl 2016

The process of becoming other than,
  the shedding of the old by way of time
  the hands upon the clock traverse their span,
  the ever fleeting moment reigns, sublime.

The emptiness of all objective forms,
  the rushing river, never stepped in twice,
  the reconfiguration of all norms,
  the virtues of lost ages seen as vice,

The elements converge and then react,
  the caterpillars weave themselves cocoons,
  the world amends its stock of gathered facts,
  the moths emerge, in flight to greet the moon,
  
   The firmament, destroyed and rearranged,
     the universal essence, found in change.

Facts remain the same
Facts don't change
It's the mind of an individual that changes.

Facts remain the same
Facts don't change
It's the thought process of an individual that changes.

Facts remain the same
Facts don't change
It's the intention of an individual that changes.

The more we get involved in the way of getting things done,
the more closer we come to the number of possibilities that seem to be possible with regards to the future.

An uncertain future,
however bright and promising it may seem to be,
one thing remains for certain,
the future remains uncertain.

Better to be a part of the present
Better to be a part of the present moment in time and then get everything done rather than depending on an uncertain future.
This is because one thing is going to remain the same
One thing is going to remain certain
Facts remain the same
Facts don't change

It's the time that passes by, which needs to be taken into account and taken care of along with the passing moment in time.
Definitely facts remain the same
Facts don't change

Creativity flows
like ink from a hose,
stubbornly unbound,
which claims
precious photographs
cut from one piece.
And I pull the preferred,
personal planes,
folding them,
twisting them,
building them
into paper frogs,
before burning them
in precise order
to inhale their scent.

The curse of my life:
I, the man who seeks
to learn and educate
the intricate world around,
tends to channel
such impulsive energy
into meaningless apathy,
where efforts only mold
into clever epiphanies
that only entertain ears
who may listen
for but a second.

When concerning sculptures,
patience and skill are vital,
since many amateurs will boast
their cracked wooden carvings,
constructed carelessly with
dull, heavy broadswords
flung in random directions,
but only an expert
can transpose the beauty
of life-bearing flesh
onto cold, hard marble
using only the simple, strict strikes
of a small chisel and hammer.

To create an ice sculpture:

Shave too little and none will notice.
Shave too much and it may break.
Wait too long and it will melt.
Wait even longer and you may forget.

Call me the butterfly maker,
for I the distracted crafter
often carves irregular squares
from changing planes of vision
into visual planes, flying
as monarchs migrating home.

Call me the snowflake cloud,
for I the cold observer
often molds objective droplets
from forgotten formalities
into memorable figures, coveting
as blankets embracing dirt.

Call me the stone sculptor,
for I the traveling poet
often lifts stone castings
from feeble footprints
into familiar portraits, beckoning
as mothers procuring peace.

Poetry is a mask in reverse
created from just a mere spark
bringing to light
who we really are
out of the depths of the dark
       Despite ourselves      
we try to hide
in the realms of our daily lives
and then poetry's
visceral therapy
weaves magic spells
from our fingers
     right out
                 of our minds
Suddenly, there is no choice
but to allow those masks
to be dropped
like a sudden change of fancy
at a medieval ball:
Naked eyes for coverings
are swapped
Yes…the command is given
ornate masks slip
with a splat upon
the floor
Suddenly, all dancers look
upon each other's faces
discovering treasures
they knew not before
Pregnant silence reigns
and only then
does the true dance begin
in bransles' or corantos' countered moves,
a new quiet
drowns out the din
Let it commence!
in festive air,
all attempts to hide
are in vain
Subtextual glances
and heady music
create sensual tension
profane
      The wine is flowing
smiles glowing
and soon release will
bear fruit
as the dance is danced
without inhibition
and all pretenses
start to uproot
And so it is
in poetry…
All those masks
are thrown down
the words just
                        trip
                              from beyond our lips
making magic
from adjectives and nouns
Now, our words drip upon the paper
revealing the secrets divine
our souls are coaxed out from the layers
melting your
sparkling poets' hearts
into mine

Way past 12
yet still I am awake
the world sin,
in a pen
conforming lights,
this is the world now?
digitized in bytes
digitized in bites and bytes.
we are ever distant, we don't
gaze at each other on these nights
we just digitize , digitize bytes
process instead of feel
and distract ourselves
forever encased in the mud of the machine.
Lets jump on the lifeboat
and find ourselves homes
to root in, not another boot that breaks the skin
Emote, and feel
don't process
with a zeal that begs