Wishful Thinking

So its Saturday. Not a bad day outside, cool and partly cloudy. sun shining at times and covered at others. The windows going from “hey you need to clean me, to oh its ok now you can’t see the dirt”. That is what Spring does for most of us, fixates on “the why haven’t you looked at this since the Fall, to get over here and clean this mess up”. We tend to stagnate during the winter months, allowing our brains to go into hibernation until that one sunny day when it wakes up once again and demands attention. Sometimes I just want to push delete on what I have set aside, misplaced and decided to just not accomplish. But instead I put it in a folder marked next Spring, and just go on with my day.

With the extended daylight we can see those not used portions of our mental capability, and our emotional output. The things that we locked away but now shine the golden light on. The things that we could have done, to make the improvements we told ourselves we would do. Other things, yes like spring clean the garbage we keep locked up in the boxes in the back of the closet of our minds.

The poor mind we dump so much in there, memories, hurts,anger, control issues and more. We always seem to forget the important moth balls to keep that which we have hidden, fresh. Like love and compassion for our mistakes and choices that have actually made us stronger, if we would have looked harder at them. Its not all bad you know, we challenge ourselves daily, putting the fly into the spider web just to see if the fly can get away in time, but alas most of the time the poor fly gets all caught up in the web. The sticky strings of emotion spins him around , and it dies. Poor fly. Maybe we could give the fly an opportunity to challenge his predicament by giving it tools to survive. Ideas and choices to walk away instead of get caught.

Why I think up this stuff who knows but its Spring on the horizon and I am to mend holes in the web to catch the fly thats on its way.

Once again though I will end with a poem and see where that goes, maybe I will just get out the duster and pull down the web before summer.

Try to, If You dare.

I hate to delete, especially when I have said, created, or acknowledged something so special. Monumental in its clarity, subjective in its contents it always shakes me up.

I will blame it on the bum that sits inside the cavity of my brain stem. He thinks he is hiding but I know he’s there. Sometimes my consciousness can spot him lurking in the shadows. He readies himself to speak when not spoken to.

He thinks he can read my mind, but he is the mind in all its glory. What glory is he? Well he is, rude, presumptuous, egotistical, and so darn emotional. Especially when I can work it out on my own, using my heart felt instincts, with good will intended.

I wish he would just go away. pack his bags and find another place to imprint his social manners. So delete me if you will. cast away my brilliance if you dare. For I am unbeaten and will always begin again and upload all I want.

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Sunny summer days

 

Rocking Chair Middle America

I woke up this morning and decided to put on some news. Maybe today would be the day middle America got their dues. Sadly though, no, not today. We still fight our fights, listening to the sensationalism the broadcasters bloat about, reinforcing our awareness in anger and fear. Communities broken, neighborhoods in dire need of shaken hands across fences is needed once more. Togetherness is what made America and it also might have broken her too.

Im not that old to still remember when the porch was the main stay of my and many other’s neighborhoods. Sidewalks full of children out playing on hot summer’s nights while the adults hug around the steps of someones porch discussing the politics of the day. Some had fingers around a cold beer and others a nice smelling cherry tobacco cigar, most likely from Cuba. No one really cared about a lot except what happened local, and maybe some after the cold war politics. We were not afraid of our police who patrolled the neighborhood, our doors were always open and if someone was in need we helped.

Those were the days, now middle america is afraid of their neighbors, locked doors and fenced  in properties surround their large castles with armed motes and dogs. There are no children who play outside, except those so poor they don’t really have anything to lose. We sit on the couch with coffee cup in hand and devour the news and all its topics, shaking our heads and wringing our hands of all the drama there is. No hand outs, nor hand me downs, just glitz and glam for those who can afford it, and thats only a limited few.

I love middle America, the corn fields, and the mid state ranches. The tropical trees of Florida, and the hippies of the west coast. Those that are drawn to each other out of compassion and the love of their fellow man, woman, child and its neighborly communication. Where has it gone and will it ever return.

I will end with a poem I wrote in honor of Middle America.

Rocking Chair Middle America

Weathered and worn out fingers wrap rolling paper around old tobacco leaves. Tongue tips saliva, from wet lips into the creases to hold together another puff of serenity. A days end brings peace to a countryside of corn rows and apple trees, nurtured side by side over acres of land. The land held in earnest of those old worn down hands.

A view that stretches on forever, beliefs of heaven and hell intertwined everyday shelters his peace inside an old worn out shirt, as he rocks away years of self taught attitude. Something to heal the pain in his hands.

Dust in the distance tells of people, to many for his liking, to close for his comfort. fences mend but memories do not. He still sits and grips the fears that someday someone may infiltrate and take away all that he has made good.

One more puff, red fire light makes a shadow on the darkened sky. Cows and horses baying in the distance can still bring a smile to the old man’s face. Alone and not forgotten he waits for Sunday and the tall tales his old wooden rocking chair is made for, and the children and grand children who more than anything else brings a contentment to his worn down mind.

SONY DSC
SONY DSC

Riding The Dragon

Dragons. Dragons, and more dragons. Beautiful creatures, magnificent to see and to describe.

I was once told by a tea reader, wonderful lady I may add and gifted, that I rode the dragon. Symbolic creature in all its magnificence, a wonder to behold and a desire to be in its presence. Something to be feared, great breaths of fire destroying everything in its path, an awakening to be presented too if you live.

Now that I remember this reading what do I do with it? Did what she say portrait my life since then, or is this just an illusionary fictional attempt to make me feel good inside. I have realized really its about more that what she may have said, or what I remember she said but how I feel about the whole idea.

This reading was way back in 199?, young at heart and ready to continue to take on the world, or what was left of my world anyways. New changes were abound for me and to envision myself on the back of that glorious dragon brings excitement into my life right now. Have I accomplished the desire to ride a dragon, conquer what fears I have carried and to destroy the negativity that still could hold me captive to what is karmic and still to me unobtainable?

Heavy stuff here ladies and gentlemen. A full moon has come, and here I sit and think these ambiguous thoughts, of what was and what is and what will become. We do cherish the good times, the positive reinforcements we have, like shield and sword, ready to ward off the dragons, but to ride it? I am an esoteric person by nature and when a person tells me I am riding a dragon and that is my cause or karma I do sit up and take notice. I think in fact I have rode many dragons, some big and some small, but the one that awaits me now is the greatest creature ever seen. It is bejeweled in colors of green and reds. Sharp tail fins to keep the predators at bay, and the breath of fire to reach over miles of countryside. The saddle that adorns the dragons seat is made of soft worn leather and stirrups to keep me safe while I attack all those unwanted demons.

Yes I think I have ridden many dragons, all in purpose for the betterment of my inner self. I have at least one more to ride, and I hope its going to be worth it, in fact I know it will because I am ready. What ever comes my way I will fly mountains and mole hills, oceans and creeks, to find the  destinies (there is always more than one intertwined) which still awaits me by action. Challenges will come but my dragon and I will choose those wisely and with great pride, because we choose our battles wisely and come out not just a conquerer but a wise Merlin who knows that knowledge is the greatest battlement of all. To understand why we are and where we are is good, but to have the knowledge to go one step further in the right directon is the best of all. Then there are no winners or losers, no burnt down dreams, or fallen soldiers for the cause but a celebration of living life realistic and to the best of ones judgement. Where no one dies, gets hurt by words or actions, and the decisions one makes are made with love and compassion where everyone thrives.

SONY DSC
SONY DSC

What I Said, Or What I Wrote

Language. We take talking for granted. Using our hands for interpretation, a creativity around an emotion, but no matter what the  dance the words come pouring out. Do we speak to soon?  Ideas interpreted with or with out compassionate thought? To speak before we can convey our hearts true desires, out loud? What if we had no voices except the voices deep inside where we didn’t have to think words, or bullshit (excuse the essence) the ideas that we have without balancing out a feeling. True feelings, where no one or nothing is egged with our ego.

Spoken word we take it for granted, and so I write.

Language.

Sunflowers lined the broad path, smells of a sweet perfume waffled between the buzz of bees. numerous birds in flight nesting in pine trees, on top of local restaurants and roof tops.

Her feet shuffled along absorbing the hum of the beaten road. Ants moving furiously underneath. Vibrations from the ground below climbed from toes to ankles mixing natures ingredients with cement, migration in motion.

Sparking eyes filmed each frame, her smile filtered out the unwanted verbs, expressing an eagerness to dance. The body in complete delight of the exchanges taking place, she recognized the ideas without conversation. The ears tuned into hearing, spontaneously ready to record speech, she listened intently to the world passing silently through her own. Discovering, in her own words, her hands painted a picture articulate and sincere. Her voice remained unused voided by a commitment to speak orally.

She folded her fingers into a language of verse. No vocal cords, mouthing speech without tones, a reverberation, quivering in emotion. Appendages performed miracles shaping passion without movement from her lips. She stated fact and fiction, reading the mind yet speaking no words.

Her emotions a series of messages written on note pads, newspapers and dirt lined paths in the park. Mimicking a mime she reached out to an audience only touched by inner worth, the details described in her smile. She consumed her life in an absorption of activities listening intently, visualizing more, then her eyes saw daily. She learned to understand her silence with each beat of a heart filled with fingers, that moved in advance of her own grace.

The path continues to be her vision, her compassion her self worth. The birds flew about unconcerned of the checkerboard picnic blanket, the basket of food for thought and her belly and the song that she sang in her heart. A land so plentiful without speaking, within a voice without words.

Unplugged

I am thinking, do we always need to be plugged in, engaged, intensified in each thinking moment. What would happen if we truly unplugged?

Depending on the moment and what we could be engaged in being plugged in or unplugged would be a defining factor in the the outcome of what we were, are, about to do. We can find moments when each is appropriate, such as meditation, sleeping, dreaming when we are engaged in an experience which if unplugged we become more plugged in. Other moments when confronted, or confused we plug in and allow our subconscious to befriend our awakened mind and confuse the hell out of it. Plugged in is connected, but plugged in is also disconnected to challenge and change.

Flow, does it happen when we are plugged in, as in chakra flow, or are we more fluid when we are relaxed and allow the movement of energy to flow through us? Contained, we build upon the energy of our soulful selves, not contained we can build but we can also be turned upside down in a moments notice and shaken.

Interesting.

An electrical current carries energy flow, nerves react, our minds push us out side ourselves. We confront objectives and subjectives, literal and etherial balancing out a container of emotion. Positive and negative the pistons of neurology work to keep that flow moving. We engage, we ponder, we project.

The rivers of our thoughts also flow. Unaware most of the time, unplugged we venture outside our inner selves to be subjects of our souls inquiring of today. Adjectives and nouns move about the spectrum of misunderstood ideas to form a prerequisite to actions taken

Plugged in I flow, feet first into the grounding of my nature. Pushing my boundaries deeper into the universal aspect of whom I would like to be. Circumventing that energy I become meditative, subconsciously moving it inwards and up toward my higher self, renewed, revitalized, once again becoming unplugged as the energy spirits itself towards  my divine nature. Unplugged of all circumstance, all affiliation to what my ego desires I am presented with an inflow of knowledge. Patient of what I am plugged into yet unaware of what I have done to allow my self to be unplugged at the same time. Infinite but finite. Plugged in yet unplugged I move about in a continuous flow of unpredictability.Dove Beautiful Age Photoshoot - 4

I Woke Up This Morning

I woke up this morning to sunshine. It’s been awhile since my face felt the heat upon my face, my eyes closed to its brightness through the window. My fingers reached for the covers that were strewn about the bed and I pushed them away so my entire being could be filled up, like an empty gasoline tank, I needed rejuvenation.

Feeling enhanced by the blueness of the sky, which also came along with the sun, my feet gently touched the cold stone floor and I tiptoed down the hallway to the big windows to the north of the house. Barefooted still, my feet chilled, but my heart warmed by the solar plexus of the shining yellow ball of light I breathed.

The mind, engaged, my thoughts washed of all the harshness it has felt relieved. A path of light opened before me and I stood solid in its brightness. I opened the door to the small deck that faces the ocean and let the waves wash the soul that has been heavy from the clouded skies these past months. I felt a relief.

Seagulls sang among the sands, Eagles blending in, flying and dipping their wings low enough to find their fodder. One wave at a time, the sea washed the shore of its own daybreak, wood and shells, sea life taken in the night and green shrubbery that makes its bed on the sea floor, removed. The sand glistening in morning glory.

I took it all in, every drop of sun, every bit of soft flowing wind and serenity I felt. It does feel good to be free, even for a moments time, before a reality of sorts permeates my inner sanctum and leaves traces of unbalance once again.

I will use this light, this heat, this source, as my guide my awakening, in times of heaviness, when the rain comes again to wash away the grit, and the bring about the dampness of times to comes. Strength envisioned, I close the door but remember why we all come to believe that life is worth living and every moment has its own destiny, imageone link bends into another and another until we form a long time of life reincarnated. The soul then remembers why it s here at its smiles like the sun.

Can You Here The Rain

Have you seen the Rain? I have. Do you know I have touched my lips to the window. Cold, damp, moisture presses softly between my eyelashes, moistening the the drought between my cheeks. Places where the salt from my tears have forges gullies.

Have you heard the thunder? The pain in my head aroused by an infinity of numbness. The crackle of a unfamiliar, yet recognizable, voice bleating love. Kindness now lost in the drums that play endlessly.

I am blinded by the lightening. The bolts of electricity that curse through my body. The white light that heaven holds reinforced, by anger. An anger for what I see inside me.

Softly I step back, take in the view widely. Look upwards toward the clouds and their grayness, ready to be molded and shaped by the darkness of the coming night.

I can see now the rain, mirrors of droplets, distorting yet comforting. The images falling apart as they fit the floor, puddles forming around my feet.

NOW I AM THE RAIN.IMG_0745