On Billowing Cloud

On Billowing Cloud

On Billowing Cloud

I stood on the edge of a billowing cloud
Looking down at the winter wheat
Dancing so gracefully
To the symphony of a morning breeze…
The colors of miracles
Weaving their threads of wonder
Cross fields of light
While the first blush of dawn
Touched ever so softly
The tender tips of grain…

It was a most beautiful morning…
It would be a magnificent day…
For I had seen the world
Through eyes beyond my mortal blues
And touched the sky
With ageless hands of innocence…

Namasté

Michael33

Keepers of the Gate

Keepers of the gate 4

Keepers of the Gate

I called upon the universe
To show me heaven’s gate
So I would know just what it’s like
When I fulfill my fate

I know there must be forests fare
And lavender in bloom
With streams as clear as crystal jewels
Or that’s what I presumed

But what they showed was up ahead
Seemed clouded by the mist
It’s difficult to pen the verse
Where time does not exist

They drove me down a highway lined
With mortals left with thirst
And said to me “You tend to them,
It matters not the verse”

They showed me homes in rubbled ruin
From hate
From war
From greed
Where people pray on bended knee
Their souls left there to bleed

I found myself where I once lived
Saw homeless in the rain
More difficult to pass them by
When you can feel their pain

I flew with angels to a land
Where babies fought for breath
And children live out in the cold
To dance with certain death

So this is heaven, I inquired
Of keepers of the gate
They said,
“Old man…
Please understand
That angel wings have weight”

Perhaps we’re here upon this Earth
To find how love relates
And share what earthly wings we bear
With those of lesser fate

Namasté

Michael33

Echoes of Silence

Echoes of Silence 1

Echoes of Silence

Perhaps he has indeed gone mad
Though sanity just made him sad
His gaze gets lost in colors born
With blush of dawn in early morn

Though sense he cannot make of breath
Yet lingers not in mortal death
For he has wandered far beyond
Where marrow sips from earthly ponds

His silence echoes through the room
Musing fields of lilac blooms
He dreams of runes upon the wall
In rhymes of love he often scrawled

Perhaps he hasn’t gone insane
Wandering thoughts just rearranged
Perhaps he lingers worlds unknown…
Perhaps his soul’s already flown

Namasté

Michael33

The Empty Room

Tunnel cat 1 A

The Empty Room

Like sitting in an empty room… Alone
Fragments of imagination
Confused in segments of time
No words to lift the eyes from the floor
Nor rhymes upon the wall
The mind of the poet in scattered runes
No heart to pen the scrawl

Yet light shines through the crystal pane
The touch of rainbow hues
Prisms formed from dawn’s first blush
Reflections from the dew
Are miracles born in morning’s light
Does hope arrive with dawn
Are answers borne in morning’s mist
Before the lines are drawn

The candle’s light is growing dim
Yet shadows wash the wall
Dancing soft in silent rooms
Like spirits down the hall
When lanterns dim, no whispers hush
Illusions on the ceiling
Do voices call me to the “Light”
Or offer me their healing

The silence stirs the empty room
Like wind upon the willow
Crumpled quilts on beggared berth
No face upon the pillow
Fragments of imagination
Lost in grains of time
But love that bides within the soul
Still lingers in the rhyme

Namasté

Michael33

Copyright 2017

Being Different

Being Different 4

Sophie’s favorite place to watch Animal Planet

Funny Picture… Serious Poem

Being Different

Darkness bides in black and white
Rainbows fade in tempered light
Lines are thin tween wrong and right
Yet… humans really aren’t that bright

Walls torn down tween love and hate
While clergy cope with faith or fate
Behind closed doors we’re gay or straight
Yet… humans… tend to desecrate

Love that’s lost or love embraced
Lines we’ve drawn and lines erased
Passion longs for touch and taste
Yet… humans spawn the toxic waste

River’s wide tween rich and poor
Tween rotten wood and golden doors
Tween angel’s breath and sultry whores
Yet… humans loath the even score

Must we choose tween fight or flight
Are choices only left or right
Answers clear as day and night
Yet… humans really aren’t that bright

Michael33

Namasté

Copyright © 2017 All rights reserved

A Sparrow’s Voice

a-sparrows-voice-3

Perhaps in one’s search for perfection… our sense of what is beautiful becomes lost… searching for what has really never existed in our world.  Perhaps we search because of a sense of remembering from where we came. 

Maybe one could imagine what is perfect within their own mind… though my mind wanders in such imperfection that I don’t believe it would ‘know’ if ‘perfectness’ wandered through it.  Maybe one could dream the perfect dream and linger in that moment… but then… their awakening would be filled with the cruel emptiness of reality.

How does one portray the ‘beautiful’ they find inside their dreams?  There have been those who have attempted to paint them upon a canvass… There are those who have tried to express their dreams in rhyme… Yet… there seems there are no hues of color nor words in rhyme that can cast before our eyes, filling our hearts and souls with the ‘beautiful’ that lies within our dreams. 

Gathering wisdom through my many years spent on this earth, I have found nothing of perfectness… There is nothing that exists in nature that stands with perfection.  Yet… I have found more that is beautiful in all of nature’s imperfections than I could have ever imagined.

Perhaps that is in itself, part of the ‘beautiful’  within us… our own imperfections… our imperfect attempts at creating reflections of what does not exist.  Of course we must realize the often heard phrase that “beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder”… and isn’t that one of the ‘truths’ of the universe. 

So… I will remain in my imperfection… continuing to write my thoughts… my dreams… While others remain in their search for what is perfect… While they are listening to the beauty of the song birds… I will be finding what is most beautiful to me… in the voice of a sparrow.

A Sparrow’s Voice

Caught in a dream
Finding myself half there…
Half here… although here is not
Where I feel the most at home…
I dreamt of all the beautiful
That lingers beyond this world…
Sometimes finding its way
Into our forgotten consciousness…
I find no way to trace the lines
For there are no words
To engrave upon the mind
What lies beyond our human comprehension

If I were an artist
I would search this world for a canvass
That could bear the magnificence of a masterpiece…
And paint for you… “my dream”…
Though I have never found
Within my humanness
A palette borne of such brilliance…
Yet it is often within
Those very shades of other worlds
Where our soul discovers its longing…
Perhaps the effervescence of ‘coming home’…

Though Vincent tried to paint his dreams
One lonely “Starry Night”…
The morning star… the light before the dawn

His paintings often lined the walls
Of silent kings and queens…
Yet, never did he find the hues
For portraits of his dreams

Though I am but a sparrow’s voice
Upon the parchment bare…
I have searched this world
And that of another
For words that could paint
Upon this canvass…
A dream…
Yet I have found only lyrics of my humanness…

Caught between the reasons
Of life… as though it seems.
Never having found the words
For portraits of my dreams…

My mom was an artist… and a dreamer… a painter… and a poet. She often wandered this world and that of another and I thank her profoundly for sharing just the thought of that possibility… and for her endless encouragement… from this world and from that of another. There were times… while painting her heart upon the canvass… I could see the frustration upon her face… feel the pain of her compassion… for she too… could never find the hues to paint her dreams…
And yet…… We still can dream.

Namasté

Michael33

Of Morning’s Light

of-mornings-light-4

A little about the author of what some may think as poetry… and some perhaps of nonsense… As some of you may have presumed from my writing, I have delved deeply into meditative and altered states of consciousness.  Although I actually think that ‘altered states’ as some refer… really alters nothing and is just the result of a more direct focus of consciousness.  There I have found words of the ancients… insights… poetry… often, they share their mysteries.

Perhaps I am an ‘old soul’… perhaps I am merely a lost soul in search of the unknown.  I seek adventure… to wonder of the world… of the many worlds that surround us… those that linger outside our normal, human vision… the most alluring.

On one of these meditative journeys, I found myself sitting at a wooden table in what appeared to be a kitchen area resembling what one would think existed in the 17th or 18th century.  I was wearing somewhat bulky red and black clothing from head to toe.  My fingers were adorned with several large gold and beautiful gemstone rings.  Staring down at the marble floors, I felt a tremendous sense of sadness… to the depth that I have yet to shed from my memory, the intense feeling of heartbreak and sorrow.

In a bit of synchronicity… the morning following this meditation… this encounter with what I must at least consider as a possibility of an image of a past life ((hope I didn’t lose too many of you on that statement))… the local newspaper had a very small, irrelevant  article that spoke of Louis the XIV having placed marble floors in the Palace of Versailles.

Now… I certainly had no presumption that I was a king… yet… perhaps I ‘could’ assume by the way I was dressed… the rings on my fingers… the setting… the marble floors… that just perhaps… I was in some way associated with someone of significance in that era of time.

This Friday morning… at 3:30 a.m… I awoke with poetry in my head.  I laid awake repeating it over and over to myself… to avoid letting  the words I was given from worlds unknown, slip from my memory… That same feeling of extreme sadness, loneliness, longing…  again overwhelming my being…  At 4 a.m… I could wait no longer to place the words in safe keeping…

These are those words…

She has lingered so near to my heart
The sound of its rhythm
Echoes in the silence
Of a cold winter’s night…
Words never spoken
While bare feet danced
On cold marbled floors…
Yet faded runes
Still fondle walls
Of cryptic cellar stone…

Loneliness hath no forgiveness
While souls still wander
Down castle halls
And whispers soft… in garden bloom…

She has lingered so near to my heart
The light of my soul
Now burnished hues
Of morning’s light…
Yet voices heard in dark of night…
Keep mortal flesh in silence…

Namasté

Michael33

I would truly like to explore those cryptic cellar stones!

Perhaps this was all just coincidence and dreams… but perhaps………..?

Copyright © 2017

Vagabond of Light

vagabond-of-light-5

Vagabond of Light

I am nothing more than a vagabond of light
Wandering in the blush
Abandoned by those of indifference
Those who could not find the hues that melt their heart
Nor the tinge that would blend with their passion…
Yet mixed in the pigment left behind
By those of malcontent
I have found amidst the complexion of the dawn
A semblance of light… lingering in purity…
A humbled heart…
And the aesthetic sense…
                                    of being human…

Michael33

Copyright © 2016

Beneath the Sea

My beautiful picture

Beneath the Sea
 
I sailed away
Into the night
Upon a sloop of papyrus…
Into a fog so thickened in brume
That vision into the darkness
Was far beyond mortal comprehension…
There was nary a breeze
To carry me into the distance…
The silent, sightless night
Appeared to have abandoned time
Leaving a changeless, static semblance
The ambiance of a naked soul…
No sound from the wind
Nor that of the albatross
Nor even from the sea beneath me…

I could see nothing but the ebon of the night
Hidden deep within the cave of remembrance…
Darkness ladened upon me
As if the earth could no longer find the sun…
I wondered in that moment
If I would be witness to one more dawning of the morn…
Or awaken within the twilight
Of another world…
 
I stood in the quietude of reality
Hushed… upon the bow
In awakened meditations of the unnatural…
Where time does not exist…
Where pietistic silence
Consumes the marrow of one’s being…
Embalming the soul in wonder
Of what is real…
Of truths of a mortals existence
Longing for human vicissitude
Into worlds of immortality…
 
A flash of light in the distance
Translucent through the discountenance
Of my reality…
Perhaps lightning from the storm…
A bolt from Thor…
Perhaps the light of the gods
In search of lost souls…
 
Another flash from the sky
Igniting the sea in hues of crimson
Lingering on destiny’s horizon…
Shadows ascending from the glow
Perpetuating through the smother
Foreboding above the sloop
Like the vulture over his prey…
 
Yet, fear had not wept within my tears…
For I had wandered
The streams of consciousness
And flown without wings
To celestial bodies that
Linger not upon the parchment…
 
I have fallen beneath
The surface of the sea…
To depths where life
Exists for only the most
Un-ordinary of beings…
Perhaps a place where I would feel
Most at home…
If only I could breathe
                           Beneath the sea…

Michael33

Copyright © 2016

To Walk on the Moon

Moon 1abc

To Walk on the Moon
 
I’ve always wondered just what it was like
Traveling through space at the speed of light
Thirsting to fly in a silver balloon
And to know what it’s like to walk on the moon
 
I once had a dream that I wore golden wings
And flew round the world upon silver strings
Thirsting for love fore life came undone
And to know what it’s like when touching the sun
 
I traveled in tunnels from my world to theirs
And climbed into heaven on back alley stairs
Searching for passion fore time disappears
And to bide in the light of celestial spheres
 
I would not nor could not dwell on this earth
If hope had not entered my soul upon birth
Seeking the light neath shadowy brume
And to know what it’s like to walk on the moon

Michael33

Copyright 2016 All Rights Reserved