Friday, December 2, 2011
tween shadow and wall
is found true adventure, whispering small
voices we hear in the night
and listen to with heart open, not out of fright.
The line that is there is no line at all
only illusion that causes a fall
from the opening measures
of this moment's place in time
and with flowers of grace
and hearing the chimes
I see the line fade...
Not dividing shadow from wall
but merging the two in one joyous call
to be strong and loving and share all
your gifts without fear of transgressing.
All obstacles lift high
on the wings of the nowhere of time
that like the no-line are fashioned
from fear and treated as crime.
Look at that edge,
feel its wisdom of knowing
that there are no divisions
tween darkness and light
but only our own situations of what might
be or have been as we travel
the line without and within.
Seeking the knowledge of magical line
that vanishes whenever we seek outward to find
ourselves in the middle of two that are fighting
yet know that our candle of love we could be lighting.
Nowhere is this more blatantly true
than within the heart struggle of ego and you.
Look, see the edges that blur
when we look more closely to see
them and then after that are the spaces unseen.
The line between the wall and the shadow
is nothing more than perception
betrayed by the false mind of ego
who is leading the way
because we allowed him the power
but we can retrieve him upon each new hour
and take into custody all his transgressions
to build up a new world of loving and blessings.
My finger it follows the mystical line
wondering what other secrets I might find.
Me, hovering close to the wall that can speak,
whispering words I barely can hear
until shadow steps in and covers my fear
with a blanket of darkness that falls
with the growing light,
removing the edge I no longer can see
dividing us--it is here no more--we are free.
It's been a while since I felt the flow of a rhyming that trickles through pen with impeccable timing. I know not the reason when or why my head turns to words that follow each other with similar sounds and falling to pages awaiting the swirl and flow of the messages within each letter that whirls. I love how words rhyme, I always have, even though 'real' poets sneer at their simplicity and sometimes awkward chunkiness, like crunchy peanut butter, not smooth. Maybe so, but I love the flow, the sound of echo...