The book is open today at insight as the birds claim the glory of sky and seem to be forcing a look out there as a turn-away from the knowing. Yet the knowing follows the need to see how they dip and glide gloriously free in the vastness of no limitations or rules as to how they must be. Slowly it dawns like day after night that I too must soar like the birds un-weighted by the burden of sight that penetrates all falsities. And when it is known that a dip and glide is a personal saving...
For something different and free follow the link below to some original music by Devin Howell.http://www.devinhowell.com/2013/06/03/winter-rose-live-in-studio-ep/
That gypsy looked as gypsies do into the heart of silence hoping there to see golden threads of happiness purported to be real. Lo/behold, a mass of many colours starting bold and vibrant and ending pastel, dull and she started to unravel still hoping as all gypsies do. Not here, not there, but somewhere, yes? And she looked again as gypsies do way beyond the pale and there in quiet repose cross-legged on the seat of time sat pure happiness. What time, what time, she didn’t know ther...
There’s nothing wrong with the 16thof May for it did in the past birth a special resolve but wrapped it up in flesh and bone before sending it into the world. There it lived for a number of years with inklings of the absolute truth and a sense of all the mystery realms that intruded into the physical world. There were times when resolve was strong but settled back into weak states seeking there to be like the rest unknowing, unthinking, unfeeling. Its façade was broken one day, one day, ...
And those times of hoping, hoping, too fluid to remain within compartments of the mind trickle down to ground there to be trodden on by life’s sheer disdain. But it is the month of May; there’ll be no rain today and consciousness degrees a time of watering from now until the summer brings in the clouds and rain to flood our hope filled fields and make them be as if were not. And if we pack and carry hope there’ll be a weakening and down to ground it will fall and again be no more. Ye...
In that pit of no-man’s land he lay as one unconscious of the hand of love that gentle traced the lines of bad experiences. They twisted this way/that and went beneath the surface of the certainly most transitory to disappear and be absorbed by the real and permanent. And yet she sought to draw them out and lay them end to end so they could shrivel up and die before the last goodbye. But the hand of love stopped midway; only one who lies in that dark pit can delve and ferret deep, de...
A thought comes stealthily to mind not like a thief to steal but to leave a package bound and wrapped with remembrances and a card to say write today the words of a love story. And I search the archives of that mind from the start until today looking for a grain of truth to weave the plot around. I find instead impressions where once the grains did lie and know that in the world today truth has gone awry. The grains of truth blow o’er the earth but sometimes, yes, they stop to rest and...
Where once the bright and glorious now only embers lie and flicker ever slightly so as if to say they know they once were a fire. The moon’s not sad when cut in half, the sun sets with a smile, and winter trees do not mourn the loss of summer’s beauty. As all that once was dies and lies in the archives of good memory they are the embers of my life continually flickering. I douse them with the present times and term them natural cycles and yet there’s that flickering on and on and ...
So that gypsy sat and pondered some on the form of human love and saw what should be straight and true was convoluted, bent. She scratched the surface, looked inside, and, lo/behold, a once bright gem was covered thick and densely with the moss of an agenda. How it got there still unknown but on her travels round about she knew the ground beneath her feet had hardened over time. No longer could she softly tread and feel the sand between her toes because there is no give between the laye...
When I decide to leave this place it would be, I know, to enter grace and be who I have always been when serving at the feet of love. It’s not a love this world can know when hormones always steal the show and eyes attuned to light upon the façade of skin and bone. I think to pack up all my life but still so much comes daily back for me to see, touch, and assess what fits into my travel bag. I think I’ll leave you here, you know, because you knew yet still remained distant and too far a...
