Out of spiritual longing,
the womb of the world.
Out of the propitious earth
and passionate sea.
A myriad of life expressed.
Out of time and trying the self.
Out of realization.
Out of a sense of belonging,
a place to dream.
Out of all this needful wondering,
an intuitive knowledge of purpose,
a suggestion of immortality.
The imperative road.
In the gathering gloom, we who suffer the slow evolution of consciousness,
can take solace from the knowledge that we choose to,
in this there is hope.
So be not someone consumed in time, but a soul involved with eternity.
And when your heart is wrapped in pain and peeled bare,
let it pump poetry to spite despair.
Fore ever over the horizon, the sun like the eye of God
stares life and promise into the world.
And still rivers much like our souls gravitate to a welcoming home.
And still but only for a while yet, much of mankind to it’s dangerous and cloying habits.
And happily, children to their games, giddy in their fresh wisdom.
And I when I am able, to a midnight meadow go,
to lie in rapt repose among a Catherine wheel of stars,
Out of this dogged maelstrom.
Far too many of us are still in a simian way, groping for scraps of light in the early dawn, and not too vigorously at that.
The true vocation of a sage, is to tend the garden of silence, his/her harvest is to have no need to wonder at the wisdom that lives in the quietness between words.
Everyone walks wounded through this world, were it not so.
We who once rode the world, are now truly ridden.
Children are the golden moments in time, it is the obligation of parents to foster the good and promise that exists there, and more importantly leave them a world in which they can thrive.