These Spiritual Flows

I got these Flows, you know?
These beats inside that unseat deeply held beliefs. They cycle around in my mind, finding a space beyond time to query the metanarrational ideals representative of close encounters of the spiritual kind. So I conduct these drills, you know, diving deep into still waters to find the current rushing below. Again, I got that flow, you know?
But how best to express it in a way that doesn’t dress it in pretentious bullshit that shuts down understanding, that feels like someone prancing in ideological fields, flowering philosophies divorced from iconographies of force, pounding people into coarse miasmas of etheric plasma, divorced from the real, the material ordeal that binds hearts and minds in time and space, to a place of essential grace? But that might be way too abstract. Not enough facts, revealing a lack of grounding in the necessity of communicating with tact.
Words stack. One upon the next, phrases coalescing in stages building meaning, streaming intention through gleaming shards of light, information blasting edifices built upon blight, the detritus of institutions not quite visible as such, appearing instead as solutions to problems long sought, build here, not there, upon this rock. I’ve got the flow. I know.
More bullshit. More words, designed to placate the herd. To create hypnotic illusions of complacency, in lieu of a fundamental alignment to conceptions of decency. Perception creates more opportunity for deception. Misalignment with truth, logically bound arguments that demand external proof when the real answer is under your own roof. That’s a metaphor, for your head. Where your attention should be, instead of out among the walking dead, shambling zombies sporting Abercrombie and Fitch, complacent in their privilege, thinking their life plan is coming off without a hitch.
Ain’t that a bitch. Ask a witch, or Wiccan, to be politically correct, if language use is more important than context? If understanding is gained by using words laced with pain? Does it hit deeper? Does it find the flow? Awaken the sleeper from the dream, elicit anger and indignant steam? Are some conversations best held in the highest tones, strident accusations embracing convictions held to the bone? Call and response rhythms bracing emotional blows that shake bodies to the core, while the demands of belief ask for more and still more? What, still, is in store?
What is coming next? Can you see it? Feel it? Like a storm gathering on the horizon, rent by lightning and thunder, still faint in the distance as the sharks and squid plunder the depths of our collective despair. You can smell the ozone in the air. Feel the electricity tingling in your hair as it stands on end. That’s the thing. You can’t pretend. Angels with broken wings still feel the sting of God’s abandonment. The loss of that Flow.
That timeless coursing of love that comes from both above and below. That sense of being a part of something integral and eternal, infinite and both maternal and paternal. The yin-yang dichotomy of opposition where polarities unite and you realize that the fight itself is the illusion, the contusions mere bruises to ego and unfounded fear.
Silence is birthed in the place of an ever-present wall of sound and fury. The storm arrives with lurid intensity and raindrops begin to fall, tasting of sorrowful waste, tracing paths of contentment down my face. My heartbeat stretches into eternity, spiking reverberations looming imponderable and tall. From those dizzying heights, I then fall. Beyond all calls to internalize the need for redemption and false guilt. Pretention fails. Internal dissension is quelled. And I sail, outwards into skies of light, and into the Flow.
You know?
You know?
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You

Your silence sounds like
waves on the ocean of creation

Your distance breaths like
lovers lost in each others eyes

Your pain aches
like mountains crushed beneath oceans of air

Your laughter shimmers like
bubbles frothing upon pearly waves

Your voice penetrates like
sunlight diving through oceans of thought

Your love lives in me
like stars lost in galactic fields

searching for a way home.

Angel Tears

Is this love, this low-level warfare of souls,
the higher dimensional fanfare of Oneness
the forgotten goal,
lost amidst the trials and tribulations of
daily life,
forgotten within the traumas and painful
episodes of daily strife.

When do we find the truth of things,
written in the stars as etheric bells do ring,
the angels watching over us
tears softly falling
their heavenly songs to sing,
as days pass by and time’s
pendulum continues to swing?

Trouble, trouble casts our days
as thunderous storms roll through
and we refuse to change our ways,
denying the quirks that others see
so clear,
while proclaiming righteousness
in words and actions
unaware that judgement is near.

Who loves so truly
that they know who they are,
intimately aware of their foibles and
issues, self-knowledge as close to
lived reality as the most distant
of stars?

As the brightness intensifies
and the world itself transforms
some choose ever to densify
to double-down on the norm
refuse to see the defamation
of their own spirits,
the sublimation of higher merit
hoisting dysfunction like a trophy
while soul’s urge continues to
flow free denied expression
day to day,
as love’s full vision continues
to play.

Somewhere distant,
beyond our ken.

Those angelic tears are falling,
once again.

Distant Rumblings

Distant rumbling beckons awareness
solar storms awaken the earth.

Gaia’s skin shifts, tectonic forces remorseless
absorbing the love of Sol, fierce and true.

Electromagnetic emanations bath the world,
emotional currents flow through.

Terran humanity oblivious to the ramifications
as the planet below does sing.

Her heart and soul scintillating brightly
her dance so pure and filled with grace.

Civilizations fall as the world heats quickly
Oceanic consciousness prepared for change.

The Vault

There is a vault within that most
hold dear,
the gestalt of sin, bound by a
chain of fear,
hidden, locked away from the sight
of brightest day,
unbidden, birds flock and spirits pray,
the power of gnosis found,
occasioning falling tears.

Without we seem to live
with no doubt,
while within we quail in terror,
the furor of internal conflict
the edict of self-condemnation,
remonstrations of failed creation,
stifled by trifles enlargened
and unbounded,
inside we flee screaming silent wails,
afraid of the tales of violent sound.

But this is the way of the earth,
the necessary culling in light of rebirth,
as the waters of the worlds wash sibilant
upon the shores of material innocence,
intransigent spirits spinning,
blending into the foliage, camouflaged
against the trumpet call of Divine Awakening,
slaking their thirst in the blood-filled wells
of the damned.

Man against man, woman against woman,
brother against sister against mother against
friend, and round it goes again,
a seemingly never-ending spiral, each iteration
a gyroscoping motion of devotion,
dedicated to pain, to repeating the same thing,
over and over again.

Is there a winning scenario?

Impresarios of pleasure wax eloquent, dependent
upon transcendent whims, denouncing friends,
family and strangers alike, gossiping,
dripping lies like sties from eyes awash with death,
steadily imbibing negativity until they take
their last breath.

This is the sinning scenario, the winning
being comprised of exactness and oppositional
proactivity, higher vibrational nativity born
within the crucible of spiritual knowledge,
the anvil of experiential college, the acceptance
of human frailty, of the failure of the will
to Be.

The vault within crumbles under the light
of awakened awareness,
the bareness of the opened soul the passage
through which spiritual light flows,
the space within which gnosis and transcendence
grows.

Take it slow, but steady, make sure to leap,
not step when ready, when that synchronicitous
event occurs, to do what is necessary
to fly, like the birds.

Chosen

Alabaster skies tinted crimson
witness the passage of time
landforms slowly shift
rolling waves of tectonic force
pushes light continental plates
across dense oceanic expanses
the cycles of life
born witness to
by deeper, slower forms
of consciousness
aeons in age
and existence
ponderous and fathomless
to quicker, more ephemeral
forms of life.

There exists within the mote
of a gnat’s eye fractal patterns of
co-creation, implicit in
every breath, every heart
beating to the rhythm of
the cosmos, expressly manifest
in the destiny of all life,
material accumulations
of consciousness
here today, gone tomorrow,
the cycle ever continues
as life expresses itself
in never-ending spirals
of higher and higher transformation.

Humanity quails beneath the weight
of recriminations endless
in nature of nature lost
paradise bereft
crumbling, wasting away
beneath the burden of mass genocide
and wasted opportunities
to shepherd Gaia’s fields,
maintain her pastures and mountains,
the quality of the water,
the air, the earth herself,
the etheric responsibility of
genetic imperatives ancient in conception
the family of life
and love denied,
minimized and enslaved to the power
of command and control.

The desires of consumption are simple,
childlike in actuality
and essence, the need for greed,
to consume without consequence,
ignoring the balance of nature,
the balance of the Cosmos themselves,
honoring the egocentric and selfish,
denying the holistic and universal
in favor of the desire to
feed one’s perceived need
irregardless of the cost
to the rest of us and the planet
herself, no set upon a path
of recovery and rejuvenation
with or without
her human horde.
.
Those who feel the pain of the planet
who live, in actuality, the truth
that the body is the temple,
as above, so below,
how the earth goes, so goes
humanity,
are those to whom the planet is promised,
the guardians of the co-creative principle
of perfection and peace,
the savage garden alive
with the imperatives of transcension,
moving forward, higher, spiraling into eternity
wafting upon the breath of divinity,
ever blowing from below,
lifting those chosen
to the heights of their
own, personal, spirit
of perfection.

Chosen by choice,
by the small whispering voice
within, exhorting them
toward conservatorship, toward acceptance
of the role of responsibility,
of being the high mind
bent upon representing the realities
of the divine, to return the earth to
her pristine state, to co-exist with
the plants, the animals upon this
soaring orb, bound upon a journey
of forever, travelling the cosmos
in search of its own dissolution,
knowing that this is the path of all
life, all things born must die
and all things lower,
must rise.

Storms Gathering

Question the mores of the day,
Set dreams of glory within your sights,
Intentions set as supplicants pray

Where is the laughter of children at play
The angered screams of bullies in fights,
Crowds gathered round to end the day.

Hearts interlinked vines twine round the quay,
Waves lap against the dock at night
Storms gathering as sailors pray.

Which is the way?
Who sees the light?
Who lives openly in the day?

There is no recompense for those who slay,
innocent spirits who know nothing but right,
Storms gathering as sailors pray.

Who sees the eyes of the Angels so fey?
Flying and soaring transcendent in flight
Question the mores of the day,
Storms gathering as sailors pray.

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A Villanelle is a nineteen-line poem consisting of a very specific rhyming scheme: aba aba aba aba aba abaa.

The first and the third lines in the first stanza are repeated in alternating order throughout the poem, and appear together in the last couplet (last two lines).