09-29-2011, 06:22 AM
WHISPERS FROM GALAXIES BEYOND GALAXIES
Whispers . . . voices that carry the essence
and unseen curve of galactic ether
and wind kissed trees
of future revelations . . .
meditations that dance swirling without fear,
dreamlike,
sailing rapidly through spiritual worm holes
toward the clarification of beautiful horizons never imagined.
Oh would that we could breathe
with highly evolved lungs
past the disturbing doorway
that holds our present state of consciousness
like a manipulated dark mandala,
unable to break free,
unwilling to allow a river of light
to flow outward from the until now
encrusted banks of the heart.
Slowly, slowly . . .
but with a miracle of stars as our guide,
we must begin to hear the ancient secret choir
that has always been there.
This spinning cycle of life and death
will in time dissolve,
becoming only the roots,
the sumptuous nutrition
that manifests in possibilities of a stillness,
a gift that opens the mind
to an unlimited understanding of Creation’s
manifold magnificence.
The universe is an echoing womb
that has given birth to god held lanterns,
to the ignored visionary hymns
that herald the ignition,
the warmth of a trillion candles
that will eventually draw us in to the radiance
of a divine and generous compassion
that rises in waves of a limitless circular release.
Listen, oh listen . . .
the harp player of the heavens
is restringing his instrument,
his fingers are the elements that give causation
for our sentient existence.
Harken to the godmother and her luxurious lullaby,
she quietly murmurs intonations
from the farthest reaches of the all inclusive.
May our ears in time develop
the amplification necessary to hear
their cryptic and benevolent message.
Whispers . . . voices that carry the essence
and unseen curve of galactic ether
and wind kissed trees
of future revelations . . .
meditations that dance swirling without fear,
dreamlike,
sailing rapidly through spiritual worm holes
toward the clarification of beautiful horizons never imagined.
Oh would that we could breathe
with highly evolved lungs
past the disturbing doorway
that holds our present state of consciousness
like a manipulated dark mandala,
unable to break free,
unwilling to allow a river of light
to flow outward from the until now
encrusted banks of the heart.
Slowly, slowly . . .
but with a miracle of stars as our guide,
we must begin to hear the ancient secret choir
that has always been there.
This spinning cycle of life and death
will in time dissolve,
becoming only the roots,
the sumptuous nutrition
that manifests in possibilities of a stillness,
a gift that opens the mind
to an unlimited understanding of Creation’s
manifold magnificence.
The universe is an echoing womb
that has given birth to god held lanterns,
to the ignored visionary hymns
that herald the ignition,
the warmth of a trillion candles
that will eventually draw us in to the radiance
of a divine and generous compassion
that rises in waves of a limitless circular release.
Listen, oh listen . . .
the harp player of the heavens
is restringing his instrument,
his fingers are the elements that give causation
for our sentient existence.
Harken to the godmother and her luxurious lullaby,
she quietly murmurs intonations
from the farthest reaches of the all inclusive.
May our ears in time develop
the amplification necessary to hear
their cryptic and benevolent message.