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The Essence of Art

Journal Entry: Tue Mar 24, 2015, 10:11 PM
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Thanks to all you wonderful artists who contribute and share your work here...



and special thanks to our Co-Founder libramoon :iconlibramoon: for maintaining the site almost single-handedly week after week!



Members: Notice that our site now has folders divided by the year each work was submitted. All new works should be submitted to Featured which corresponds to 2015.



and now to the main thought.... :)





The Essence of Art



Art is about participating in the Divine Kingdom. The most fulfilling creation of art is when we directly experience the transformation of bringing some aspect of the Kingdom into this world through our work. It is a fulfilling, illuminating, and freeing experience that integrates our human life with divine reality.

Through orienting our lives to noble principles like service and self cultivation, we develop the capacity to perceive reality objectively. Through this cleansed vision, we overcome the mechanisms of deception that are so deeply embedded in the world humanity has created. We purify our eyes and our perception and develop the ability to perceive the objective value of creations, and particularly of art.

Through this purified vision, we can look at ourselves, at our art work, and the art work of others with a clean and sober eye. We can see that no matter how skilled an artist is in the techniques of any given school, the traces of their true spirit and vital energy are embedded in all the works they create. Thus technique, as it has in so many places and times been used to obscure truth, no longer has the hold on our bearing to control our experience of what has now become a direct and obvious remnant of the artists’ objective state.

Living according to noble principles is a sobering and illuminating path to walk, for it destroys the fantasies of our cultures and our personal consciousness. Art becomes not a competitive agenda of egos, but rather a revelation of souls and the states in which they embed themselves. The prolific values in the so-called "art world" - which in our global Western culture place such high emphasis on obscuring power structures and truths - are effortlessly discarded, in favor of sincerity of expression and commitment to honest self cultivation.

The commonly implemented rules of art - e.g. perspective, balance, figuration, etc - are no longer experienced as transcendent limitations of internal expression. Rather, certain rules emerge from within the artist naturally, according to what serves the sincerity of his or her artistic expression. We can discover and refine techniques such as perspective through holding true to our personal vision just as powerfully as by training with any book or curriculum. It’s not that the study of technical principles will never arise during artistic growth, but rather their study ebbs and flows as the artist answers to the essential rhythms of his or her creative vitality.

Many art students are trained through curricula that enforce the need for artificiality of practice as a prerequisite for successful personal expression. This operates by a false and life-denying principle, which asserts that our vital flow must be suppressed at times in favor of artificial practices. This is fundamentally false, as the true development of creative expression comes not from its suppression in favor of technical practices, but rather from allowing it to flow within supportive environments sustained by the presence of a teacher. The art teacher’s role, therefore, is primarily to direct the vital flow of students’ natural creativity within a safe and supportive environment, rather than to suppress it and supplant it with mechanical practice.

In this light, we can look to the art curricula of many schools and see that it is not defined by real teachers, but rather by people who have most successfully internalized technical abilities. This also explains why so many MFA students express the attitude of becoming successful artists in spite of their education, rather than because of it. The true measure of the artist, and of the art teacher, is the commitment to living according to noble principles.

Our path as artists is for us to choose. We can walk an easier path through which we find acclaim, money, and praise by serving egos and established power structures. Yet ultimately we cannot hide from ourselves nor can we hide in our art from the cleansed vision of a true visionary. For walking a path of noble principles like self development, service, and love, we develop true power according to the operations of the objective universe and the Divine Kingdom. And further, I believe that the time is at hand when even the earthly rewards of acclaim, money, and praise will be flowing more and more in the direction of those who are sincerely choosing to follow the destiny written in their hearts. Those seeking easy rewards will be crushed by those who are claiming their true place in the Divine Kingdom.



Thank you for reading, and Godspeed on your creative endeavors....

---Gregory Bart aka Kiminjo:iconkiminjo:

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:iconlibramoon:
libramoon Featured By Owner Jan 29, 2017

Acts of Desolation
 
 
When the battlefield torn by mines is all the school or playground in which to grow,
how can the children be taught to know, to understand a lexicon of peace?
Bitter hatred permeates mother’s milk and what there is of grain,
permeates the very rain, gathered in barrels since the wells ran red
with poisoned blood, since the holiest of sites became blackened
with pestilence and shame.
Rumors expand on who is to blame; not much else to go around..
 
 
I like to walk the dark empty streets.  Late at night, the city becomes its own.  The smells, the silence, the stark black and white, shadows and streetlamps, without the people the city can become comforting, peaceful.  But never for long.”



SciFi novelette originally envisioned as a graphic novel

caelastory.blogspot.com/2009_0…

Reply
:iconlibramoon:
libramoon Featured By Owner Dec 20, 2016
wishing you a warm season of peace



Beginning’s phrase sets a tone.
Scat replies build, rise to moan.
Sway and leap, dance expressly.
Rhythm’s sweeps lets us less see
arms weaponized, more flesh and bone. 
 
 
 
Tense days, loose nights lost in dance.
Nothing bright to hold but chance.
Release calming beat of trance.
Touch light pulse above, below.
Believe, let go, enjoy the show. 
 
 
 
Hide beneath sodden leaves now.
Find solace under dark fall bough.
Breathe softly lest faults be found
allowing hate to break you.
Eschew tribal truths, dream anew.
 
 
 
Candles burn within dark halls.
Sparks of wisdom engrave walls.
Vision churned from flame enthralls.
Wander Earth, as scryer’s eyes.
Watch wonders play under charmed skies. 
 
 
 
Journeys carry forward dreams.
Lost or found not as it seems.
No true ends, nor beginnings.
Fair or foul, both bring winnings
dependent on emerging themes.
 
 
 
Loving notice helps us thrive.
Hugging, twining to survive.
Human heat to beat cold air.
Communal muse strives to share
Beauty grown from times of Despair.
 
 
 
Sky traffic lights like fireflies.
Dwellings mellow glow below.
Colder nights, calendar slides.
Slender omens signal hope.
Shimmer of magic helps folks cope.
 
 
 
Reindeer, Moon dog, Snow-borne dove
tender tidings from above.
Laughing lights spell out wishes.
Shadow shows tell what bliss is,
attest truth’s essence tastes of love.
 
 
 
Nests abandoned for far clime.
Winter stars bold shine sublime,
searchlights toward a hopeful sign.
Each turn faces new expanse.
Which view will you choose to enhance? 
 
 
 
Peace on Earth we seek in song.
Dear lurkers, please sing along.
Expand our voice, let all hear:
Peace is a choice, so is fear.
Bring words that challenge “right or wrong.” 
 
 
 
Festive times remind, expand.
Music joined becomes a band.
Voices rise, soar together.
Blessed skies shine loving weather.
We move past or for land of and. 
 
 
 
Craft absolute joy with care,
wondrous toys, laughter to share.
Pour drafts of delicious cheer.
Flow kind bright fun far and near,
music to soothe strife’s savage ear.
 
 
 
 
Reply
:iconlibramoon:
libramoon Featured By Owner Oct 29, 2016

blood poems for an October Scorpio Moon


they bring on pain and want to share it all around, make one big hurt.
This is the pain of the sins of the forefathers,
the founding fathers,
the captains of industry,
the capitalist barons and kings.
It is the painful tightening of nooses and stirrups,
the calculating cackling of Nazgul riding high on misery.
Taste the pain.
Savor the flow of blood from damaged hearts,
wounds of battle,
beggars kicked into oblivion on darkened streets,
excessive violence.
Pain is, after all, the great motivator.
Grind them all into a massive meatball,
cover with condiments extracted from the Earth,
this is the wealth that is worth
every sacrifice.
 
 
 
Early learning cast the play of we and they.
Blood, bone, face
is not man, soil intent on destiny.
Shadow marketeers sell swords, honour,
blessings to follow the faith as good fathers demand.
Soft blood dries -- throes of maggots and microbes
cunningly feast on folly.
Can the wage of war pay to feed our habit?
Vegetation of these mythic forests grows
twisted, tinged in dark crimson layers.
Smell terror, violent death --
fresh meat, or fresh enough for remnant
gnashed snarls of teeth and salivation.
Lullabies drenched in sweet hope
snapped for a dream.
 
 
 
 
Seeking for the power of wisdom
Multiple paths converge on star points
Pierced by light, taste of blood in darkness
Feed on what feeds your blossoming
 
 
 
I am inspired by anger engorging my blood-brain barrier
by symphonies of guilt and shame and hope
by simple positionings glimpsed from roving eyes by lightening,
darkening, liminal desires,
by brave warriors who cope with more than could be required
and the songs my silent ear demands I hear
 
It is foolishness to think that paradigm-wrecking change will not inflict pain. 
Perhaps it would be better if the shift would just Poof! --
all the trauma and bloodshed washed up at once
into it horrific tableau, then Enlightenment! 
I don't think it can work that way. 
Mostly we seem to not be inclined to any major changes
without being so miserable that we see no other option. 
I am emphatically not "for" this; but it seems to be so,
beyond my ability to control.
 
Do not struggle with anger, my son
Give in to the luxury of ire and woe
Dance to the music of bloodlust, fire, passion
Avenge the angst of life's attractions
Get caught up in the lava flow,
burning to spend and leap without reserve
Then, in sweet afterglow, in mild day's reflection,
take in the view of battlelands subdued.
In this fading light, this waning Sun,
aftermath of action,
take time and patience,
eye of storm,
tongue of meditation,
clear mind of wisdom to wish.
 
 
 
Not a Lucid Dream
 
 
She is not some willowy fragile damsel Queen
waiting for champions to compete
for her hand.
She is not grand, Imperious.
Not more than a child, yet strong of will,
of purpose.
She sings herself to sleep,
deep lullabies enticing
prophetic dreams.
Potent streams of consciousness
offer drenching
hydration.
To drown, to release all pretense,
to surrender to fate --
or collaborate in adventure.
It takes a Queen to drink
from the sacred cup, to
read the trails of sludge,
to answer.
She heeds the call,
heals her aching wound,
hears soft moisture mark her path.
Cracking ice, spelling runes,
guide, sprite luminous shades.
Wavery arms, blue ectoplasm,
trace salutations.
This is not lucid dreaming.
This is the sign promised.
Taste the frozen blood;
know its story, sharp, shining.
Live the legend,
even when
it is furthest from your mind.
 
 
 
At the edge of the real
At the plummet of denial
At the summit of all we pretend
Re-echoing ecstasy crescendo
No where to discover again
Drunk on this neverending run
To the End
 
 
 
Doorway into Scorpionic revelation -- severe, profound, grabs from beneath the conscious realm.
 
 
 
 
Drunk on koolaid.
Sputter junkie cultural jargon --
a separate, unequal, reality
you choose.
Soggy comfort of misery.
Slobby, whiney;
lobbing fouled barbs to amuse.
Cheap deterioration,
failure explained:
Not mine!  The way of the world.
Ascertain blame by direction
in which orator's stones are hurled.
Can't look back, or around
to track the blood on the ground.
Life seeps in pain.
Drunk in a pool of despair.
Left to sleep, unaware,
drowning in caustic rain.
 
 
 
Study War No More
 
What lesson can be applied?
When imperialist troops crash down upon a people's pride?
When might as right meets the instinct to survive?
When Midas greed lashes out to destroy?
We've been here before, o my brethren, o my children --
repeating the fouled lessons poured into our thirsty minds,
pushing back the horror before our eyes with blinding rage
forged into weapons by mortal foes
who hide in plain sight.
The only thing I know --
The lesson repeating agony in all our souls,
Haunted by the pleading eyes and bloody hearts
Of the slaughtered sacrifices to malignant gods --
There is something vital here to learn.
 
 
 
unsound
 
I have no words
no Earthly limitations
imploded aggravation applies
bloody bolts of magma impale my eyes
you wisely sidle past, mouth aghast,
while my presence lasts
I never doubted
your indifference
Out here, in space beyond
no one listens
 
 
 
sickly, fever vision
slow to remember action
whining in a corner
never seeing the Archer
guiding or the rainbow
calling from that window
We once called to vision
cry to see your anger
pitiful and collared
primped in cold and silver
Who are we to mourn you?
So reviled and tattered
that our vision barely sees us
We hope as if that mattered
retreat in pleasant manners
and expect you to believe
in some envisioned chance of promise
not destined to lie broken
trod upon by wrathful demons
drunk on hate and blood
 
 
 
maybe this is the fantasy world where businesses become our greedy robot overlords, squeezing out our blood and guts and leaving the excrement for our sustenance.
 
 
 
Cross Purpose
 
 
At time's crossroads, Reason drowns
in rage, pain,
radiated rain, treasonous air.
Weary of care, of punishing,
bottomless anger, of sobbing men
robbed of their right to give birth.
Taken from Mama's warmth, from
the cave, to play brave.
And it's ladies' choice as you squirm
in fool's corner.
Such a chore -- kissing at this
and that for a chance to score
the shame, the blame from stuck-out
tongues, the bloody laughter
"I could bite off that little thing -- make
you squat to pee."
Wired to fight, at any cost,
because, of course, the Cross proclaims
"We're right.  They are inherently wrong."
"Those below must be taught to obey
our superior tools, to be broken,
that we may ride."
Against our better fate, our race divided
along strict lines, by difference
nature instilled to make us strong
 
 
 
 
Nature Cure
 
 
The wild has been bred out of us.
We are city creatures now.
Citizens of common culture
down graded along the main stream,
abraded to fit
today's fashion,
to fit the form.
Wild dreams tug deep,
feed bloodlines unappeased,
misnamed disease.
 
 
Spring Fever
 
 
Such a psychotic mess
Such a mood slave
Prickly dendrites, echoes of abandoned lives.
Voiceless words compel, demand hearing.
Why do they beg at my door, cloying, whining,
grabbing at my eyes with scarring claws?
I who possess only obsessed carvings of dried blood,
only curdled nightmares where I've lost my way,
lost the thread that was to sew me whole.
Shiny coins twinkle, fit so comfortingly in
cyborg skin's mechanical slot.
Brite tinkly musical phrases effervesce.
Beautiful, hungry dancers consume,
piranhic bliss.
No magical kiss, no fated lover to heal
and carry me home.
My gifts spurned or derided for their
inexcusable tackiness, stinking with mold
and decay, cannot pay any price.
Mock, if you must for warmth.
I curl against entropy into a trashed
cardboard box of stale air.
 
 
 
metawakening
 
 
Sharal the Hunter runs from the Warrior of Destruction. 
She has lost all honor, all reason, all possessions but the skins that cover her.
Her village burns, all she has known forever ashes.
This ought to be a nightmare.
Here, now, it is horribly ... overwhelming.
Heart, blood, breath, these are what matter understands.
Mind is elsewhere.  It has screamed into submission, reptilian --
Heart, blood, breath.
 
Terror reverberates
shakes tree limbs, wavers
vision.  Terror waits ahead.
Grabbing strength enough to veer,
steer clear,
running thoughtless through loss,
unafraid of the unexpected, uncharted,
new.
Unencumbered by old terrors,
expectations.
Ready by necessity to make do,
to start from simplest principles.
Who am I, today?
Tomorrow will take care
of itself.
 
 
 
 
oracle
 
 
Dusty bones
buried in sand of ages
carried from days when sacrifice was still fresh,
still blood.
I carried you, sank into shifting sand,
drank your blood, or you mine
to keep us, to bind in eternal compromise
scythe of death, scythe of fulfillment.
Bones shatter,
scatter into oracular arrangement.
The days don’t end.
They carry into Sunset
oracular bones, dust, coagulating blood
possibilities not yet desired.
 
Reply
:iconlibramoon:
libramoon Featured By Owner Oct 1, 2016
Blood Poems for an October Evening (day one)

I sip of the rolling world
drunken rhythms
burning my throat like acrid
firestorms.
Bleeding into my eyes
bits of paper, random electrons,
news of the world.
 .
 .
Lovers Meeting
 .
Carry her with love
Always, in your deepest places
She is a woman upon the Earth
in an land of briar and weeds
It is so easy to fall
to fail to thrive
set upon by slavering beasts
and prophets
You know she yearns to serve
so well
that none could find fault
Yet every agonizing step
like angry knives
cutting from below
hobbles her further, deeper
leaving less to give
Bloody prints mark her
dusty trail
Thirsting for the cooling warmth
of love
Carry her into your
sacred caverns
secreted wellsprings
journey’s end
 .
I too have stories
unbelievable as fiction
creeping through dream imagery
holding dripping red candles
broken bits of mirror
tiny rips in red, red fabric
bleeding
I cannot breathe this story
I cannot hold a heartbeat
or a cogent thought
or pulse to a level
bearable
Beaten into rubble
crazed in simple sunlit
afternoon as if a moon
were racing in
stolen arteries
We all have known this story
 .
 .
Dammed
 .
I am thinking of a brick wall,
hiding dangerous imagery.
Walls upon walls.
High, low, immoderately
profuse,
bearing illusory murals,
scorched out graffiti
wicked symbols
unclean, unpurified.
Trauma reverberates
messes with circuitry
irreverent irreconcilable
discrepancies
in cellular reproduction,
glitches and stammers
in data processing.
A wall. I am building,
brick by painful brick
cemented with blood and pus,
tall, thick, obscuring
day and night
laughter and warm embrace
secret words of consolation
hidden in humor and homilies.
The walls stand
ready for bombardment
awaiting a destiny of chaotic rubble
when reverberation reaches
critical mass.
 .
 .
I hold a ball of fire
in my palm
behind my eyes
consuming me
engulfed in flaming pain
crackling frame-dissolving
into ember
into sparks
igniting hair and lashes
Yet out of ash
always renewed
ready to burn again
I can’t sleep for the light
find respite from agony
I am consumed
atom by atom
then realigned to play again
at disintegration
Towers fall carrying
their servant’s blood
and sinew stripped from angry life,
terror, torture.
Imagine burning stars
fire sprites twisting, evolving,
given form and awareness
low-wage jobs, small talk;
they woo and reproduce,
fall into regulated line.
Over millennia memories lose shape;
days lose their charm, become mundane.
Consumption means something different
from disease or connection.
Embers rearrange, form scary bits
of insight, inspiration,
pinpoint bright,
urgently burning.
 .
 .
Sorrow, numbing ice, inconsolate
pain too profound to acknowledge.
Vultures circle, maggots feast.
Blood-sucking parasites
imbibe sacrificial delight,
leering, sneering, snarling, slavering.
Your servants so eager for your favor
fatten themselves for slaughter.
 .
 .
Bitter Dregs
 .
You don’t get it.
You don’t want to.
It would be too much to bear
if you let yourself.
Briefly unconscious, awakened to
hard concrete ground surrounded
by heels and toes, amazing
they don’t crush me, but no,
like lockstep they walk around
though occasionally a(n unmeaning?)
shove — I’m not a someone,
just a minor obstacle
unnoted in their day.
No worries.
Not like shoved down under
hard muscle and bone
stinking of beer and rage
or waking from brief unconsciousness
to broken pain, bleeding
tears, torn, bruised, a
colorful toy
made for pleasure.
Then there are the voices, echoes
Harpies and Sirens, Furies
and sad old women, fingers
shaking in disapprobation.
The voices tell me I am beautiful,
in the way that ugly things are.
So bad, so pitiful, it gives me
status among the neverweres,
struggling shadows, whispering
curses demurely lest anyone
notice and throw them further
down.
Never easy, confessing to degradation.
The sin adheres. No one wants to know.
 .
Empire
Standing askew as the inexorable boot commands
squeezing out gems, polished and pure.
Paid in bread and circuses.
Bathed in raw entitlement
dreaming of ravaging, raping at will
drinking bright blood doped with
ecstatic thrill
casting lot that promised reward
be assured.
Cold, this world.
Shadow sans Sun.
Listless lapping at sparkling carbonation.
Sinking below matter and form
into terror stories;
taking warmth from smoldering coals.
As tomorrow continues today
your dissolving heart
dispersing pearls of wisdom.
Reply
:iconlibramoon:
libramoon Featured By Owner Sep 15, 2016
Maybe you would enjoy a little (full moon) night-time entertainment?
 
 
or
 
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:iconlibramoon:
libramoon Featured By Owner Aug 17, 2016
Remember when we
 
 
Remember
when we
were refugees,
martyrs in transition.
Road hypnosis.
Steps incessantly stranger.
Walking unhinged, barbaric terrain.
 
Home, family, streets to meet and trade,
perks of urbanity
cultured humanity
strong lanes of history,
tightly wrapped common milieu
as small daily rituals.
Now obliterated, markers
of place, of purpose.  Constrained movement
of uncertain destination,
I walk enclosed in walkers’ formation,
consciousness optional,
entrained within we of unsettled duration.
 
Brief touch, short awareness of a face,
faces, eyes almost blind, shrouded by terror,
destitution.
Why be human, cling to burdens of the flesh,
of aspiring?
Herd cattle, we pretend have no pain,
no mindful fear, no sense of personal
reality.
We walk because we have no landing.
Long past exhaustion, grabbing at pity of
strangers to attend our exhibition, to watch
over, protect, accept, that we fall on their streets
desperate for sleep.
Tattered skin, fragile bones;
reviled by foreign merchants
expecting quid pro quo
wherever we’re pressed to go.
Who are we, bleeding identity, to plead
salvation?
When we must stop, drop to the ground,
do they walk over us, or around, or humanely
offer shelter, bedding? 
 
Redefine home as space to sleep, keep
what we own (until stolen).
Ever diminished, with no where
to root and grow,
without resource of comfort, nothing
worth waking, yet another dire day descends.
 
Small girlchild, rags and dust – follow
her morning of traverse, this tiny world allowed.
Each tent flap reveals fester of wounds deep
and shallow, ravage disease.
Senses, thought, subsumed to beat of breath
outside rational context.
Stuck in the dirt, her worth a hole where
she bottoms out, tributary blood expelled.
 
Once accustomed security of work and love
(pre-war normality).
Today’s reality denies those lives.
Turned from tribal identity to nonentity,
just another body, broken in the fray.
 
Yet over yonder years, alliances twist,
resist, recombine; we adapt, regroup.
Each here/now imbues with further
circumstance, eternal dance of fates
suspected or surprise.  If we could
visualize as from above, masked for day’s
occasion, but behind gathering whole
panorama truths
as moments of clarity, 
whom are we assuming our self story to
include?
 
Summons, ambient clarion 
to public  acclaim:
Lives matter, private pain
sad desperation that never
fully heals though it ebb, sway, regain
purchase.
Surge of defiance over uncertain destiny,
advance of industry, if we might find that energy.
Realign expectant gaze toward peace, plenty
-- planetary necessity.
Eventually to remember as poignant history,
ritual song to somber tidal drum,
when we were refugees.
 
 
 
 
 
Reply
:iconlibramoon:
libramoon Featured By Owner Mar 26, 2016
 *
Easter
 *
Gentle rosy raindrops of a mellow dawning.
Children make the day – it’s Spring.
I thought of Christ in Church this morning,
borne on His cross in long ago Jerusalem.
Jesus, before His Destiny
removed Him from common ribaldry,
shoving banter that scores for a man
his jesting place among fellow men,
Jesus loved the little children even then.
He dared to proclaim a gentle faith, free
from bullies’ shaming, from easy blaming,
from traumatic scars of social war.
He believed in kind justice, respect for
human kin above judgmental sin.
Fatherly humor, the way fathers love
their children, with the pride of
ownership and the slave master’s
secret fear,
God disciplines His Heir.
 **
Arising to new warmth, the earth’s reawakening.
It’s a time for children and games of childhood,
a time for flirting with romance,
secret smiles and daisy chains.
Restorative season, simple, soft, natural,
for anointing damaged souls in peace
after lacerative ravages of winter.
Time for gentle things
like newborn kittens
and flowerbuds after beckon of rain.
I am slowly relearning the healing strength of love,
gladly relearning easy pleasures of humanity.
Life is tender, poignant,
a drifting melody.
 *
 *
 *
SHELL GAME
 Eggs drop – shards and viscous yuck.
A mess, better left unbroken;
walk softly, whisper, agree
to be agreeable.
Breakfasting on soggy cereal or
just a cuppa.
Smiling lamely through the
livelong day.
“Please don’t let me be a burden.
Please, allow me, walk upon my
crooked spinal stairway while
I carry your petty parcels
in my cracked, bleeding teeth.”
Eggshells break monthly
inside my womb.
But we don’t speak of that.
Not polite.  Not politic.
Like religion and horse races,
consuming addictions.
‘Cause we’re alright, ya know.
We’ve nothing to complain of.
Got our daily cakes and tea,
obeisance to some faith based Queen,
jolly good, jelly roll.
On Easter, in the blessing of Spring,
we paint sweet pastels
gently upon hard-boiled shells,
promise to be good little lambs.
The crust of the Earth
protects primeval fire and
gemstones.
Seed of the Sun
bears a glorious array of
multi-hued fruits
upon which we feast
for energy.
Part of this complete breakfast
rounded with an omelet
for growth and repair.
 *
 *
 *
 
SUNDAY PSALM 
Am I meant to be
a sacrificial lamb
as the Universe goes about its merry way?
Is this why we pray?
 *
If it’s only me —
the great and wise I AM
engaging in some self-negating play,
what the hey?
Life is whatever you make it.
So go out there and take it.
Never, ever fake it
and you’ll be ok.
Or so they say…
 *
Just a philosopher-poet,
suffered to ply my trade.
Brilliant skies hover nigh;
but, below, fading sight denies
acclaim.
 *
Somnolent glide, sinuous, silvery stair.
Burnt eyes still, closed to the world.
What glimpse might I witness
if only I dare?
Is there purpose to wandering Earth?
Should I care?
But what if I’m missing the thrill?
What would carry me there?
 *
Over the boundaries; into the wild.
Not a safe task to commit to a child.
A quest full of questions.
A fool’s ‘oliday.
And, have I mentioned,
no promise of pay.
Just a born again supplicant
reshaping the code,
creating the tale I’ll tell
when I’m old.
 *
“Jesus wept and died”
I always wondered what that meant.
An admonition to us to do the same?
Like, “Life sucks, and then you end”?
Or, if Jesus died for our sins,
did he first weep for our souls —
a holy pity party enfolding us all?
So, our sins have been wept for, died for;
we carry the blood of the Lamb, like disease.
Perhaps His sacrifice would be better released as
happy laughter; hugged forgiving;
genuine indulgence in feast of experience,
balance to weeping and dying.
For revelry balances grief;
ecstasy balances defeat;
and love, of course,
is the only balance to love.
Spitting on divine art.
Anger overtaking heart.
Ripping the world wheel apart,
invested in childish rage.
“Am I good now, Daddy?”
Purging my animal nature.
Ripping out the devils
under every bed.
I tell them, I tell them
what you said
about Fires of Hell awaiting
devotion to unsanctified ways.
Daddy, will you love me,
keep me safe?
My life, all lives, for You!
I humbly sacrifice
all life to You.
‘Cause you’re my Man, my Holy
Truth and Power.
Elevate my cause; it is your own.
 *
 *
 *
 
ARIA FROM THE CHRIST
Beat forward along ragged trail of blood.
Pure choral brought into view only
to satisfy chew of
subjugation by imperial decree.
Children, our fortune’s future
eaten raw after no sin but birth.
Moving too quickly,
caught up in gears and
blank-eyed bureaucracy.
Heroes cast for face and form,
character mere flimsy apparition.
Action speaks, lockstep with
homogenized product placement,
perfect hormonal peaks,
demographic destiny.
There are promised lands, great vistas,
heaven in every regard.
Clear road signs, well designed directions
abound.  Nothing uplifting need be denied.
A box of chocolate eggs.  A briar crown.
Symbols bring meaning
as audience finds faith to   
take off through soaring soundscape,
sail high on melodic wings.
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:iconlibramoon:
libramoon Featured By Owner Dec 20, 2015
*
The stars
The dark
The trees
The wind
On the street where I live.
On this night while I write.
Happening here and now.
Luxuriant melody.
Who can hear with me?
Share this moment in all of eternity?
Breathe in time to deeply vibrating tune.
What is Truth?
What is true?
Feet above ground.
Ambient air permeates –
celestial entities,
transient identities,
ambiguous destinies,
exquisite sentience.
Here and now.
*
Estrellita holiday arrayed, dazzling gauze, adoring gaze, impeccable focus.
Delicate paper sculpture forest of splendor, tin foil twinkle Moonglow spell.
Gifts for me misters and mistresses, ladies and gents, those who pass through and take a glitter-stamped chance.
Open adventure, taste inhaled atoms from unfathomed distance.
In this small crystal, starlight smiles.
Solar rays slowly kiss strength and warmth.
Beauty answers, in her aspect of eternity.
*
Beaches at sunset, quiet waves, sparkling reflection;
sand like dulcet bedding, gently shaded serene meditation.
*
Mountain ponds grounded by pastel flowers;
bright feathered geese flitter on high in scant array;
fairy light just enough to wander beyond glare or haze.
*
Clear long straight road into fantasy landscape, then curving
through hills, farms, forests, lit by wide blue breeze,
water-painted sky, scent of perfumed trees.
*
Winter magic freshly frosted, swirled, made new and brilliant.
Smell delicious promise, evoking caress of awe.
Call to seekers, distant melody sweet, calm, effulgent.
Birds in homeward flight, toward early sunset.
Full of good harvest, ready to roost through darkness.
Is this blessed omen of peaceful plenty to rejoice?
Or mere preparation for harsh Winter tempests to come?
Huddling against terrible storms, well placed, safe, together.
Strangers nested, perfumed, rarified.
Waiting for Lightbringer, morning star.
We celebrate through rugged weather warm welcoming peace.
*
Petite performance, illumined revelry – light we carry, share, renew.
If we might Believe, just enough to stare hard into flowing crystal.
See, fragile and fleeting, glass slowly melting, gently emitting.
Still peace, mindful passion, portentous glow, every facet effervescent.
Improvisation respects panoramic view.
Tell me a story of shining strength and brilliant strategies.
Thrilling escapes. Clever soliloquies.
Blessing of forgetting real dangers and their fears.
Heroes – people so publicly good they inspire us to be better.
To wander clothed for travel, no map, destination.
Direction, decision, matters of whim or instant’s serendipity.
*
Soft blue cloud mist, interrupting constellations.
Look! A gathering of space astronauts happy to save us because we’re all brethren as living universe.
Wiser big siblings, protective, sharing what longer experience has taught.
Sparkly lights over our Wintering fields, meteorites to wish upon.
I wish for miracles that outdo, overwhelm biblical prophecy.
Let them fight, outside our Earth borders, those archetypes of Lucifer and Christ.
Let them whip up fierce, boisterous conflagration – epiphanies of rage against love.
Hell, take bets, cheer and get high on the action. Up there, in that realm made of digitized dreams.
Here, right here and now and always from here on, let it go.
Let the movie skip, dynamic pixelate, on that distant screen while we
enjoy festivities, sparkling lights and generosity, best humanity can offer
-- spirit of liberation immersed in joyous celebration.
*
Iridescent, day-glo globes, fairy dust in billow flight.
*
The angel loved this child.
It’s not that all angels love their charges.
Mostly it’s just a job, though a job, of course, they perform joyfully.
It is not usually so personal, so human.
The angel watched over the child with poignant care.
It was not in angelic power to keep the child untouched by the myriad harms,
disappointments, longing pain, hapless tragedies of mortal consequence.
Yes, the angel was assigned as Guardian, but only insofar as to protect this life, keep intact the necessary attributes to fulfill this promised role in the great production, attributes brought to fruition through exercise in lesser roles over maturation, incremental expression of range.
So the angel watched this child grow, awkwardly, teased and tortured into position within a cultural tradition designed to control, keep order for elite convenience.
The devoted angel whispered kind encouragement, kept vigil lest this unique imagination be paralyzed, destroyed.
The angel loved so intensely as to be able to manifest in dreams, mind wanderings, delicate places inviolate by what our world expects and enforces.
Even when it seemed all seethed with horror, relentless sorrow, madness beyond comprehension, stench of mundane rot, the angel’s adoring presence gave a supportive touchstone of calm.
Always, look without the deceptive bias of eyes, listen without prejudice of language, feel soothed, understood.
The angel holds ethereal essence gently, passionately, in boundless generosity.
They are bonded twins, each more profoundly blessed in affinity.
*
What is the word for beyond words --
beauty simple, profound.
Stars, sunrays, miracles ablaze.
Loved and protected by gods, smitten with ecstasy.
Fortune favors elegance, grace of presence,
true nobility beyond codes of legend.
*
Long-toothed grey-white horse munches, trots,
watches occasional cars go by the road along this corral.
Drowsing afternoons remembers flying, wide white wings.
She has horse sense, wild strong senses, instinctual balance.
She eyes those passing passengers without comment.
If she needed, she could fly out of range, disappear from men’s
landscape. Not resigned, nor precisely happy – comfortable,
content, completely free.
 
*  
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:iconlibramoon:
libramoon Featured By Owner Dec 6, 2015
Peaceful imagery
 
Beaches at sunset, quiet waves, sparkling reflection;
sand like dulcet bedding, gently shaded for dreaming.
 
Mountain ponds surrounded by pastel flowers;
birds of grace flitter above in scant aerial array; fairy light just
bright enough to wander without glare or haze.
 
Clear long straight road into fantasy landscape, then curving
through hills, farms, forests, lit by wide blue breeze,
water-painted sky, scent of perfumed trees.
 
Winter magic freshly frosted, swirled, made new
and brilliant, distant melody sweet, calm, effulgent.
Smell delicious promise, somnolent, seeking, evoking
a caress of serene awe.  
 
 
12/6/15
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:iconlibramoon:
libramoon Featured By Owner Nov 25, 2015
Celebrate, honor gods of good fortune
Eat, drink, share beautiful stories
Very merry blessed Be
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