Regard the culture humans make to nurture sapient Earth

and guide the paths their children walk with wisdom, love, and mirth.

Is this the world your soul would make, the gift you longed to birth,

or have we lost our value’s way to squander will and worth?

Horse carts bloom to rocket ships within a lifetime’s years

while inner treasures lie unsought in hearts of frozen tears.

Bright young minds cling terrified to manufactured fears

and lust for stylish trademarked li(v)es and meaningless careers.

What drives this pace of cunning race designed by lords of hell

to snare each one and bind it blind, never knowing whence it fell?

Why trade the light of gnostic sight for group-think’s face to seem,

among webs wove of ciphered clones spinning empty sticky memes?

Each trust and bond they split by trick, twists hope to callous slave of hate;

Yet in this soil of conflict’s waste lie buried seeds sown long to wait

for those who trek space-time’s mind-sea to break this spell of fate.

From realms afar surrendered here within this dream we wake

to pierce benumbing mindlessness, endarkenment’s grasp to shake.

Guardians of love not lost this round nor tranced by the demon’s dance,

embrace instead our inward friends who guide with wisdom’s glance.

Remember our craft of heaven realms that balance the worlds they bring

to flourish the depths of life’s mystery from which true meaning springs.

Host of selves whose courage and sight gives sacred purpose wings,

now fly that mean which beauty knows and the wholly passioned sings.

Brilliant flock let us soar above time, steering paths of intangible grace

through sky of mind with wing spread hearts sailing ships of inner space.

Free we fly through gates of stars to our soul’s home gathering place

where in radiant forests of symphonic light we rejoin our angelic race.

© William Andrew

When I write and move around in my daily life, I demand that all things, even my junk, and if possible, the dirt under my fingernails, conform to poetic flow. Of course, I don’t know if I have reached the point in my writing where 100% of onlookers are able to feel and move with the poetry of my words. But I do defy ALL to be hung up on any itsy-bitsy “hooks” that they may preordain will snag their mental skin like sandpaper as they read my words so that they may yell, “OUCH!–There’s no poetry here!”

I love it. I am as slick as greased owl shit in every conceivable manner. Nothing can snag on me. That’s poetry, son. That’s POETRY.

If my life experiences here are any indication, and of course they are, you and I are so alike regarding poetry that worlds would collide if we got within shouting distance of one another in physical proximity. This is because the present is a positive/negative universe wherein like does not attract like. If we are just so-so alike, we will repel one another when we get just so-so close. Conversely, dissimilarity is attractive. Of course, we (or you or I) could change that whole arrangement if we desired. That’s how it all happens: one simply thinks and does something repeatedly enough until one day one awakes into the day that one has made. Thus, what kind of world is one making for oneself?

This is the second time JR has quoted from Dylan Thomas’s “Fern Hill.” My favorite poem of all. I first read it and discussed it in junior college in 1960 and then memorized it back in the early 80’s and recited it to myself every day on walks in Discovery Park.

These last two pieces by JR are brilliant. Poets reach right into your mind and alter it without effort. The words enter unfiltered, because the words and meanings are not really communicated instantly and while the mind is trying to figure out what is being communicated, communication is already happening and what is felt is more like remembering something than learning something and it’s emotional not intellectual.

Proudly re-posted on The All-Seeing Eyebama: http://eyebama.onehumanbeing.com/2013/08/20/you-can-have-consciousness-made-out-of-poetry-or-brain-surgery/