Poetry is Love – Missing Her – Audio Update

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Art – Matt Chambliss

Music by Epidemic Sound

Words lay still, insipid and bland on the heart

Intellect’s two dimensions churn out clever comparisons

That can pedestrianly pass for poetry

But it’s not

Word games at best

Mental masturbation absent the Lover

Carried out in secret compulsion to

Fill the emptiness, of the page

But there is no love there, no life

Nothing but ego and self gratification

I grow sick of myself without Her

Same tired themes, overused phrases fall flat

Filling empty spaces, with more

Seed, spilled, scattered, words wasted

Poetry is affection

Poetry is passion

Poetry is fervor’s intense desire

Poetry is hunger’s zealous devotion to it’s satisfaction

Consummation of flesh mind and spirit

Ego joyfully surrendered, broken asunder

As I is transcended and dances with We and Us and They

Poetry happens between the ticks of the clock, this and that, You and I

All else is mental masturbation

Poetry is alive

Poetry is Love

I miss Her when She’s gone

Somewhere in Summer

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Art – Matt Chambliss

Hot, wet, sultry summer

Damp heat hangs heavy, thickening the air

Shallow moist labored breaths

Weighty footsteps, deliberate, tread one by one

No relief in sight

The longest day is done, passed

The dry time approaches, baking earth

Greens rule today but browns will break when the earth cracks

Followed by yellows orange and red

Upon awakening I sensed a slight shifting signaling

The beginning of the end of the summer season

Zenith reached and turns toward tomorrow

Which yet lies over the horizon, out of view

The march of days has begun toward the next

The fragrance of Fall will secret itself between the rise and setting of the sun

Cooler crisp air will fill the spaces abandoned by the heat

Finding its place and quietly holding it until the coming of the cold

The waning has begun, a slow silent leak

Expansion halted now recedes, contraction begun

Longing for the sharp cold to cut through the malaise

To energize me once again in that time between seasons

Where the death of summer births the winter

For now I will trudge step by step along my way

I will harvest the final fruit of this year’s effort

Thankful for the grace of its bounty and provision

Yet wishing for something new, more, other than what I have produced

It was new ground, hoarded seeds of Self reluctantly surrendered, sown into the dark unknown

Trepidation’s trembling all along that way but ultimately unheeded

And now there is a new garden growing, one that has never been before

Something original done by my hand that only exists because I prepared and planted it

Triumph of risk over failure’s fear, an odd idea, a dream made manifest in the flesh

To have done the thing is something but what was I expecting

I was just experimenting and exploring the unknown of me, seeing if I could

It’s clear I can but now what, for what, I don’t know

As the seasons of me turn over and over, round and round, I unfold in unexpected ways

There remains a vast expanse of unknowing, my doing and being somehow reflecting that mystery

Maybe there is no ultimate answer to it.  My being says do and my doing says just be

I do know that is it hot and wet and green and that I can

But right now it is hard to harvest hazy thoughts in this heat

And I contract slowly like the season knowing that another is even now on its way to me

The slow warm exhale of what has been empties me, making room for a cool crisp new life giving breath

So, now sustained by what remains I await, I trudge, I harvest and save the seeds for a new, new garden

Perhaps that is the way of things

After the doing is done there is only being

Buds break becoming blossoms then just soak in the sun for a season

Until they are spent, color fading falling back to the earth to become part of the new that is to come

Yes, surely that is the way of things

It is somewhere in summer boy.  Why would you expect it to be different than it is

Sometimes I don’t know about you.  You will be complaining about the cold soon enough

Be Groovy! 🙂

Quest for the Rose- The Kiss

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She took my hand and led me down a path strewn with fresh fallen leaves

Beautiful waves of blonde curls adorned her regal head

The fragrance of fall followed after her

There was a twinkle in her green eyes reflecting the setting sun and the intent of her heart

But I did not miss the deeper layers there, hidden within the flecks of chocolate brown

Like a finely cut gem the glory of her eyes were found in their depths

A portal, a door, an entrance there at her core

Pouty lips pursed with the hint of a grin at their corners

Hopeful yet cautious, willing to give but not to be subjugated

Wild, dangerous, powerful was her beauty

Only the true warrior might find the way

She adorned in the Celtic tradition, blonde hair braided, scarfs protect against the cold

Her warm hand steady as she led me silently down paths I have never trod

She had spoken of a rose, a chalice which holds an elixir granting one eternal life

Not eternity in the pedestrian use which seeks a state of unending time

But rather that existence where all moments become one and makes time irrelevant

Where the deep Soul is quickened, where energy’s frequency transforms matter into spirit

Spirit into matter, where flesh mind and feelings are changed and rearranged, broken and remade

Where the Incarnation again walks the earth in worship and praise and thunders it’s hallelujah

Together we sought this sacred mound using the signs she had been given

She knew the way if I could but follow, learning with each step to walk the path

I am slow of wit and the lessons were sometimes pressed from me like fruit under a wheel

Sweetness made strong and the lees left behind but only after the ferment and the stillness

She guided me to a fine alabaster column which watched over a pool at its base

Here I learned to listen, to sense, the feel the heartbeat of the land

She led me up the mountain pass where we lingered at the summit nursing the weariness

Renewing ourselves, finding new strength and motivation to reach our goal

We found ourselves more in sync and in rhythm, increasingly aware of the strength and the pounding pulse of the place

As we made our way down the mountains and into the gently curving flatlands, instinct taught us the geography

Our steps were sure, firm here, lighter there, as need be

Our growing anticipation moved us toward the mound and the hopes held hidden there within the valley

As we neared the place, breathless from exertion and anticipation, we slowed our movements

Deliberate, gentle our steps as we entered the valley

The muted light required touch to proceed if we were to find our way to eternity’s passage

The exploration continued until, there behind a slightly parted curtain of the finest silk the Rose was revealed

Trembling, I gazed, pulse rushing, pounding in my ears

I beheld a flower with moist petals glistening with the light from my eyes

I was humbled and filled with adoration, with love

I brought the flower to my lips and as I did I felt the place begin to quake, a storm raged

Thunder, lighting, tempest winds blew, yet my kiss was true and held till the elixir washed over me

To describe what happened after would be to desecrate that holy ground for it was beyond words

And if one would know they must go find the thing for themselves, words would profane the sacred

They must step away from the common and join the quest

Seek the Grail cup and give themselves fully in both seeking and in the finding

And there one will discover themselves in the Other and the other already inhabiting them

She held me there out of time till the trembling stilled, there was only quiet rest

We breathed in and out, slow, long, and deeply, remembering that which we had always known

And the waves of time finally eroded the sand walls and called us back to the place from which we had come

She smiled and took my hand as I led her Home

To have been found worthy humbled me, for it was from no virtue I possessed

But only by and through Her grace was is made so

Plato’s Groove – Theme Song

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Plato’s Groove with Aaron Dick free-styling  on the keys

A little over two years ago I began to feel in a totally new direction.  Ego shattered, directionless, like falling in a dream. There was nothing solid to cling to. I began to slowly try things that seemed odd to my old self.  Something called me into a new way of being a me.  My hair grew outside the older restrictions I had placed on it along with my Soul.  In this new and strange land I began to find solid and hauntingly familiar steps to take.  It was like coming home to a place I had never been.  I had written this piece some years before but it had no voice.  I had some vague wish that somehow my very talented children might take up my writing and give it life but that was not for them to do.  I remember how nervous I was when Aaron started playing how strange it was for me to attempt it.  A couple glasses of red wine helped and we created this together.  I began to find my voice, even if it was timid and unsure, it was heard.  Now I do this and more on a weekly basis and think very little about it.  What was dangerous and new has become comfortable.  What I know though is that there are new worlds I need to explore and inhabit still.  I also know that moving from this horizon to the next will feel exactly like it did before I came here.  And I will never figure it out before I get there.  It is only in the going that I will know.

Time winds down. . . tick . . . tick . . . tick . . .

The clock ticks.
It fades in and out of my awareness.

The clock ticks.
Marking Time as It winds down to finally rest in Eternity.

The clock ticks.
Independent, without regard It plucks the very strings of the Cosmos.

The clock ticks.
Time now divided makes meter possible and cadence contingent.

The clock ticks.
The fabric of possibility is woven, lining the womb that is time.

The clock ticks.
Sacred Space emerges between the beats of past and future. Seeds can only be sown in the Now.

The clock ticks.
Slumbering Soul, never at rest, seeks completion of Its’ chord unresolved.

The clock ticks.
All existence is in motion, potential, moving toward harmony or dissonance, creativity or chaos, Life or death.

The clock ticks.
The metronome beats out the call to choose or not to choose. Both require a choice.

The clock ticks.
Whether background or fore, whether conscious or dreaming, It makes possible the awareness of Plato’s Groove.

The clock ticks.
Out of the shadows Life calls to life. There is underlying order within the chaos. The pilgrim seeks that which has always been hidden within view.

The clock ticks.
The artist’s heart does not create ex nihilo but rather chooses one and not the other, manifesting particular harmonies that resonate and call them into Being.

The clock ticks.
To act or refrain from motion is the artist’s prerogative. Variation ads pigment, or not, to the evolving tapestry.

The clock ticks.
Soul becomes more harmonious; at rest in the body, powerful its resonance with the Real. Dissonance no longer a mystery to be feared but rather consciously strummed to accentuate and more clearly articulate the Soul’s growing chorus.

The clock ticks.
Oh, Traveler strain through the dissonance to hear the notes which resonate with the pattern of your soul. Choose it at the cost of all others.

The clock ticks.

The clock ticks.

The clock ticks.
Each Soul’s resolution is to cultivate and balance It’s own polytonic sound in preparation for joining the romp with all other pure souls in harmony, dance, in art, in mathematics, and all other lenses through which we glimpse the mystery of the Eternal celebration that is Life.

Consonance. Congruity. Harmonious. Original. Authentic.

Internal Revenue Service (Audio)

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I don’t feel like writing

At least not from that place I usually do

For all that has passed between the Inside and Out must be accounted for

Books will have to be reconciled

Accounts receivable and those owed need attention

My Internal Revenue Service has called me in

Hundreds and thousands of transactions

What did I profit?  What have I lost?

Good and Bad, opposite sides of the same coin

A medium of exchange, but not the currency of the Soul

The bureaucrats tally as I struggle to explain with no paper-trail

There is currency now in my words

They create a lasting record

A new Order will be created

New precepts will provide the foundation

A new government will arise

Not based on the Dialectic

Hegel understood but only in part

Now  Integration, Re-creation, and  Consummation

The bedrock cleared and cornerstones laid

Behold, a New thing

Yet even so, old accounts must be settled