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Wishes in the Night – The Beloved (Audio)


The night sounds rise and fall around me

As stars emerge from the deep black well

Fireflies dance on the edge of vision

As dusk gives way to the night

Coolness settles upon the land

Stillness settles upon my heart

Tiny pinpricks of light appear

Delicate, peeping through the black curtain

Now soft pearl glow cast across the silence

Each moment brings the detail into focus

So too my heart’s desire becomes clear

Defined against the backdrop of my soul’s quietude

My wish is for you

And my wish for you is me

That you might be filled with me as the emptiness of space

Is filled with glorious light

That I might be to you the peace

Which settles over the night calling nature to rest

A night with no bumps in the dark.

No fear of exposure

No longer watchful

Only rest and blissful surrender

And if I may not have this wish then my next would be

That you may see yourself through my eyes

Then you would not need my light to fill your night

You would know the power in your form, the elegance in your movement

You would know your beauty as a gift and light to this dark and troubled world

You are most desirable in all things

And from that place of confident rest your striving would cease

You would become a source of grace and hope

And would lift up all whom you touch

If I might be granted even my second wish

I would know that my life has had a meaning

For I have recognized the sublime among the ordinary

To have held such to my breast is to have lived

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The Spirit of the Lord is Upon me.

This is a piece I wrote several years ago during a time of my Soul’s ferment.  It is not a religious statement by any means.  It is quite the opposite.  While I was indeed raised in a religious culture and have degrees in theology, and philosophy, and depth psychology, etc., blah, blah, blah. (Not a big deal at all.  I just wrote a bunch of papers to get another piece of paper to hang on the wall.)  This was a search for Truth.

This is also an experiment with a new pulgin to automatically posts WP offerings to the blockchain of Steemit.  I found it at scottyeager on Steemit.  Click on scotty’s name and find the article.  Now let’s see if it works. 🙂

The Spirit of the lord is upon me.
Because He anointed me to preach the Good News to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim release to the Captives,
And Recovery of sight to the blind,
To set free those who are oppressed,
To proclaim the favorable year of the Lord.
(Luke 4:18-19)

I believe in and receive the anointing to bring the Good News to the poor. But what message shall I bring? I have little use for a message worn and tattered by time and culture’s change in context. The Message, the Truth is eternal but the voices carrying it fade in the breeze. They lack relevance to my habitation and pattern. They lack a quickening resonance which sets the heart aflame.

The messengers are full of answers to questions I have not asked. They are either unaware of, or avoid that which lies dormant, a weight carried in the bowels of my being. But I am poor. How long since the yearnings of my heart have motivated me to action, either right or wrong? For the most part I remain stoic as the poor, smiling through teeth clenched in resignation. Resigned to the idea that dreams may indeed be just fantasy, That the “glorious” yearnings of my heart were merely the function of biology.

There are as many ways to be captive as there are to be poor. My poverty and captivity is that of the heart and mind. The stagnation that manifests on the material plane is neither hopelessness, laziness, nor fear. There is no dream to motivate and inspire belief and creativity. It has all been done before.

I am imprisoned within the trite, opaque walls of a stereotype. To succumb, to ride cynicism as a lover is the way many go. She is a loyal bitch, yet bitch she is. Or I could write out the story as a morality tale. Do this. Don’t do that. Perhaps the Law could help me regain my honor. Then I could write books and give speeches to the unwashed. I could become a hollow Wizard and refuse to face the Witch.

But, one is as much a prison as the other. Morality as rules, is a tyrannical pimp. To exchange one captivity for the other is vanity. To give one’s soul for the illusory comfort of the current zeitgeist is profane. Is there no other path? I would that I might find it and show it to my children. O’ that they might dwell in creativity, well outside the walls of stereotype.

But today my eyes are shut and the pathway eludes me. I am blind as well as captive. I see yet I do not trust my sight. Past visions once sharply defined on my horizon, shimmering in the heat of my want, were false. Some are easy to dismiss. Some were truly immoral. Some caused pain and loss. Others were “right” and “good” yet I found myself lacking in the midst of their abundance.

Surely it was I who lacked. Surely I am the mirage. The eyes through which I’ve seen have failed me. O’ for the eyes to see and the ears to hear!

But how am I oppressed? Do I not possess food, shelter, friends, and opportunity denied others? If I am oppressed it is the oppression of the mundane, the stereotype, and the false. It can take many forms. Religion, morality, achievement, addiction, and rebellion all can deaden the soul’s cry for life. They can oppress, smother, and wear down the captive’s capacity to live as if freedom were possible. It is the living “as if” that allows eternity to break into time and create an alternate plane of existence here. He said “the Kingdom is among you. Can you not see it?”

The captive moves between the polarities of good and bad, opposite sides of the same coin, the medium of exchange in the economy of the soul. But good and bad are deceptive propositions. The game of good vs. bad is a distraction. For there is none “good” but the Maker. The soul is neither good nor bad. It is either living or dying. It is either moving toward viability and life, or moving toward the impossible and ruin. The soul is addicted, bound to ritual, a particular morality, or it is free.

The Law is oppression and death. Creativity, Being, and Life are the Soul’s true habitation.

Just when is the favorable year? On whose calendar is it marked? Do the poor get a copy? Are the captives kept in the loop? Is there a braille edition for the blind? Do the oppressed have access?

Should then the stories prove true, time is an illusion and there is no favorable year or month or week or day. The Creator is either on our side or He is not. Perhaps the measurement has to do with our perception that time is made of the same stuff as eternity, that somehow eternity is endless time. Perhaps it is that we need some sense of perspective that measuring the stuff gives. But in the end all of eternity is for us and not against us. It must be. So that every year is the favorable year and every month is the favorable month and every week is the favorable week and every day is The Favorable Day of the Lord.

It is surely true that our poverty, captivity, blindness, and oppression are all of our own making. It can be, but it is not necessarily acts of volition, but rather our ignorance and immaturity in tension with the innocent and fierce Soul’s longings for Life.

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50 Shades of Redemption (Audio)

Art – Matt Chambliss

Like ink on paper subtly changes the fabric of the universe

Mark by mark, letter becomes word, word becomes sentence,

Becomes history, the story of what is or what was.

You are written into my story, my soul.

Each gesture, sound, fragrance, touch, and emotion you etched,

You inscribed upon the deepest part of me.

I am changed.  I am altered and will forever carry you with me, in me.

You are a part of every thought and inhabit the space between every breath.

You went with me to frightening places and I with you.

Together we transformed the terror into our soul’s Hallelujah!

And restless terrible longing found rest.

Light shined in, and defeated the darkness if only for an instant.

The source of the demons that plagued and haunted our dreams

Both waking and in slumber.

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Art – Matt Chambliss

Music –  “Sunflower” Paddy Sun


From the day of Her budding She has longed for the sun
Her being is drawn towards the light
The very core of Her aches for the life-giving warmth
In the night-time she hopes for a light to shine on Her
But all that shines is not the Sun
All that has warmth does not give life
So even though she may dance in the reflection and the distraction of the moment
She knows that it will pass
It will not beckon her to put down roots into the dark rich soil
She waits for the morning
She longs for Apollo that she might be made whole
Her face ever toward the sun, seeking the heat and life her Soul craves
Yet to see Her, to know Her is life-giving
The Sunflower is strength
A symbol of beauty and faith and life and vitality and intelligence
She already possesses that which she seeks, out There in the heavenly Sun
Orbiting Her eternally, yet never accessible
She does not understand that she is venerated like she does Apollo
She is longed for like the Sun
That there are those who turn and follow Her movements across their skies
Who mark their days by Her appearance and in Her leaving
Rest O Sunflower, put down your roots
Allow your blues, browns and golden facets to grace the green of your new growth
You are already everything you desire

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A Thousand Miles Away – Audio Update


Art – Matt Chambliss

Music – A Thousand Years (Piano/Cello Cover) – The Piano Guys

I dreamed that I was awake

Or perhaps I was awake yet slumbering

Consciousness in flux somewhere between the two

I know what is real, I know the difference

I can feel it

There is substance and passion and depth and sweet rest my reward

I can breathe there

But sometimes reality manifests itself in one and then the other as it wills

So who is to say what is dreaming and what is wakefulness

The Real is not tethered to the narrow realm of the senses

It gives allegiance to none, for there are many ways of knowing

How close is a thousand miles

It seemed as if I could have reached out and touched you

But you were a thousand miles away

What is the distance between this breath and my next

A step or two, feet, inches, seconds, the measurement is irrelevant

So close, yet thousand miles away

I felt you walk into my dream

I felt your presence before I turned, before I heard the voices

I sensed the singular form of you so the sight did not surprise me

Because I can sense you from a thousand miles away

How is it that I can inhale the fragrance of you, hear your voice in my dreams

I felt your glance on my back like a touch reaching out, a kiss on my neck

But there was a gulf between that would not be bridged, a guardian watchful

Polite, familiar chit chat for a second of a second

I could not find your eyes

So close yet a thousand miles away

I felt you leaving and I turned to watch you go

My observation hidden behind the tinted veil

I watched you walk into another dream that was a thousand miles away

Then, at the last instant, the final frantic moment you turned

I saw your eyes seeking me, trying to pierce the darkened glass

I recognized and reached out from the shadows

I was close, but hidden, and a thousand miles away

So, I will write to remember, I will write to say

What it’s like to feel your warmth

From a thousand miles away

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