Tag Archive | life after death

Afterlife Now!

No Other Time Is Better

As the fit hits the shan and I get the back hand
Of a pissed off society, what can I do?
There’s no left or right exiting off of this stage.
I wish that I could wave a wand and disengage
From this path I have taken. I am someone who
Has screwed up so profoundly that I can’t expand.

It’s not that it’s a cruel world. This I had known
Since before my arrival into this strange now.
Since from spirit I did come, why then would I choose
To submit to a gamble wherein I may lose
And create yet more karma? How can I know how
To see clearly the guidance I clearly am shown?

They remain yet unanswered… These questions I ask
Of an infinite universe… Are they worthwhile
To be spending time pondering while I am here?
Would heaven build a schoolhouse to learn about fear?
I cannot shake the feeling that I’m in exile
And to find my way back to somewhere is my task.

What I feel is nostalgia for somewhere unknown
To my present reality, and my yearning
Is for how I felt coming here – not going back
Until I get to deal with my issues of lack.
Contemplating the afterlife often will bring
On that wonderful feeling right now on its own.

What To Do While In Spirit…

Eternitity of Beingness

Not near death nor near living, for what do I wait?
…No sense of being conscious of self nor no one
Since the mere act of being is made of its own
Only substance of time flow ever to be known
As the thought come before next becomes the end run
Of this life come to be passed much due to dead weight?

This thought form of a body exists very real.
As an everyday model old, fine does it run.
Remembers it insanely well how to behave,
Or how to send its master to its early grave.
Incomplete thought entrapment can never be done.
Absolute nonexistence has no thought appeal.

From the viewpoint exalted far out and away
All of life is presented. Complain does the thought
Not of style nor of format nor technique surreal,
But for just being yanked from the world with such zeal.
Interruption? To think that, who then can’t be caught
In the fool’s web of arrogance for The Long Day?

Practicing hospice routine partakes pleasure’s peace.
Transition through reviewing as all it takes place
Has never been attended by one with a name
That has stuck damned fast to it butt gut wrenching shame.
My allowance here shows me the self I must face
For another while longer undoing my fleece.

The Cycle Unending

Eternal Drama

Life is blissful, ecstatic, and consummate fun.
Why would one want to end the ongoing process
Of eternal becoming? No sense does this make.
It would seem we are here first of all to partake
Of life’s infinite joy, then to learn and express
Loving kindness and thankfulness to everyone.

Clearly this is the take on life that is preferred
By all who, conscientious of what life can mean,
See that all the world’s masses have something to share
Among intimate circles. Life is an affair
Of relations with others whose living is seen
As a wholesome communion where spirit is stirred.

Do I speak what is true here, or am I deceived
By a sarcastic premise that isn’t the norm?
I cannot know the answer. My mind isn’t clear.
It may be that my knowing is nestled in fear
That I’m one of the sick few who cannot conform
Despite tried and false efforts to be well received.

How does life unfold for those whose efforts are true
To the mark of acceptance by all humankind?
Does it play along smoothly with gloom now and then?
Is it handled appropriately if and when
It occurs? It’s true that to each soul is assigned
Certain lessons to learn that it may not get to.

So the cycle continues as it is believed
By at least many people. To some, it’s the end…
Like a story book closed and put back on the shelf.
No one knows quite for sure what to make of oneself.
We’re all steeped in a circumstance we can’t transcend
But through some sort of practice of spirit conceived.

Some may then find a stairway to something beyond.
A release from the dark pool and into the light
Is a thing one may strive for so living can be
One big step toward promotion to realms that are free
Of more lessons in living and gaining insight.
Until then, to this earth there’s a natural bond.

Communicable Heart

Sensitivities Linked To Communication

Something pulled from the anus to gift humankind
Is of maximum benefit. No one complains
Of the odor contingent nor toxic effect
Of the degrading process that stains self-respect.
One who offers a bathing may go through great pains
Yet encounter resentment which then blows his mind.

Who maintains the illusion? Indeed, is there one?
Is it I who supports what I can’t understand?
Or is there a world order of which I’m apart
That surpasses my knowledge and alien heart?
I can sense severe effort by how I demand
What it is that I’m missing. What is to be done?

If excessive and useless describes what I give
And/or how I present it then how do I err?
Spirit says if there’s struggle then it’s a sure clue
That I’m far off my path in the thing that I do.
I could leave life alone, but that wouldn’t be fair.
There must be some solution that I can then live.

Where I am in life matters itself to no one
But the eternal spirit internal among
Other selves now alive in dimensions unknown
That belong to me also. They need not be shown
To this self nor to others. The virulent tongue
Is the grandest illusion that’s ever begun.

What is communicated is straight from my heart
Made of flesh and of substances I can’t describe.
I need not live in worry of not being heard.
There are no ears to hear. Perhaps that is preferred.
There are none I’m among now to claim as my tribe.
To the thick fecal air I have much to impart.

Obsessively Driven

Examine You Attitudes

Sustenance is a given but not on this earth.
In the world disembodied such isn’t the case.
When existing as pure spirit nothing one needs
But divine grace, whereas in this world what proceeds
To hijack people’s focus is all that we chase.
We exalt acquisition and give it much worth.

The concern is with getting all that we may need
Multiplied by a factor ensuring success.
We must win by a landslide to mitigate fear.
There’s no notion of ‘too much,’ and what we hold dear
Will endure dissipation. Some can’t go for less
Than their oversized visions that rely on greed.

So Obsessively Driven our indigent souls
See less value in providence offered for free
By all mightier powers of spirit unseen.
Fearful feelings of worth feed the grotesque machine
That supports the few families efficiently.
Luckily we have free will to temper our goals.

Goal achieving is reckless when out of control
Of the peace ever silent that guides from within.
We become, then, pugnacious and lacking in charm.
In pursuit of our pleasures we do others harm.
Earthly structures are rigid and wear the heart thin.
What on earth besides spirit can render us whole?

Patience, Heal Thyself

Gentleness is the way of the soft, healing heart,
Having gained its compassion from having felt pain
On a deep karmic level through many lifetimes.
I have learned well my lessons when my spirit chimes
With the will to share everything, as it’s humane
To be kind to my kind with wisdom to impart.

When the wound seems incurable, time is at hand
To absorb the experience for what it’s worth.
I can get through the torment as I’ve done before
In adjacent realities I can’t explore
Except through meditation. I’ve come through this earth
For the needed rebalancing as had been planned.

Often chained in the cellar and hidden amid
Psychic ancestral rubble, the wound must be known
If there is to come healing. This may be my way
Of fulfilling the mission. My heart must obey
What the subconscious patterns within me have shown
To be qualified teachings I should not forbid.

For The Future

Not For Now

On a road with dark boundaries and with and end,
There can be but compliance with all that takes place.
I can’t see through the thickness. Chaotic and gray
Is the fragile conundrum I live out each day.
My wheels oft’ spin excessively to my disgrace
Due to pent up energy I need to expend.

It remains optimistic. My outlook today
Is one ripe with potential. Enthusiasm
And a new depth of focus attend to my growth.
Since before my arriving I’d crafted an oath
To feel good things and bad things and not to succumb
To the robust impatience that fetters my way.

We are here but a short time. As my time draws near,
I’m aware of my deficits. Late is ok.
That way it becomes easy to play the wise man.
It’s, again, a part of the original plan.
To ride into the earth plane and make my own way
Is to prepare the next time that I may appear.

Animated Suspension )Versus Vice Versa(

Existence Between States

Suspended Animation, as most of us know,
Is a state where activity comes to a halt
Or is made to creep slowly, as if by some force
Totally supernatural. What is the source
Of this lame definition? Indeed, who’s at fault?
There’s a whole lot more to this, as I will now show.

One must first find the inverse. Though non sequitur
In its mirror reflection, trust that it makes sense
As a logical theory, just as is with math.
Seeing from this perspective is surely the path
To cosmic understanding and wisdom immense.
Both worlds are parts of one so that growth may occur.

We’re Suspended in life here and Animated
In a way that is cumbersome. Bodies are weak.
But when we move to Spirit, Suspension must cease.
We’re no longer in motion. The Spirit knows peace.
Animation, in Spirit, is much too oblique
For our flesh minds to fathom because they’re flesh fed.

Animated Suspension is that other state
Where we are when we leave here – this thing we call earth.
We’re Suspended from life here to Animate there
With an infinite freedom and life without care
‘Til it comes time we’re moved to consider rebirth.
Neither world is the better. In both we create.

Intermediate Frequency

Vintage Eternity

All behavior is cyclic. Each has its own phase
Of a sequence of actions that has to repeat.
Each one has its own wavelength for getting things done.
As one thing is completed the next is begun.
Cycles do mix together in manner discrete.
All can act as a carrier in many ways.

Upon signal detection I’ve ended up here
In a world made of matter with message and means
To broadcast in fidelity all that I’ve learned
From dimensions beyond this one. I am concerned
That my most errant cycles are locked in my genes.
Is it safer in heaven where there is no fear?

We are all the same signal. Our wavelengths combine
To form one complex beacon in infinite space.
All continuous segments of organized time
Abhor demodulation. Is this not sublime?
As my cycle completes I’ll return to that place
From where all is transmitted and all is divine.

Who Is That Strange Soul?

enigma

Life speeds by rather quickly from this vantage point.
It’s just like at the movies, but I am there too.
My believing it is me, though it’s crystal clear,
Is a grand paradox – one that causes me fear,
Not of that which is unknown, but of this post view.
I can’t be that strange fellow. Why such a disjoint?

Have I acted so foolishly? I guess I did.
Somehow I can’t deny I’m the actor played there
Who appears ill and clumsy while caught in the light.
I thought I was a peaceful soul. This one does fight.
He would have people know that they’d better beware.
Indeed, when he gets angry he acts like a kid.

Has there been a mistake? This review can’t be mine.
Some screwup has occurred in the Akashic Vault.
One bored astral librarian made a mistake.
But who is there to check that? No sense does it make.
And can those who are in charge say this is my fault?
If I suspend all judgment, will things work out fine?

Afterlife

Transition

I have died, and I’m here now in this afterlife.
It’s not what I expected. It looks rather bleak
Like the life left behind. I discern no big change.
Things that are in both places I can’t rearrange
To my liking. Forgive my most honest critique
But what I see ahead is continuing strife.

Have I made this illusion upon psychic death
In a knee jerk response to prepare me to see
The Omega of afterlives waiting ahead
All because I believe now that I’m truly dead?
In believing it’s so, then it’s all up to me
To live up to what follows ‘til my dying breath.

Is there light? I don’t see that. At least, not right now.
I was told I must go to it, moth-like in trust
That reality will vanish once and for all.
This world that I’m believing could be my downfall.
How I deal with non-time here will still be discussed.
This death is a transition I humbly allow.

We Are The Garden

Newborn

I belong in the Garden that God’s angels tend.
They recruit may spirits of those who grow free
From the earth in this Garden. It can weigh us down.
Flowers cannot be sexy while wearing a frown
So the angels and those who have gone faithfully
Keep an eye on our progress perhaps ‘til our end.

Things don’t go along smoothly. One may think they should
Since benevolent forces impinge on our deeds.
When we act out of free will, they can’t intervene.
What we do unto others in time must be seen
In the fullest of clarity. We are the seeds
Of the Garden we make here in our humanhood.

They tell us we’re great people, the Gardeners there,
Having planted their seeds in the earth left behind.
With unending rejoicing, they see with new light.
We are treated as flowers of limited sight
For a short while. Sometimes it’s a chore to be kind.
We can know that this Garden is in the best care.

After Death

Death As the Passage Into New Life

The old body is done now. Where else do I go?
I feel so much less burdened. My breath is set free.
What’s become of my body? Is it laid to rest?
It’s been through quite a lifetime. Perhaps that is best.
It is odd that without eyes I finally see
That it’s not such a big deal for what I now know.

I’m adrift as I move toward what most I did crave.
And because I’ve no body, all bodies are mine
‘Til I’ve come to my senses. Discretion had I
While contained in a body. Now I don’t comply
With the laws of the physical. I will align
With the urges preceding my trip to the grave.

That I cannot escape here until I see light
Is the game that I play knowing it becomes real
For myself and my fellow ghosts in-between states.
Do I fear that some reckoning for me awaits?
The world I left behind is one where I did feel.
Now that isn’t an issue, nor is wrong or right.

While on earth, I felt strongly and spoke a big stick.
I took pride in my passions and had an ego
That was often abusive. Am I that way now?
Emotions are of earth. Spirit cannot allow
That which I’ve come to learn to harm the status quo.
Learning how to behave here can seem quite a trick.

Now that I’ve left this body, there can be no doubt
That I once had a mother. But now who is she?
Purely physical is the nature of this life.
Only on this green earth does a man take a wife.
My deep, earthly connections are not part of me.
Healing light is forthcoming. My faith is devout.

Psychic Peek At A Puter

Crack of Putin

Something like a computer, a Vladimir Puter
Assumes an identity somewhat human.
An asshole of a neural net masters the mind
In the mold of a tyrant for all humankind
Who had nearly succeeded in his master plan
To reshape the whole world to what he would prefer.

Still, a world class accomplishment to have sewn hate
Throughout many a nation, he feels not that well.
His own people are waking up from their deep sleep
In a bitter cold governance as frozen sheep.
Why does he not feel powerful? Close aids can tell
Unidentified enemies may seal his fate.

True… this Puter likes poison. It’s lethal and sure
To eliminate nuisances who misbehave.
Some soldier in the galley knows of his fine taste
And is feeding him slowly. Soon he will be waste.
What would be then most fitting to put on his grave?
“Once there lived a great Puter. Now he is manure.”

My Mother Was Human

Logical Greeting

When I think of my mother, I do so with heart.
She had love for humanity and common sense.
She was not always logical, but warm and kind
And a woman of substance with grace intertwined.
I knew safety and comfort. Her love is immense
So I don’t have to miss her. We’re not far apart.

Mother was sometimes scary. She could read my mind
And could tell how I’m feeling at any moment.
How she does that is something I may come to know
But for now it’s sufficient that I learn and grow
To my fullest potential and dare not lament
That somehow I am different and so resigned.

Again I will be with her perhaps sometime soon.
That would not be objectionable given that
I have been around humans enough to report
That God’s project is viable. It’s nothing short
Of an alien mission. This strange habitat
Is both wild science fiction and lethal cartoon.

Die Hard

Hard Unto Death

I would want to die easy but never dead limp
To the cause of excitement resulting in me.
Rigor mortis precludes dying soft, as it were.
Though the root is no joint, hardness it would prefer
Pointing skyward, honoring what life gave for free.
My last moments demand not on passion I’ll scrimp.

To be cast of a hard mold indicatively
Is hardly not the easiest tribute to give.
Would it be worth the effort to stay well prepared?
Only lack of good stimuli should make one scared.
It may be hard to Die Hard as it is to live.
May the dick, upon dying, remain quite sturdy.

To Die Hard is made easy as passion remains
My most firm source of guidance. May I leave behind
Something pointing to something that makes some small sense
To some set of some subset of some reference.
Intercourse of all nature takes place in the mind.
Any action perceived, the erect soul explains.

Bathe And Begone

Psychotic Desperation

What compounds a sick joke is no one knows I’m bored
To the point of extinction. Yet, why won’t I go
To whatever is next for me? Am I afraid
That I’ll feel even worse than this hell that I’ve made?
I have lost vital patience with all that I know.
If this life is a game, indeed I’ve poorly scored.

I can’t stand my own playpen by now. It’s become
Prison-like in predation. I can’t let you in.
I can keep myself tidy. My soul needs a bath
From its foul incarnation. Am I on the path
Of profound transformation? What nature of sin
Have I done that my life is a tub full of scum.

Loosely rooted in this world, I am at a loss
To know it more sufficiently. Time has run past
Dissipating to nothingness of my free will.
This odd self I’ve created cannot learn to thrill
Anyone to sensation. How long will this last?
Is my health doomed to dive as I carry this cross?

If my complex of inhibition is a clue
That I’m not meant to be here, what could that look like?
As long as I remain here, I’ll do what I do.
Thinking that it has meaning leads to feeling blue.
My need for recognition needs to take a hike.
My hurt self along with it would be something new.

The Choice Of Depression

Lonliness, depression, hoplessness...

I once met an attorney who thought she was good
All because her first case as a prosecutor
Was a suicide. She fought and won the damned case!
It would seem that some lawyers are fit for disgrace.
So, if you plan on leaving, you may be in store
For post-death litigation amid spirithood.

Things are screwed up with life. Isn’t that bad enough?
If I get depressed I’m amplifying the fact.
It’s my responsibility only to be
In a state of wellbeing most naturally.
If I get pissed at something, the way I react
Does determine my psyche and all of that stuff.

Do I choose my insanity? In ways I do.
The expression, “I’m mad at you!” is not benign.
Both subconscious and willing, it can get results.
Often times though, it ends up evoking insults.
I degrade my wellbeing when I piss and whine.
I indeed am my doctor. How so this is true.

Advanced Placement Afterlife

Impressions of Life and Afterlife

The ‘Accelerated’ they were called way back when.
I was but a mere idiot due to my grades.
I was coerced to worship them. Damn them today
And the teachers who fucked with my mind in that way!
From the callously perverse school system cascades
Condescension toward those ‘less than’ time and again.

Something happened to me my last year of high school.
It’s a loose-fitting fragment that moves while in place
As a traumatic episode. Mister Feeney
Chose to instruct the whole class to make fun of me.
My life changed in an instant. I left in disgrace
Both from school and from home to escape ridicule.

Sometimes I can’t remember that. Others, I do.
When it happens, contempt for all pumps through my veins.
I did manage to graduate with no time lost
But not from that same Catholic school. I had crossed
Their red line of defiance. The nightmare remains
One of psychic incontinence. It’s sad but true.

 During my brief hiatus, my sick teenaged mind
Felt enough guilt that it thought that it could assume
Quite another identity… go back to school.
Since I had advanced knowledge, I’d have to be cool.
Thanks to God and the angels, I was plucked from doom.
But I must prove I’m not stupid to humankind.

This is not about pity. It’s coming to light
Of the full realization that I am of worth
To myself and the whole world, as all people are.
I persist in the myth of the mind superstar,
Using it as a weapon, also to unearth
What my soul needs to express. It seems only right.

So, how bad a residual can this become?
I’m hellbent on displaying this cursed intellect
In its absolute brilliance. Do others seem bright?
Most would pale in comparison next to my light.
On your grave, Mister Feeney, I’ll give due respect.
I shall defecate gleefully, you rotten scum!

If you know me, do not make the stupid mistake
Of thinking that I’m stupid. I’ll Lay You To Waste!
Just because it’s been twisted, my mind can do harm.
It also Commands English with masterful charm.
Don’t you dare look down on me, or you will be faced
With the wrath of an intellect none can forsake.

Re-Walk-In

Etherality Of Existence

I’ve walked out of this life many times, I must say,
Thinking each time I’ll never see this one again.
I’ll expect I’ll walk into another life, but
I’ll find soon that I’ve entered the same frigging rut.
I’d be happy if I could forget where I’d been
Until I’d reached the point where I don’t want to stay.

Yes, I’ve heard about Walk-In’s. I think it is strange
That some soul on the rebound would want to enter
Someone’s hell of a half-life. Can spirits go mad?
Or are they simply willing to be a comrade
To the soul in a tailspin? Indeed, I’d prefer
Infinite horizons as I wander free range.

Could I make this a boring life? I could well try.
How much effort it would take depends not upon
Anyone who may share my most chaotic realm,
But upon my perceiving, in life’s overwhelm,
The life I must walk into, come hell or new dawn.
As I re-enter this life, need I wonder why?

Pluperfect Precognizance

To suggest writing being channeled to earth from spirit

I continue to write even since I am gone
From the earth plane. Explaining this I can well do.
All of time is eternal. I write from a place
That knows nothing of substance nor wanting for grace.
That this world is both here and there is more than true.
I will do my best writing where it’s always dawn.

And it ain’t always dawn here on this wretched earth
With its lethal life lessons and lead-laden laws.
Here is my remote office. There is where I live.
While I’m out on assignment, my best I do give.
All the work I am given is of the First Cause.
I compose in contentment until my rebirth.

As the soul disengages from this earthly plane
And I yield to due process, my words dissipate,
Like the flesh I have borrowed and things I have done,
Back into the whole clockwork where all had begun.
Nothing said is immortal. Should this be my fate,
Life becomes an enigma. There’s nothing to gain.

How do I reconcile this? Or is there the need
To make meaning from meaning? My recycling will,
For the most part, eliminate work that is bad
In the viewpoint of others. Had I a comrade
In consumption, perhaps that does improve my skill.
Counterparts in eternity do intercede.

…As It Should Be In Heaven

TheMagicRealist.com
Life, according to Plato, reflects the ideal.

This world is but a replica of the real thing
That exists in the abstract as perfect and whole.
Here only is the body – both places, the soul.
On this side, it’s a chess game. Those who would be king
Know that their wills are done on earth, yet it’s surreal.

Folks have called it a barrier; some… a thin veil
Separating the two worlds, both mother and child.
Some can see somewhat easily the other side.
Others won’t see. Indeed, if they did so, they’d hide
That from everyone, fearing they may be reviled
Just for being so gifted. Why such an odd tale?

When we speak of The Kingdom, which one do we mean?
There is only one ideal one. It’s in us all.
All we need do to know this is to look within.
If we do that, might we shed concern about sin?
A significant change in the soul’s protocol
Yields a glimpse into heaven that was yet unseen.

Culture Beyond Compare

TheMagicRealist.com

Cultures differ in ways in which time is perceived.
Westerners think of life on earth in terms of time
Left to do things and gather things while we’re still here.
By the time death approaches, we cower in fear.
I am here, but I’m mortal. It seems like a crime,
Therefore, I seek a system that is well believed.

The way some other cultures look at the whole thing
Is that life is a process. When we are aligned
With the Cosmic Geometry expressed as God,
We become full of life. Now, to some, this seems odd.
If large groups could achieve this, would they be more kind
In relations with others? What hope could this bring?

The skill of a good teacher to bring down to earth
Principles of the cosmos is something valued.
Any form that has motion can’t exist without
The same force animating all, without a doubt.
All in all, with these simple facts, I may conclude
That immersion in culture is something of worth.

The significance of being human is that
We can all come to know this. We may find relief
In believing that death is another name for
Life unknown past a certain time. Could there be more?
We cannot know the answer. This is our belief.
Fear is all that our culture would need to combat.

After Death

TheMagicRealist.com

After Death, what becomes of me? Am I still here
To grab hold of another life without a break?
Or do I become nothingness, absent of thought?
No one living knows really, yet so much is taught
Of the nature awaiting all. It’s my mistake
If I claim to be certain my knowing is clear.

Each of us is a pamphlet of many pages.
It’s a system of thought one may cater to heart.
Each page is of a different self. Some are more dense
Than the others. The purest self needs no defense
Due to its lack of seeming a viable part
Of our being and doing and earning wages.

Every page will disintegrate except the one
Least attached to identity with time and place.
That page is the pure spirit – the long narrative
Of existence eternal. What more can I give
To improve the condition of my human race?
I can speak of my own journey ever begun.

Neverlanduendo

TheMagicRealist.com

Never mind that he’s dead now and has been for years
We continue to judge him for acts he has done…
…Or has not. Much uncertainty is what remains.
Any truth worth uncovering, nothing explains
So to do so brings answers. Debate had begun
Because we are obsessed with sex and children’s fears.

Never landing in right ways as we fall to earth,
Taking off points must differ among all of us.
We all need to be children. He had not the chance.
Children don’t have sex feelings. They don’t know romance.
How a man can be childlike is what gives us fuss.
Does our wild speculation preclude our self-worth?

Never fear that the truth will come out in the end.
That will take may eons. We will have moved on.
Close encounters with children must be scrutinized.
Interrogative processes must produce lies.
Never willing to question what doubt we may spawn,
Can we reconcile bashing what’s left of a friend?

Life Sentence

TheMagicRealist.com

I’ve been given a live sentence of a few years
Multiplied by how many more since I became
A team player in this life with all of my kind?
I’m reminded that we are not of the same mind.
No two of us are quite alike, yet we’re the same
In the prison of life marked by sorrow and fears.

Some of us who’ve grown older have done very well.
I myself have done good things. No one denies that.
My time spent learning how to be human becomes
Something short of catastrophe and zero sums.
And by now I may think that I have life down pat.
But alas, I am captive within my own cell.

I’ll complete my life sentence in less time or more
Depending on whose judgement? Or is it by fate
That consecutive sentencing is concurrent
To the soul become weary from deep discontent?
No time off given for good behavior I rate.
When my sentence is done with, what then is in store?

That will not be a thing of my utmost concern.
Even if consciousness ceases, sorrow does too.
And should it survive brilliantly cast from its shell
It will soar like a most graceful bat out of hell
Into peaceful reflection. How well did I do?
No one here can advise me. In heaven I’ll learn.

Past And Future Lives Of Children

TheMagicRealist.com

Sometimes children will speak of a life lived before
They became part of this life. It gives people pause.
They’ll recall how they died and what killed them and such.
Some become quite insistent and we don’t pay much
Of attention to their stories mostly because
We think that they are made up of folly and more.

We don’t have to believe them and neither do they.
Whether true or not makes not a big difference.
Nature’s veil is designed to cocoon us from all
But the present and this life. Our focus is small.
If we recalled our past lives, turmoil would commence.
The torrent of confusion would cause great dismay.

It’s a good thing that children forget who they were
Before they became who they are now. So, in time,
Memories of the lives lived before dissipate.
We then focus on this life and what we create
So that getting through this life won’t be a hard climb.
We succumb to the circumstance that we incur.

Programmed Obsolescence

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Who accounts for the elderly absent at home
That is earth and society? There is no one
But the family, if I were trapped in that way.
Far much worse, I have consciousness and will to stay
Just a little while longer. My time is past done.
My Programmed Obsolescence does cleanse the genome.

The objective accounting subjectively done
Will examine my assets then come to assess
My depreciation as accumulated
Over too long a lifespan of sorrow and dread.
The one character defect I need not confess
Radiates like a beacon to warn everyone.

Keep away from me, new world, I will do my best
To detain my detachment and preface my pain
With a footnote to contemplate from whence I came
To create such a nightmare where I am to blame.
Since I don’t recall having been driven insane,
I’ll assume that I am so at my own behest.

A Dream Between Dreams

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It’s a dream of survival. This world made of mass
Is a fugue of impermanence and enigma.
From the time of conception there’s no turning back.
Life is on the defensive for fear of attack
From the life become part of. This hard replica
Of reality can be a pain in the ass.

Yet, it’s all just a dream, manufactured and played
Like a cheap sci-fi movie with elements of
Situational comic relief. Tragically
Actors perform unscripted so others can’t see
How the drama plays out. Thus, there is need for love
In this Dream Between Dreams where my spirit has strayed.

Does survival lack joy? Is the nightmare by day
Something I can see any way other than that?
Any dream is as ethereal as the next.
When perceiving the harshness do I become hexed
By forgone mis-conclusions through mental chitchat?
It’s a dream worth engaging with in my own way.

Death Of A Pixel

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What’s the root cause of pixel death? We all should know
Because death among pixels is something most rare.
Are the screens they appear upon made to outlast
Every last pixel’s life span? I would say no fast!
Things aren’t made for longevity and folks don’t care.
But for some, such a dead spot puts on a tough show.

Promulgation of pixel health is something done
At the time of their making through careful process
And en masse by machinery at micro scale.
One would think then that equality must prevail.
When the ass of a pixel makes my mind a mess
I must know that it can’t up and do that for fun.

 Pixels made of near nothingness can coexist
With the realms of pure spirit somewhat easily.
And if they retain consciousness, then when they die,
Each exists as a waveform related to pi.
Every pixel or person who wants to be free
Must have full right to do so although they are missed.

Approaching Death With Grace

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When someone we know dies it’s as if a big piece
Of our own life is suddenly taken away.
Most get through the process of their grieving with grace.
Still there is a deep sorrow that time may erase.
Yet we know this will happen to all life someday.
Every life that we know of will at some time cease.

 Life decides when to leave us. We have not the choice
When it should or it shouldn’t. We will, while alive,
Try our best to sustain it. At birth we inhale
And at death we exhale. Nature’s law does prevail.
From the moment of being we’re here to survive
So the last thing to do here would be to rejoice.

We’re all dying through living in this time and place.
If I stop to examine the life I live now
Can I see death as part of life and be content
In the process of being? I feel we were meant
To embrace our mortality and to allow
Life to spend a brief time here and then leave in grace.

Paranormalcy And The Pranks Of Spirit

TheMagicRealist.com

Something funny I heard from a psychic today.
The old Bush who just passed away is doing fine.
He has caught up with Barbara. She’s playing pranks
Sending her dogs to mess with Trump. I give her thanks.
We all know he dislikes them. Perhaps it’s a sign
That his own canine nature does give him away.

Those who’ve gone are still with us. We just can’t perceive
Them in their world except when they make themselves known.
They’ll mess with electronics. They’ll enter our dreams
In such ways that our knowing is not as it seems.
Sometimes children can hear grandma on the iPhone.
Those departed are heartfelt as they watch us grieve.

And they do love to fuck with folk. I know I would.
There are things that I dream of that I can’t act out.
That’s because I am human and could go to jail.
But when I am in spirit, payback will prevail.
I’ll get some satisfaction yet remain devout
To my spiritual purpose which is to feel good.

Valley Of A Cosmic Shadow

TheMagicRealist.com

As I dwell in the valley, the shadow I know
Is the veil of amnesia. I sense that I’ve known
All there is about knowing before that I am.
My unknowing is based on a complex program.
On a small, pale blue dot, I seem left on my own
In the midst of a big bang all space-time ago.

Is there chance this is not true? All question is based
On the premise that this puzzle needs to be solved.
Am I like Roger Rabbit… a part of the screen
Who thinks he is of substance because he is seen
And can interact freely and get quite involved
With the grandest illusion to breed conscious waste?

Everything is of spirt. Perception is how
I may know my own consciousness in many ways.
I’m amazed at the vastness the valley has made.
If this world has no meaning, should I be afraid
That this consciousness also has limited days?
If my life has no purpose, then let it end now.

I believe there’s no ending. Beginning is all
That can happen to matter as it changes state
Back to pure conscious energy. I will rebirth
In the realm of the spirit when I leave this earth.
Let it all have no purpose. I know I’ll feel great.
I’ll be making much meaning and having a ball.

Spirit Matter

TheMagicRealist.com

From somewhere deep in spirit to this place we come.
A magnificent replica of the real thing,
This earth plane does poor justice to living life there.
What’s reflected from spirit is beyond compare.
Yet, upon this dirt schoolhouse we solemnly cling
Until we are released back to where we came from.

There’s no cleaning in spirit… not rubbish to tend.
No dust ever collects because none can exist
In its corners. No mourners do cry do to that.
One can eat like a pig and will never get fat.
All the heartache that goes on here will not be missed.
Everyone we encounter will be our best friend.

This is not just a fluke, here – this flesh and bone stuff.
It exists in ideal form that cannot be form
In the ways we perceive the projection it makes
Upon our feeble senses. But make no mistakes,
What we gain from our time romancing the dust storm
Is a spirit well-seasoned who has had enough.

Karma Is My Only Risk

TheMagicRealist.com

Take a dip into earth life. Things may turn out well,
Or adjustment to living may feel to be hard.
There are things to be learned about getting along
With other skinny dippers. The spirit is strong
In that it holds experience in high regard.
But, there’s always the chance one could make of life hell.

We are building our homes in the afterlife now,
Here on earth with the acts we commit everyday.
And the things we care most about, shallow or deep,
Will surround us in spirit. It is best to keep
One’s fixations aligned in a most righteous way.
I may want to be good, but I may not know how.

Our most brief interactions, and those over years,
With the ones we encounter in this karmic sea,
Weave an intricate fabric. It covers our deeds
In appropriate costume. Our karma proceeds
From the moment of contact with new life to be.
I can’t help but make karma. This heightens my fears.

That is why that forgiveness is such a godsend.
Like sliced bread, it’s the mother necessity craved.
Though somewhat inconceivable to the ill heart,
It’s a wise thing to count on, with me at the start.
There’s the chance that my life can be spirit depraved,
But there is always guidance on which to depend.

Akashic Cloud Storage

TheMagicRealist.com

I’m confused, and I should be, as well as content.
That means I am still searching, through dawn’s early light,
For some deep understanding beyond what is flesh
Wherein hard fact and spirit can easily mesh.
We are made the recording by our own birthright
Into firm physicality for fulfillment.

The Akash is an ether, but unlike the sea,
It links many dimensions that dare to be known.
I’m aware of my grossness of physical form.
It looks like it has weathered a horrific storm.
Can I look far beyond that and thereby postpone
An event unbecoming my reason to be?

I am things that are subtler. There’s lots of space
Between atoms. I’m also essentially wet.
I burn fuel and make heat, and I do that each day.
There is much less confusion in thinking this way.
I contain basic elements. Need I forget
That the force that enables me is not of place?

We are at once the record and whom which records.
Like sea coral, we imprint experience on
The fabric of existence. Pure wisdom it holds.
Truthful permanence permeates as it unfolds.
What remains of one’s being when this life is gone
Will take note of what living has moved the soul towards.

It Happens Some Now Ago

TheMagicRealist.com

In an instant the world is, and I am as well
On the way toward no ending beginning with now.
There are things that take place in the now yet ahead.
They do happen before now. Nothing is misread.
My existence transcends what my mind can’t avow.
Whether past tense or pretense, my senses can’t tell.

Nowness is a wet fabric to velvet the gears
Of the cosmic machinery made to be known
By the senses and mind to be that which is real.
Within seas of perception there’s ample appeal
To decipher the cyclical until we’re shown
How to make sense of things and to conquer our fears.

So, this happens some now ago, as I partake
Of the presence around me. Some peace do I find
In the solace of mindfulness and a fresh start.
To engage with the nowness, do so from the heart.
Since there is but eternity, need we be kind?
It would seem wise to do so. Our souls are at stake.

Crow Whisperer Training

TheMagicRealist.com

Listen Up, human rookies! This isn’t boot camp,
Nor is it rocket science. I’m nothing like that.
This is all about noticing what all birds do –
Not just good looking black ones among but a few.
We deliver insight at the drop of a hat.
We can offer a clue when your spirit is damp.

I may look straight up sober and matter of fact.
That is just a façade to get closer to you…
Not too close, though, that you might suspect something’s up.
We know something of fear because of the sick pup.
We are here to remind you of what you once knew.
In your knowing, then, all the best you will attract.

Learn a bit from the wise ones, but much more from we
Who, in touch with the spirit realm, deliver to
Those receptive enough, messages from the dead,
So that you may not look at death with so much dread.
Whether you can receive us is all up to you.
Live your lives well and prosper, but mostly be free.

The Performing Arts Channel

TheMagicRealist.com

We could take on some flesh and hang out for a while
In the mind of a living soul tied to the earth.
He may think that he’s thinking his thoughts, but it’s we.
And the more that he realizes this, he will see
That our presence has guided him ever since birth.
If he challenges this, then he’s left in denial.

We are spirit performers – those fleshed and not.
That which man calls ‘keen insight’ is usually us
Feeding you the right lines to get what you want done.
It is not quite our job. We just do it for fun.
As you hear us more clearly, soon you will discuss
Ways of working with spirit’s benevolent plot.

You are each and all channels for us every day…
Only when you’re receptive to our subtle act.
On your earthly stage, you are performer and prop.
Your advantage is guaranteed. You Can Not Flop.
And although your existence is rooted in fact,
Kindly acts of the spirit will not go away.

No One Is Gone

TheMagicRealist.com

I could look at it this way… I’m not here at all.
I exist in a non-place, so ‘here’ cannot be.
From that non-ness of space-time within the non-place
Every soul that wants wisdom will gladly embrace
Any opportune chance to emerge physically
To live life on a blue-green, immaculate ball.

I existed, then, long before I became flesh.
Every thing that exists comes from that which does not.
What defines the eternal is infinite speed
In a world I deem finite. I harbor the need
To converge the two worlds and give all that I’ve got
Then return to the not-world, that I may refresh.

I existed forever, but right now, I me
In a physical casing subjected to laws.
The earth body is finite. It will turn to dust.
It obeys that law faithfully. Indeed, it must.
But the life force that is me considers what was
Then moves on to meet others whomever they be.

Spirit Is a Full Wave Rectifier

TheMagicRealist.com

A long series of ups and downs marks this sort trip
Through a life that is lived induced into the next.
One half cycle is joy, and the other is pain.
I experience both to my truest self’s gain.
But my true self in spirit can never be vexed
As the half cycle negative, true self will flip.

Any life situation I see in some way
That is not to my liking – a pain up the path
My true self doesn’t go there. That’s why I feel pain.
It does see things quite differently, without disdain.
As it processes sine waves, the cool aftermath
Is full rectification with zero delay.

Life in spirit is positive – nothing but good.
It’s our good times – and bad times – that do make it so.
I can translate the pain any way that I may.
But I know that my true self just knows a great day.
Though my negative half cycles hinder my flow
I can know they will pass as I will and well should.

Interlaced Video

TheMagicRealist.com

I am radio active. I am a half-life
And a wavelength that’s shorter than my eyes can know.
I am half here… half not here for each moment passed.
Some converge into now, and I wish those would last.
I’m an incomplete being most moments although
Every moment’s reception is sharp as a knife.

This is not Dress Rehearsal. I’m rarely on stage
And my act is not drama, for that can be judged.
I believe in this half-life I live here and now
And I chose it wholeheartedly so I’d allow
Ample room for becoming. But I haven’t budged
Since believing I’m measured by some other’s gauge.

It’s a half-life for me. I won’t get it all done.
A complete fully functioning being I’m not.
I prepare for the next life. This life is not all
Life that I’ll ever live. That would be living small.
As my world sees right through me, I could be forgot.
I’m at home with my half-life. It’s better than none.

The Black Widow Is Benign in Spirit

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Seems the widow’s a bitch when she’s not had her fill
Of the lover before who escaped to live on.
Life is cruel on all levels – not just with the bugs.
We can suck dry our enemies and give friends hugs.
It’s the widow, in this case, who’s gifted with brawn.
She decides who she eats by the whim of her will.

But it’s only in this life the bitch is so mean.
Though to her it’s the natural feminine way.
From the next life she watches her babies evolve.
She will never behold them. It is her resolve
To make sure that they all get the chance, come what may,
To experience living among nature’s green.

Her next hubby’s the next meal though he’s not aware.
She will need a full stomach to make babies grow.
By the same token, hubby is poised to move fast.
Once the romance is over, he wants life to last.
But if he doesn’t make it, he knows where he’ll go…
To the afterworld where creatures live without care.

Earth Trek

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These are the voyages we’re eager to take.
Is the purpose in coming to figure things out?
Some folks tend to do that and should think it’s ok.
Why not know what the parents know while we’re at play?
After all, where we came from seems mired in doubt.
As I gather my data I feel more awake.

I engage this amnesia made into a dream
Much as most other folks who partake of the same.
Somehow, I know we know one another quite well
In some other reality where we all dwell
In a place where we greet one another by name
And all things of magnificence are as they seem.

Our continuing mission is just to seek out.
We are gifted with strangeness and newness of heart.
We’re new life. We are civilized some of the time.
And at others we treat one another like slime.
We begin each away mission with a fresh start
And a brand-new adventure devoid of doubt.

Imagining The Imaginary

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It’s an ogre, this thing that we call the unknown.
When we try to define it, we go on a chase
Down through black holes and rabbit holes in hot pursuit
Of a unified theory no one can dispute.
One can say that the universe is a fine place
To consume worlds of wisdom that all may be shown.

One can think of a world that consists of pure thought
Where the objects are thoughtforms… ideals and the like.
It is populated by intent and belief.
With no issue of substance, one lives without grief.
One would not think of hiking or riding a bike.
One could run away thinking and never get caught.

It would seem a mysterious world has been found.
There is only a small bit of matter to see
Of this vast spatial fluid we travel within.
There’s a lot more that’s unseen. This is a big win.
Could it be that dark matter and dark energy
Are the spirit world? That would be rather profound!

The Human Xenome

TheMagicRealist.com

Stop a bit for a rest here. There’s room for just you
And perhaps a few others whose asses fit well
In a seat that is child-wide with arm rests that slant
So that those who would think of reclining can’t.
Will our public park presence continue to smell?
Does the rest of the park think that we are a zoo?

On the other hand, who cares how others may feel?
We do things our own way. Our forefathers said so.
If confederate monuments obstruct the view
Of our moving past hatred, could this be a clue
They should stay there until all who love them will go
To the next life where no one here will hear them squeal?

As we take our last breath in this walk-around dream
We will care least for trinkets of causes and wars.
We will see that our broke bodies and our weak minds
Are of volatile matter wherein no one finds
Any spiritual solace. My witness is yours.
This fine park we partake of is temporal in theme.

Oh Drench Me, Dear Life!

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It’s a wonderful life. It is said here and now
In the present as much as it was in the past.
No condition need be so that I can feel good.
I tune in to my spirit as all creatures should.
If I’m playful about things, good feelings will last
For as long as I want them to. I just allow.

Fully Drench Me, dear life. Give me all that you’ve got.
Know my soul is a fragrant sponge thirsting for more
Of your sweet liquid lavishness perfectly pure.
It’s a joy to be living. Of this I am sure.
I am eager to savor what life has in store.
There is much more to praising than what there is not.

Bless the heel that may crush me. No harm can be done.
I am planted on earth but my consciousness dwells
In dimensions that parallel all that exist.
And this form, when it perishes, shouldn’t be missed.
This now moment is mine as it’s ringing my bells.
Life is less about fretting and more about fun.

We Are All Being Played

TheMagicRealist.com

This matrix, indeed, is a video game,
And we are all players who are ourselves played.
Every particle known within parts that are mixed
Leaves most men in a state where their minds are transfixed
On the question. That’s why our success is delayed.
Our perceiving and knowing are one and the same.

What is outside this game, then, if all this is true?
Does some One entity have control of us all?
I believe that all consciousness is a great sea
And within it all, there becomes you – also me.
Consciousness will transform when it answers that call
But it can’t be undone or created on cue.

So, this Great Sea of Being – the souls of us all
Who have cycled life’s circuitry throughout its build,
Are in consort to see that we play our game well.
When we listen, we’re open to what they will tell
Of the bliss that can happen when life is fulfilled.
They don’t play us against us. That would be our call.

Algorrhythmia

TheMagicRealist.com

How long do I keep up this foolish façade
Of believing I’m worth what was offered to me?
I took a big gamble thus ruining my life
In pretending I’m healthy enough for a wife.
I continue to screw up as people can see.
Thought I’d followed the program, but things turned out odd.

How does fate keep the terrorist from finding me?
There are those who are worth more. Had they had the chance
To grow old with their loved ones as worthy folks may
I’d be that much closer to my judgment day.
Life’s puzzle has proved such a strange circumstance.
There’s a reason for ISIS that I clearly see.

That I blither my ass off, can anyone know?
I can piss in pitch darkness and other things well.
If my stream should strike something at least I would know
That there is something out there. That might help me grow.
I did want isolation while burning in hell.
I’ll admit I’m a fuck-up. That’s not a hard blow.

Not another frog’s out there. No one knows I croak.
I was let loose to blunder my way through my days.
Easily I hurt others on my reckless path.
What procedure could probe at the heart of my wrath?
It’s one tough black sheep syndrome. I’ll get through this maze.
I’m one well-tempered asshole. It seems that’s no joke.

How Wonderful I Am

TheMagicRealist.com

We are wanting so much to awaken in you
Your memory of how beloved you are.
You are pure love and wonderful in every way.
We kick back and adore every song that you play.
Sing away, precious angel. You are a rock star.
It’s a pleasure to Be You. Your pleasure is true.

We just can’t sing enough about how good you are.
Not a thing you could do would deter us from Love…
Not a bow-legged stumble down life’s clumsy path…
Not a judgment in error through life’s aftermath.
By our measure, you shine like the stars up above.
It’s our promise that that what you seek isn’t far.

Do take care, fleshed ones. There is nothing to fear.
The whole universe backs you in whichever way
You decide is appropriate. Who then are ‘we’?
We are those who are dead now, yet ever to be.
We’ve discarded our clutter, so we’ve much to say.
And when you choose to hear us, or joy is sincere.