Tag Archive | spiritual

Let the Hardware Department Find You a Good Screw

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To the Hardware Department is where I will go
To find all that I need and more than I could want.
It’s a bright place of wonder and many delights.
When a man has no hardware, he’s prone to start fights.
And a man without tools is quite easy to taunt
So show kindness to such a soul. He’s feeling low.

The requirement for a good screw occurs when
In the mind there’s a yearning to see what’s out west.
If perchance I should go there and not find my gold
I would feel disappointed and somewhat controlled.
When it comes to good hardware I will find the best
At the Hardware Department where often I’ve been.

We all need a good screw every once in a while.
It’s a function of nature to drive it in deep.
Yet, the deeper it’s driven, the tighter the hold.
Living with living hardware is meant for the bold.
What one finds at the hardware store doesn’t come cheap
And with proper alignment, folks can screw in style.

The Solution to Everything – Get Happy

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I have but to get happy. There’s no way around
Living life in sheer wonder and true joy without
Seeking happiness first, because that’s the sure thing
That will bring me to that which can make my heart sing.
There is not much worth living when living in doubt.
As I practice good feeling thoughts, wisdom is found.

Just shut up and be happy. Don’t go down that road
That I know leads to some place that gives me the creeps
Or else gets me engaging in righteous discourse.
If that is what I’m after, I’ve strayed from my source.
A most generous stream of pure happiness keeps
My abundance a fountain, where once nothing flowed.

I can practice my happy thoughts day after day
And from minute to minute, as I am inclined
To be open to receiving all that’s in store
From the source that is infinite – always with more.
From a state of believing, I’m destined to find
That this universe functions on laughter and play.

Deriving What’s Integral

This half-life that I’m living is not a straight line.
Though it is a real function. I can’t coexist.
I’m one being of integral selfhood right now
And for all now’s becoming until my last bow.
When my flesh turns to ashes, my soul may be missed.
This derivative interval is yours and mine.

Life seems never too level. There’s always some slope.
I climb up and roll down along path with a view
Of solutions to problems I do not create.
If I see things that way am I governed by fate?
By deriving what’s integral to what is true
I have no need for wishing or banking on hope.

With regard to the area under my graph
It is all that’s contained in one half sudden wake.
It behooves me to look once and then turn away
Toward that which is most wanted. My heart cannot stray
From my limit as I approach all that can make
Me surrender in tune to a good belly laugh.

Symptoms of Karmic Reflux

TheMagicRealist.com

I have mistreated women. I tell you no lie.
If I did you would tell the world decades from now –
Never there and then and spoken right to my face
Always hence many moons to brew ample disgrace.
I detest my foul actions. Should I take a bow?
It is time for this world to behold a man cry.

What to make of my actions? Am I of bad blood?
At the time I performed them, I knew they were wrong.
Yet, I just couldn’t stop myself. Who is to blame?
I can point to no other, as men are the same.
We can take what we want thinking that we are strong.
We are human and male with minds thicker than mud.

What can aid indigestion of unwanted deeds
Within those who committed them and their oppressed?
Some may say, “Just say no; nip that thing in the bud.”
But if hell freezes over before the next flood
The position of women may fully be stressed.
Until then, poor digestion is all that proceeds.

Friday News Roundup

TheMagicRealist.com

If the news are as cattle, is battle the wave
Of the future where sources of worthy content
Shoot it out in the main among those who are not?
Giddy up them thar dogies; they are a fine lot.
Head them up. Move them out. Cover every event
Where the focus is stuck on how folks misbehave.

I’m no cowboy journalist. That’s a fine art.
Yet, I could not demand that it be nothing more
Than the facts – not discussion among talking heads.
Verbal discourse can wrap the mind in tangled threads.
We seem used to tough leather. Our spirits seem poor.
Yet, that image is fallacy right from the start.

I can round up them rascals quite well on my own.
I can tell them, “Go thither,” and they will do so.
This old world is in good shape. The town is a mess.
One could say we are bastions of beef, more or less.
They may be disapproving. If so, they must go.
I don’t mind my own head talking when I’m alone.

A Sucker For A Circuit

TheMagicRealist.com

I am not one to shirk it when given a circuit.
The ones that are simple are simply divine.
Free electrons make loopty loops and ride along
In whatever they’re going through. Naught can go wrong
Until fate disconnects them. ‘Till then, they are fine.
They need only a jumpstart and don’t have to work it.

As I live this amusement park, I take delight
In the color and wonder and movement I see.
Never mind that I’m grown up. I see with the eyes
That seek laughter and joy and much fun filled surprise.
I take measure of not much, these days. I can be
Anywhere that enthralls me by day or by night.

There’s an amplification that takes place within
When the base signal reaches a level above
That which turns on life flow. Worthy output appears
At the inner collector made wise through the years.
I can enter one end and go out in pure love.
There’s no ending. There’s just somewhere new to begin.

A Nation of Cause, Not of Men

TheMagicRealist.com

Hi! Dick Dudworthy here with some cryptic advise
For those seeking help to get right with the law.
I’m as blind as a bat. That’s how life should be seen
So I can’t tell what’s dirty from that which is clean.
They are both interchangeable, and best of all
I need not speak the truth. I need but to act nice.

An attorney is one who sorts out right from wrong
From the client’s perspective… a short order crook.
Every law is a structure with moveable parts.
They require those skilled in the deceptive arts.
So it doesn’t make much sense to play by the book.
You may end up in some place where you don’t belong.

Although justice is blind, that don’t help my behind
With deciphering how human nature becomes
So entangled in verbal machinery that
We can sue anyone at the drop of a hat.
I exist for those righteous in beating the drums
Of devout indignation and false peace of mind.

The Octopus’ Garden

TheMagicRealist.com

If one cares for one’s garden, all good things will grow.
One must watch it consistently to keep it free
Of invaders like grasshoppers and other pests
And of all of the things that a garden detests.
If one ignores one’s garden, it will come to be
That it grows rather poorly. This much I do know.

In brief commentary to she who’s named Mary
I would ask how her garden exists in her mind.
If she said, “It’s a puzzle. It doesn’t make sense,”
I would then be obliged to take her thought’s defense.
Everything about life is a game of a kind.
There’s no burden to play… no big load to carry.

I can cultivate gardens of chaos by how
My neglect of them leaves them wide open to prey.
I can bring about order when things run amuck.
I can do myself well by not passing the buck.
The wise octopus frolics through much of his day.
He’s at home in serenity forever now.

 

Being * Doing * Having

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Ask a child what he wants to be when he grows up.
He will tell you most certainly what that will be.
That’s because he is centered. He has not learned how
To add doubt to his judgement. He lives in the now.
What is fixed in the mind’s eye is rightful to see.
The child’s measure of joy is as kettle to cup.

We can be, do or have anything that is thought.
This fine truth is as old as the makers of time.
Children know this until they are programmed to not.
It’s the way of society. Most have forgot
That the secret to living in wonder sublime
Is to follow one’s dreaming towards that which is sought.

Children ask lots of ‘why?’ and expect us to tell
As they see us as wiser than they at the start.
Then when they become older, they see how confused
And beset with obsession with being abused
We can be. And to them it seems we’ve made an art
Of subverting ambition and making life hell.

Ask yourself why you want it – that which you desire.
It will then become active. This universe has
Every means that is known and unknown to provide
The reality dreamt of and worked toward with pride.
The dreams of the children have worth just as much as
Those of anyone with the good will to reach higher.

I Can Relax into Natural Wellbeing

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s a time to relax among those of like mind.
I can do that wholeheartedly without the need
For someone to tell me that I should find the time
To detach from life’s turmoil and thick psychic slime.
I am not meant to travel through life at high speed.
I must temper my pace to one that is more kind.

The full essence of all I appreciate, now,
And flows constantly through me, as I remain still,
Will create my reality fresh from the start.
I can bless my awareness that I’m taking part
In engaging my own stretch by gift of free will.
Life’s abundance depends on how much I allow.

I can find things to cheer about. Surely, I must.
I was made to appreciate all that God made.
Would a good God have made anything that is bad?
That’s a pregnant misnomer that could drive one mad.
I make peace with my path and accept how it’s laid.
One big lesson in living is learning to trust.

Who Approved This Design?

TheMagicRealist.com

This peculiar design hasn’t passed by my desk.
Who came up with it? This really baffles my mind.
Most the creatures I know get along on all fours.
Most have skin that stays dry. They have nothing like pores.
This design that becomes me is of an odd kind.
Does it have the potential to be statuesque?

It is of its own nature subliminal to
The same math that is natural to the grand sum
Of the natures of all things perceived in this realm.
But can man be perceived to be wise at the helm?
This design has some issues to be overcome.
It could be tweaked a bit more. Perhaps that will do.

This magnificent form is not perfect to me
As it reaches from nature to nature by way
Of the mind that reflects like a mirror with heart.
When my vision gets cloudy, I may fall apart.
It’s a trip being human. It quickens my day
And provides me with wonder and purpose to be.

My Physical Wholeness Is Only One Good Thought Away

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Life’s a good morning stretch and fresh veggies to munch.
I am whole and complete in the moment my mood
Reaches synergy with all that matters to me.
I’m a picture of wholeness whenever I see
I’ve tremendous momentum of life force accrued.
I am one thought away from the next perfect hunch.

I could have every ailment that’s known to mankind
Come afflict me today as I work and then play.
I can know when I am thinking thoughts that feel good
So that any tomorrow can feel as it should.
My good thoughts help keep physical illness at bay.
This can also be so for disease of the mind.

I don’t give much attention to things I don’t want.
This is wholesome advice and the key to good health.
When it does not feel good, I turn my head away.
There are many things elsewhere to brighten my day.
I’m immersed in wellbeing. I wallow in wealth.
My most heartfelt discernment is my confidant.

Learning To Read From Those Greedy To Earn

TheMagicRealist.com

Hope you’re chillin’, Macmillan and sick McGraw Hill.
What the Fuck are your names worth? Ten dollars per page?
What the Hell are you teaching our kids by your ways?
Your kids all learn in private while smothered in praise
That’s as fake as the actor upon a live stage.
I am baffled, again, by the farce of free will.

It is part of my undoing that I am cast
In the drama where bullshit become the stage props.
Why I can’t have a textbook when I volunteer
To help kids with their reading, to me, is unclear.
I could spend time with children until my heart stops
But this issue of profit is one that will last.

Grubby Publisher, What Gives You The Arrogant Ass
To charge hundreds for children’s books for public schools?
Oh! I get it! Your greed gives you every damned right.
You may kiss mine profusely throughout this white night.
Who the Hell stole your insight? We all are not fools.
A new fresh wave is coming. This old one will pass.

Mega Motor Mothermouth

TheMagicRealist.com

Mega Mother Mirifica straight from Thailand
Is the herb I’m most high on. It is nature’s best.
None can mess with my motormouth. Many have tried.
I will talk rings around people and with great pride.
When my speech engine piques, I out motor the rest.
I don’t know what I’m saying, but folks understand.

Give me riches or fame or life’s forbidden fruit.
That may satisfy me if I were but a dame.
But my mouth is terrific. It runs on its own
Whether standing before you or via smartphone.
Men and women do motormouth about the same
And this doesn’t stop either from being astute.

I have something to say just as those who do not.
It can’t matter too little if there’s little talk
Because I fill the vacuum when there is no sound.
I could gab myself giddy. I’m quick to expound
On most anything uttered among any flock.
Where there are ears to talk to, I do what I ought.

There’s Abundance in Everything

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I’m a fan of Abundance. I am Nature’s Breeze
And what my heart caresses is pure plenitude.
Though I have want of nothing, I’m ready for more.
I am rich with desire with joy to explore.
Often covered in leaves, sometimes gold can be viewed.
It is all in the choosing of how my heart sees.

I’m a creature of color and vision as well.
I don’t see many numbers when I take a look
Through the colorblind booklet to see if I’m fit
To live life to its fullest without a permit.
Shortage is a perception disguised as a crook.
If believed in, it surely will cast a bleak spell.

There’s a Stream of Abundance engulfing us all.
But, in order to see it, I must be in tune
To that Stream of Abundance. There must be no doubt
That I can live in joy either with or without
That which I may be wanting. It then will come soon.
I invite my abundance to tease and enthrall.

Give Us The Grab Ass

TheMagicRealist.com

It was custom that candidates pleaded their case
To the public who decided which one would be
The next governor to stand outside of the law.
They had made their decision at once and for all.
They had chosen The Grab Ass, and to some degree,
‘Twas a guaranteed win without running a race.

“Which one do you want me to give to you today?”
Asked the Uncle, so gobsmacked at such a lame choice.
“Shall I give you this nice Secretary of State?
She appears squeaky clean… surely nothing to hate.”
But, the people who voted thought they had a voice.

The Big Bear chose The Grab Ass. Is this the new way?

“Kindly give us The Grab Ass!” I heard people shout.
“We don’t care that he’s nasty and gruff in his ways.
We just want someone brazen to stir up the pot.
The man has a red hard on. This matters a lot!
And as for poor old Hillary, our voices raise –
Lock her up in hell’s dungeon and don’t let her out!”

Dot Connector’s Delirium

TheMagicRealist.com

I collect enough dots. Is this why my gut rots
As I work to connect them in meaningful ways?
Might I be a philosopher linking my thoughts
In a way that brings pleasure like winning at slots?
I could learn mathematics the rest of my days
Yet derivative functions are rendered ersatz.

Some would say life is meaningless. Some would say not.
It’s a question of whether or not one has faith
In one’s own fair assessment of all that exists
Despite all contradiction. My outlook insists
On my making some sense of this cumbersome wraith
Of an otherwise haphazard grand master plot.

I must eat my dots slowly so they will digest
Without causing discomfort as they make their way
To the pit of my feeling that my hunch is keen
Wherein logic and insight together are seen
As two sides of the one coin, as night is of day.
I shall keep on connecting. That’s what I do best.

My Wellbeing Abounds

TheMagicRealist.com

My strong heart kept my blood pumping all through the night.
I had not much to do with it. That’s a good thing.
My lungs delivered air all while I was asleep
So that as I was dreaming, this body would keep
On providing to me all that living can bring.
My wellbeing abounds, and that’s no less than right.

I did not have to stay up past midnight last night
To make sure that earth’s orbit was fixed in my mind.
Some force greater than I has things under control.
One can mate with one’s maker, then dare to be whole.
But such wholeness may render one’s free will confined
To whatever the ego mind claims must be right.

All is kept in its place by the focus of thought
From a broader perspective. I need not concern
Myself with all that happens. I happen to be
In a world of wellbeing. How well I can see
That my value is something I don’t have to earn.
My wellbeing is guaranteed and never bought.

Here’s The Beef

TheMagicRealist.com

I am Manny, the meat man with many fine meats.
I will slice through your town and deliver fine cuts
Of the purest of premium beef parts there are.
I’ll deliver the beef with no bull from afar
Nor nearby so that all will have beef in their guts
Or their butts depending on how well the soul eats.

I do carry whole beef by the half or hind quart
Or by wedges with holes in them to give them air.
I have beef by the barrel, if that be your shape
Or by hormone replacement without the red tape.
The whole world is a meat market, just to be fair.
All I do is deliver. I’ll never run short.

“Where’s the Beef?”, then, should not be a question for you.
I have advertised subtly through the ages.
Beef is totally nourishing, high grade protein.
It can make the soul hearty and make the heart mean.
My whole beef isn’t mean. It’s practiced in stages.
I should start selling veggies. Folks might like that too.

A Day On The Calendar

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s a day on the calendar. That’s all it means
To someone who has no home and nowhere to go.
And it means nothing also to someone like me
Whose contempt for most humans sometimes one can see.
It’s a day for a break from the bountiful flow
Of societal cues that have made us machines.

It’s a day to be thankful. That much I’ll admit.
Yet, that is true for every day that I exist.
It’s peculiar to put aside one day a year
For engaging in thankfulness, some out of fear
That if they don’t partake, they will hardly be missed.
Among culture and family, one must commit.

I am thankful that God has shown me a new day
Full of wonder, excitement and joy unsurpassed.
I’d be thankful too, had I not lived through the night.
There’s a time for my leaving this world with no fight.
I am thankful my time here is not meant to last.
Have a blessed Thanksgiving, my heart does obey.

Why Do You Want the Rain?

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s been dry here for ages. The land is so parched.
And the trees are all wilting. The grass has turned gray.
That is what I don’t want. That is all clear to see.
Why I do want the rain is much clearer to me.
As I separate out my desire in this way,
To the tune of alignment my soul will have marched.

Why I do want the rain is because it does good
To all that which it drenches in lavish supply.
It does soak the ground well and makes healthy the soil.
If I think in the negative, I’m sure to spoil
Any chance of it raining for me lest I try
A divining type stick made of magical wood.

I can’t talk about how bad the drought is today
Then expect that some rain will come. That makes no sense.
I must accept the day, though it’s hot as can be
And stay focused on gratitude most heartfully.
I will gather momentum considered immense.
Then, I am the rainmaker who cherishes play.

Poetic License

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“Have Engine – Will Poet” shall be my motto.
When it comes right down to it, it’s one with some tread.
As I travel this highway, my ride must be smooth.
When my word road is bumpy, how can my work soothe?
I require Full License in trust that I’m read
Like a bird at its leisure with some place to go.

I’ve a License Poetic to prove I may drive
My machine in whatever way I judge to be
Beneficial in getting up just enough speed
But not so much that reading becomes a hard deed.
I am easy to read, and I cruise radar free.
Way ahead of departure, I’m good to arrive.

There’s no Highway Patrol for the poet in me.
They say it’s not my day job. I’m too small a fish.
I have not earned my letters for poetic arts.
Thus, I don’t have the right to endear people’s hearts.
So, I’m wild on my highway. I do as I wish.
I can poet my ass off and do it with glee.

Diagnostic Statistical Menace

TheMagicRealist.com

Have I spent enough time with my sick self today?
Seems I’ve used a reserved word from DSM twelve.
Some will tell me I’m sick by the things that I write.
They’ve a right to be right. I will give them no fight.
I shall keep on creating. My true heart will delve
Into all that I must be. I’m structured that way.

There’s a time for believing I’m worth every bit
Of the life force and consciousness focused through me.
That time is, as always, always, and I’m sure
That if I took the time to make sure I’m secure
I would freefall through life like the leaf from the tree.
Life’s momentum is fated so I cannot quit.

Yes, I spent time with self today, searching my soul
Not for reason of purpose or conscience remorse
But for meaning in how I relate to this day.
Did I learn anything new and have fun at play?
That is nobody’s business except mine, of course.
Yet my sharing it with you is part of my goal.

Serrated Serenade

TheMagicRealist.com

I’m one cat who is lovesick. My heart is in tune
Well to your heart’s desires, whatever they be.
Though I sing like a sick wheel and play pretty bad
I am having the best time that I’ve ever had
Pouring my heart before you and for all to see
That I am at my best when I’m touched by the moon.

I’m in love with my loving. Not so much with you
Though you happen to be at my center of gaze.
I’m in love with my living and being carefree.
There’s one purpose to living, and that is to be.
Then whatever ensues will enlighten my days.
I can share that with you but I can’t say, “I do.”

There are no strings attached to our living the bliss
Of communing in harmony throughout our years.
I do like you somewhat. Let’s just see how it plays.
What will come of our joining, our hearts will appraise.
May we forge our way forward and conquer our fears.
We’ll begin such a journey upon our first kiss.

Infidelicacies

TheMagicRealist.com

Early Christians torched lambs as a sign of respect.
None was meant for the lamb, though. It was God’s alone.
We’ve since ceased burning creatures we’ve butchered at stake.
We have stopped killing witches because of that snake.
There are numerous habits that we have outgrown.
It makes sense that we’ve done so. Our path is correct.

We are creatures of customs and quaint ritual.
I remember the frankincense when I was young.
And the Mass sung in Latin was such an affair.
It was all very mystical. None can compare
To a High Mass where congregants feel they’re among
Heaven’s angels and all known as spiritual.

Earth is Spirit As Well as the angels who dwell
In that other world where we’ll return to someday.
All things are of spirit. There’s nothing that’s not.
There’s no call for my feeling that I don’t have squat.
I have spirit to play with and put on display.
I take notice that I’m a well-fed infidel.

Flustercuck

TheMagicRealist.com

There are two or more gathered. It could be in grace
Or in consort with cunning in weaving a spell.
Many people united can become perplexed
With that ‘chicken or egg’ thing and which will come next.
That lame argument is a façade with a smell.
It was implemented to keep fools in their place.

People are much like chickens. We scratch and we peck
At that which is below us, as we judge it so.
As we gather together, we make such a fuss
Over just about anything meaningless, thus
Most the worms we’re consuming will not make us grow.
Social clusters are often a pain in the neck.

I am not xenophobic. I cuck with a few
Of my species because alone I’d not survive.
Each one pecks in one’s own way. There’s no reason why
One should peck like another. No rules here apply
Except those of the cosmos wherein we may thrive
As we had well intended when we were brand new.

Particular Judgement

TheMagicRealist.com

Dear Diary, what a long day it has been.
I spent time with some children, but that part was short.
Since I’m older, I take social duties to heart
Although, what I would teach kids is how to take part
In their own self-becoming. I’d fully support
What their true hearts desire again and again.

It’s adults who are headaches. Our spirits are dull
When it comes to most anything. What can we teach
To the little ones who are much closer to truth?
We could turn off the bible and study our youth
For a little while until we are what we preach.
Life is not my migraine. It’s a point to the skull.

It’s been all about finding some honor today.
And that seems somewhat meaningless even to me
As this long day recesses. I am an adult.
I behave like a child. That is not an insult.
Most adults I know couldn’t hold shit to a tree.
What I learn most from most children is how to play.

Of Our Souls’ Unlike Poles

TheMagicRealist.com

Poles unlike can repel as this picture will tell:
One kind heart made for loving; one mean one for war.
We behave on all spectrums we feel may make sense.
Our magnetic reactions are our chief defense.
We are bipolar creatures who strive to be more
Than our natures can handle at times, but we’re well.

Are we well on our way to whoever we are
Without knowing the heart’s place in living life well?
The invisible flux lines we claim as our force
Can bring us true alignment or steer us off course.
At the seam of life’s structure is where I can dwell…
Where extremes in my makeup are never too far.

Unlike poles do attract, as a matter of fact.
My perceptive comparisons are just a way
To make sense of the magnetic soup I swim in.
Although noble a task, the task is to begin
Living life to its fullest with focus on play.
It’s a whole different thing, though, when like poles attract.

Zwerdrick Weirdwordnick

TheMagicRealist.com

Though it’s e before i when i comes before r
And between d and w, weirdness can be
Found in any arrangement of words as they’re played.
Broken down into letters, our words seem to aid
In describing what’s otherwise quite hard to see.
Making magic of words is my best game by far.

With perceptions approximate, how can one know
Without language how closely we get to what’s real?
We don’t grunt at each other as matter of course.
We can talk our way through things without using force.
But, too often, we lose track of how people feel.
Words may offer to us a firm platform to grow.

My dear friend, the Weirdwordnick and I are a team.
We together bend logic as far as we can.
I look after my letter tree. He makes the words
And makes sure that our letters aren’t eaten by birds.
He comes up with some weird ones but not weirder than
Ones that I care to give him, sometimes in a stream.

Celestial Susan

TheMagicRealist.com

A gigantic turntable exists in the sky.
It is called the ecliptic. It is the sun’s path
That outlines its circumference in such a way
That it marks off twelve slices in polar array.
It becomes not a hard task to learn all the math
That is needed to figure out where planets lie.

Seems it is both or neither a science nor art
Though its practice dates back to the dawning of time.
Those who think it is folly are set in their ways.
With the scientist’s method, sometimes progress stays
On the cusp of discovery, stuck in mid climb.
Yet the mind and the heart are not lightyears apart.

The Celestial Susan is put into place
As a piece of a clockwork in sync with the ways
Of behaviors of people according to when
And where time introduced them to this life again.
Our precise correlations can awe and amaze.
We are live on a turntable nestled in space.

Mold Your Clay

TheMagicRealist.com

Gosh – Darn it! This clump of clay turned out a mess.
I have done nothing with it yet, but just the same
I can’t put my hands in it. They might well get stuck.
Then I’d have to do something with it. I’d have luck
If it turned out to be something that brought me fame.
But I’m too damned afraid to go through the process.

When I first plop my clay down with audible splat
Should I stand back and judge how my work has turned out?
I think not. That’s the easiest way to give in
To the notion that I don’t know where to begin.
I shall get my hands dirty. That’s all it’s about.
I can’t call this a work of art yet. It’s not that.

I can mold this dense clay of my life as it spins
On its axis completely through touch of my hand.
If my hand becomes idle, my fine work may fall.
Yet, that’s never a tragedy. And, above all,
It’s no reason for hanging my head in the sand.
When I mold my own clay of life, everyone wins.

Where Does Now Begin ?

TheMagicRealist.com

Can my now take on substance and gather some moss
As it rolls onward free of no will of its own?
As I speak the word ‘now,’ am I speaking what’s true?
Because as I speak nowness, each now become new.
Can I pinpoint this now moment that can be known
By my feeling it only? I am at no loss.

The tall peak of my now is the top of a wave
With some level of low grass delighting my base.
Right on top of the peak is the surfer I know
Who can balance upon now and ride with the flow
Of the now that seems ever to stay in one place.
Every moment one savors is easy to save.

My best now begins not as I warm up the scope
Of the mind with controls that can sharpen the view
Of the signal that lets me know I am still here.
That the signal is present, my vision is clear.
I can ride this great pulse of life all the way through.
Where my soul is well centered, there’s no need for hope.

Flaming Petutia

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s a Flaming Petutia. Minutia fulfills
All desires the human mind idle can bare.
Though the fragrance is earthy, true colors do bloom
As a function of how much the mind will consume
With the purpose of sorting out what one can share
With some others in hopes it may trigger some thrills.

The Petutia, a sphincter with petals unique,
Can release, as it opens, what lies under foot.
It is not to be looked at. It’s grosser than hell!
There’s no flower quite like it. How does it compel
One to while away blissful with feelings well put
In a fine floating boat that is headed down creek?

It is done by my knowing the world makes no sense
Except for the ones who have found a good space
In a field gone prolific in manifold smell.
I partake in whatever will ring my heart’s bell
And will make life a fresh one immune to disgrace
Every moment, in light of no need for defense.

Didgeri Donewith

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s no fun! I am done with my didgeridoo.
It turns out it’s a nightmare carved from a tree branch.
Though there are those who play it and do it quite well
I do better with gut gas. All nearby can tell.
Both our blowing could trigger a fine avalanche
In a world where such things can come out of the blue.

I’ve a didgeridoo as a gift from a friend.
He is not from down under but from across town.
Might he have some agreement with them on the side?
Does he think I might learn how to play once I’ve tried?
Well, I’ve tried it enough times to put the thing down.
There’s just too much hard work and ill will to transcend.

So, I’m Didgeri Donewith. I did what I did
Thinking I’d have the patience to do as those do
Who have talent for getting good sound to come out
Of a tube wholly hollow. I’m left with no doubt
That my lungs need no workout. My didgeridoo
Done did all that it needs to. It now will be hid.

Be Happy Any [Frigging] Way

TheMagicRealist.com

Bring that water to boil one degree at a time
Over centuries. That ought to get me to cook.
I am fat, dumb and happy, but I tend to squeal
When I feel I’m not getting a fair and square deal.
You, the chef, satisfy me. I won’t take a look
At what’s happening to me. I’m feeling sublime.

Love the pills that you’re giving me? Maybe you should.
They are ripping my cells apart. My mind as well.
And they’re making you rich beyond anyone’s dreams.
I’m a pig in a blanket of filth, so it seems.
We, the three hundred million-fold, can’t seem to tell
If we’re being well-porked and if that’s to our good.

Does my better self-see things the way that I do?
Surely Not! It’s a view that it knows has no truth.
So, it’s up to my lesser self to find a way
To find positive aspects to brighten my day.
I prefer to be self-controlled and in my youth.
Although life can affect me, I’m not in its stew.

Earth’s Skin Issues

TheMagicRealist.com

Mother Earth’s skin is gorgeous. She cares for it well.
She does not use cosmetics, cold creams or the like.
But she’s beautiful as people see her from space.
She’s a greenish blue marble with such a clear face.
And she does what she needs to do, should disease strike.
She can get people moving like bats out of hell.

We The People are ones who infect her fine skin
And cause blisters and blemishes through disregard
For her womanhood. We treat her like an old bitch.
Yet we’re willing to rape her so some may get rich.
When her face gets too dirty and too deeply scarred
She will wipe herself clean so new life can begin.

The Earth’s skin is an organ – the largest of all.
That’s in terms of her surface where all life takes place.
As we help care for her skin as we do our own
She may see us as not a disease overgrown.
All the damage done to her, she well can erase.
She’ll get rid of us too, and it seems it’s her call.

My Path Does Not Walk Me

TheMagicRealist.com

My life path doesn’t run me nor walk me at all.
It is not like a treadmill where I can pass by
The same scenery, never to see something new…
Where the mind needs fine earbuds to see the path through.
Life is not like a chore I must do or I’ll die.
It’s the way that I walk or run, and sometimes crawl.

Sometimes things on my path seem to follow along
Like lost puppies, or butterflies or disturbed bees.
They are just on my path. I could leave them behind.
They will not come around again if I’m inclined
To look forward and outward with care to the breeze.
That’s a path I can follow. That’s where I belong.

When my life is a treadmill, it just does not work,
Though there’s plenty of effort and movement and sweat
And the heart and lungs pump like there’s no end in sight.
But that doesn’t quite get it. I’m nowhere despite
All the hard work I’m doing, though I don’t regret
Inner growth as a byproduct and a nice perk.

A Parallel Gaming

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s a parallel gaming. There’s shit going on
That we can’t know enough about. There’s just too much.
Airplanes going through buildings cannot make them fall.
As you watch it again, demolition is all
That is clear in the mind. We are eager to clutch
Onto whatever game plan is meant for the pawn.

Yes, there is some world order that is being planned
But it’s been going on since the Church game board came.
There are steep hierarchical ladders and chutes
Woven into life’s fabric and up through our roots.
Games we think we are playing are not quite the same
As that of the few ones with the world underhand.  

We could just mind our own business. Maybe that way
We’d disrupt the game process by not feeding hype.
The news media, big pharma, ‘organized’ crime
And so many more game boards will wither with time.
These are times that are turbulent and fully ripe
For an ultimate game playing toward our doomsday.

How To Make A Time Bomb

TheMagicRealist.com

A time bomb is not something that’s already made.
It takes years to develop one effectively.
Like the one that goes ‘cuckoo’, this time bomb will tell
Anyone within earshot that he is not well.
With his symptoms ignored, he goes on a blood spree.
In his heart, he believes life is viciously played.

Now, this is a fine time bomb; we all can agree.
It’s not hard to construct one. It does take some time
And some diligence at making him feel depraved
Of all semblance of worthiness dreamt of or craved.
Our society makes them, and it’s not a crime.
When backed into life’s corner, how can one feel free?

Making time bombs of people is such a fine art.
It requires a knack for discrete social cues
And a cool, subtle disregard toward those not cool.
Don’t let any guilt get involved. Don’t be a fool.
It’s a shame that we know not when he’ll light his fuse.
It’s the products we nurture that blow us apart.

Some Advice For Young Poets

TheMagicRealist.com

There’s a reason I didn’t start speaking ‘til four,
As my family began to think something was wrong.
I just needed more time. Language didn’t seem quite
Like something to take lightly. That didn’t seem right.
I was rushed into speaking so I’d get along
With society’s programs and culture and more.

Perhaps I took enough time to learn language well
Long before I would stutter and make some mistakes.
My perfectionist attitude slowed down my pace.
Had I known living life well amounts to a race
I would not have been tricked into playing high stakes
In a game I know nothing of. I am in hell!

I would want future poets to see I made sense
On some level, despite my most retrograde mind.
Have your way with my style and do call it your own.
Do Not tell them it’s mine because my life is blown.
Anything attached to my name is ill-assigned.
Make a carcass of my work and at my expense.

 

It’s About Self Control

TheMagicRealist.com

I attract what comes to me – no doubt about that.
When I find myself frazzled by what’s in my way,
I do tend to go off. I’ve been known to get riled
When I feel that my honor is being defiled
By someone with control issues and much to say –
Not with words but with attitude like a bobcat.

Tough black cats at the drive thru is what I will get
When I doubt what my better self knows fully well.
That is: No one can damage my ‘honor’ but me.
What goes on in the real world is not mine to see.
I can get through this fine day without letting hell
Have her pleasure at my expense and much regret.

Self-control is a skill to be practiced and honed
And this world does provide opportunities great.
I can move most my muscles; that much is for sure.
I command subtle energies never obscure
To my worthiness as well as those whom I hate.
My distaste for the drive thru is hereby postponed.

He’s Right About That

TheMagicRealist.com

Well, of course I am right, you malignant disgrace
To my intellect! Why would you think I am wrong?
I am right about many things. You are as well.
Why is it when I speak it becomes a hard sell?
Shall I submit to feeling like I don’t belong
To the rest of this universe in the first place?

Yes, I’m right about things. I am wrong sometimes too.
There’s a sameness among us all. Why am I cast
In a world outside yours. Don’t you know that’s not right?
That’s why people go ape shit and get so uptight.
If you want your ephemeral friendships to last
Then respect what folks have to say as they would you.

People’s rightness or wrongness can be loosely based
On one’s subconscious preferences that cloud the mind
With fallacious assumptions and fractured impressions.
If we dislike someone we give subtle expressions
Of disgust and judgement that aren’t very kind.
One’s contempt for dishonor seems never misplaced.

The Contemptuous Twidge McSmidgen

TheMagicRealist.com

Mrs. Twidglene McSmidgen is of the old school
Where control in the classroom is gained by brute force.
She could not have grown old watching Sesame Street.
She is like Foghorn Leghorn and doomed to defeat.
She can not swat the tots and then stutter, of course.
She would love to use some kind of ‘discipline tool.’

But the ‘tools’ today are much like bargaining chips.
And her chips are down usually by display.
She can’t muster the will to negotiate with
Such inferior beings. To her, it’s a myth
That the little ones might become people someday.
It seems teachers and tyrants are joined at the hips.

Many teachers are parents, so they have some clue
As to what makes most little ones act out in ways
That are deemed not appropriate and impolite.
And they do have some sense of what’s wrong and what’s right.
They are people with voices. Their minds aren’t a maze
Nor a puzzle with which we know not what to do.

Digital Ties

TheMagicRealist.com

I have digital ties, and much to my surprise
I’ve no need to make contact in any real way
With the people in my life and throughout the earth.
I’ve been trick-fucked by fellowship ever since birth.
I have God on my Facebook wall. That’s how I pray.
I have no need for sense. Social discourse is wise.

Although digital ties may lead to my demise
I just can’t do without them. They’re part of my act.
My whole friendship endeavor is too loosely based
On how many ‘page views’ and ‘likes’ that have replaced
My own sense of self-worth. I spit out the harsh fact
That would have me believe I’m a fool in disguise.

My damned digital ties may in time make me wise
To the bullshit behind all the ‘thumbs up’ I chase.
If I can’t find fulfillment within my own soul
I have no sense of value – no means of control.
I’ll continue to live life, yet fully embrace
Social Media’s squalor and all it implies.

A Chawpauper’s Chance

TheMagicRealist.com

As most archetypes merge and evolve into more
Well-submerged in subconsciousness, earth drives the soul
Toward fulfilling its haughty desires unscathed
Until true life departs oneself. Then one is bathed
In a fog unbecoming a person who’s whole.
Even though one is chawless, there’s much to adore.

I know nothing of chaw. I am in no debate.
But by rogue curiosity I can possess
Some faint insight benevolent to the chaw heart.
Chaw is nasty to me. We are lightyears apart.
I can see people packing it when under stress.
When they’re chawless, they enter a psychotic state.

I’ve respect for the chawless and chawfull as well.
Rather than keeping tongue in cheek, they keep a ball
Of the foulest, most fecal of substances made.
Yet, it’s not by my scale that another is weighed.
Whence a chawpauper’s chance could be measured as small
It’s the breath that might kill you because of the smell.

Stock Up On B’Jesus

TheMagicRealist.com

I’ve stocked up on B’Jesus. I keep tons on hand.
I am sometimes scared out of it due to my not
Having faith in my knowing that harm can’t occur
In my life unless I turn my cheek, as it were,
From the wellbeing present. In fact, there’s a lot
Of ways to keep B’Jesus intact as I’d planned.

If B’Jesus were marketed in such a way
That it wouldn’t wreak havoc within the mass soul,
Then maybe all God’s people would trade fear for love.
That would be kind of boring for souls up above.
They would rather we kick back and watch super bowl.
With B’Jesus so volatile, keep lots and pray.

My B’Jesus supply is my ticket to health
In a way that no doctor in my life could be.
All B’Jesus is warehoused and shipped from the place
Deep within self and to self in radiant grace.
Any feces that’s fan-borne can’t terrify me.
So, in terms of B’Jesus, I wallow in wealth.

Soap On The Brain Syndrome

TheMagicRealist.com

These darned kids, nowadays, must have Soap On The Brain.
It’s that newfangled illness that’s talked about much.
No one knows where it came from. Perhaps it’s from soap.
They are clearly too full of themselves. I can’t cope
With these youngsters who sound off to adults and such.
Is their purpose for living to drive us insane?

Yes, it’s Soap On The Brain Syndrome without a doubt.
There’ve been studies on soap suds of various kinds.
One would think they’d all brainwash to make the kid good
But they do just the opposite of what they should.
One good reason for pills is to shut down their minds
So that they are obedient. That’s the best route.

God knows children today are so matter of fact.
They will speak their truth loudly so that they are heard.
They will take to life, each in extravagant ways
And remember a lifetime of wonderful days.
Once our need to control them is seen as absurd
We will see we’re the ones who should clean up our act.

Nature Of The Coil

TheMagicRealist.com

As the coil whistles wild tunes and rattles the nerve
Of what rest of self savors – an ease about flow,
The mind could think that wellbeing has a firm grip
On the body, or it could go bonkers an trip
On just why it seems, all the time, it has to know
To what purpose the whistles and rattles might serve.

It’s a coil, after all, in the form of a bowel.
I will steer clear of jargon that steers from what’s clear.
A tight coil is less spring-like, or more, by the way
I devote my attention throughout the long day.
If I take notice that no bowel movement is near
Then my day is a menace; my language is foul.

Thirty feet of a snake that will never stretch out
Nor will never see light of my day from its place
Well-concealed in its chamber, content in its ways,
I should cease my condemning it and give it praise
For the work it does ceaselessly in its embrace
Of whatever I put it through without a doubt.

The Beleaguered Debate

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s been said truth sounds like hate to those who hate truth.
Now, if that ain’t a paradox, send me to school!
Does this mean that falsehood sounds like love to the ones
Among us who serve mendacity by the tons?
That one’s truth is another’s excuse for a duel
Is a symptom that manifests from early youth.

I am prone to dig deeper to get to the core
Of that which is excitable, pleasant or not.
When big planets drop by and move in for a year
I could choose to expand my affairs without fear.
There are things about passion that scare me a lot.
Though I keep on complaining, I do ask for more.

When the elements fire and water touch base
The emotions are heated to levels above
That which cannot withstand being liquid in form.
They expand with a power apart from the norm.
We can be broken down to be rebuilt in love.
It’s a Jupiter/Scorpio thing taking place.

By the Numbers

TheMagicRealist.com

The Pi-th root of infinity, should it exist
As a variable that traverses the mind,
Is a root counter rational. And it’s not real.
Even though it’s not real math, it does have the feel
Of the essence of living among humankind.
Within seas of infinities, none are dismissed.

Any root of infinity should be the same
As the sum of infinities, meaning, them all.
That is, if it could be quantifiable stuff
Where one gets to the point where one says, “That’s Enough!”
Yet, indeed it’s a concept one couldn’t call small.
It does draw the mind close like the moth to the flame.

By the numbers, I number among the ignored.
That is nothing to cry about. I will be heard
As my meaning has function with my heart and mind.
Might that happen this time around? I am resigned
To a life of fulfillment transfigured through word.
There are worlds of infinities to be explored.