Tuesday, February 21, 2017

Radio Hearts

Radio Hearts
By Jason C. Motsch                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        

Beating on the ground in a flowing rhythm,
The heart sends messenger birds from
It's fingertips into the red skies above.
Sacred songs of holy ritual expand
Into cosmic connections, distill into
Frequencies dancing from spirit radios.
Their wings flap furiously into reality,
Birdsong filling the air from my soul
to His waiting hands, ready to recieve.
My heart gladly leaves its dusty home
and beats from suggestion into exclamation,
Becoming one with my Love at last.
We soar the bandwidth eternal,
Coming in at a rate perceptible only
to our conversing ears.
I waited long.
I was rewarded.
I am free in love.
I am glad.                                

Saturday, October 17, 2015

Math on Image

       

                                                                   

Thea new kday sprsaungk fortsh,
lacerakatisng thae flow ksof atime
wkith etesarnakl blosom of nakow.s

Winater jeksttiasons koverboasard,k
Floosding theak sesa witah its
Iksntearmittkent veisal okf seaksonal msaarrkiage.s

Argumenaktatsive salagheapkss oaf
Jigsakw puzzlsae dkesignss incohakeresntly
Paull at ksthea fabrkic of tsahe ksuns.

It daoesn't ksme aan ak thing.sa
Thek handss on theak clsock darop
to sksix ao clockk for sathek durastion.

Friday, September 19, 2014

Meditation

Meditation
by Jason C. Motsch


I walked through the fields of my mind this morning.
With a handful of seeds, I scattered them as i strolled
among the wild flowers.
The sun smiled warmly on my face, yellow saucer
of interstellar mother's milk.
I'm preparing the ground for next harvest
in hopes that synaptic trails are fertilized
with nutritious abandonment.
The air currents are strong and the grasses
wave in the wind but I breath and
slowly they come to a still halt for a few seconds.
Then the gusty patterns begin anew,
but the seeds are planted for new vegetation
that will withstand the constant draft,
ushering in a new, loving caress on my cheek in the
gift of the eternal moment.

Saturday, August 30, 2014

Untitled

Untitled
by Jason C. Motsch




Sitting with the day slowly drizzling out through my toes,
I try to write a poem, my first in months.
Nondescript job exited by me earlier into the diamond
Embrace of my Love's presence , kissing his smiling eyes with mine,
we sped home on well worn paths under the starless night.
The rain came later as we sat at the table eating,
And as I write this, my first poem in a long time,
I glean from the cuttings of the flowers of my mind
That fortune has rained on my soul and into my life through
my Beloved man, my husband, my all.  

Monday, June 9, 2014

Morning Flowers

Morning Flowers
by Jason Motsch


The meadow is deceptively quiet.
Birds, snapping twigs, frogs, insects:  none are present.
The flowers seem to wait with expectant vigil.
Then, at first strike of sunlit dawn, 
the flowers begin to sway with an invisible wind.
The swirling stem work holds up a quilt of 
Undulating blossoms to the morning sky,
greeting the arrival of day.
Nobody ever sees this in the forgotten meadow.
Daisies cry out and jump from their roots,
spinning like delicate toy tops for invisible children.
Buttercups and phlox make love in a beautiful embrace.
Daffodils and wildflowers sever themselves from their tethered place
and begin to dance wildly around the glade.
It is  short announcement to the forest that it is morning,
nothing more, nothing less, but
everything beautiful and sublime.
Soon the dance dies down and a mist gathers slowly in the 
clearing until all is obscured.
Eventually the fog clears and the meadow is as it was,
appearing untouched and virgin.
Like it is every
morning after the dance.


Tuesday, May 27, 2014

Soul Currency

Soul Currency
by Jason Motsch



My vision takes the train 
across the room and 
gets off at the stop where
my guitar stands waiting.
The old man waiting there
picks it up and begins playing
a tune, his eyes pouring
out a question as if to 
say, "any money would be nice."
What is the currency of my soul?
Taking the instrument from his 
hands I start fashioning my own 
song.  Playing my 
life story, from the first time
my fingers tickled ivory,
walked hellborne hallways in search
of refuge amongst other children
who sought the harsh noise of the 
electric gods,
discovering the thrill of hitchhiking
throughout the countryside on a radio dial
that played music only I liked,
never feeling alone while holding
my fares for destinations full
of treble and bass clefs while
riding the bus on school and solitary
trips to abandoned houses where records
lay scattered in upstairs lofts amongst
books about acid and hippie propaganda.
Even stepping off the plane for awhile and parachuting
to the ground to land in foreign territory 
until discovering the familiar landmarks again
of monuments to my musical loves and lives,
until I grabbed the reigns and eeeeevened out.
Yes I am standing next to that old man where 
I have taken my guitar back,
and I pay with the only money I have,
my love for the song of life.
As honeybear says,
it's continued freshness of appreciation.
And I continue to appreciate.
A dance with the old gods of Egypt from
jazz to ancient deities of metallic monoliths,
a nap with the kittens who lead me to 
verdant fields where the streams 
of space and time flow free,
reaching into each other,
spontaneous and supercharged
from a moment played 
into this symphony from technological
fun and frolic,
we bring the divinites of other realms
to the table where we feast
on audio performances  from our eyes
into our souls.

Thursday, May 22, 2014

Lens

Lens
by Jason Motsch

I see the patterns repeating themselves,
following their own seasons within my being like
a reflection of the leaves falling into an autumn-bound lake
within the woods at the end of summer where the turtles
sense the oncoming winter as a phantom ghost.  
Then I come marching along with my backpack and my 
specimen tubes, gathering samples from the terrain,
from muddy waters to rocky soil to thriving leaves, to take
them home to be put under the microscope.
I see the organisms within moving, struggling, and I
am in awe of their strength and beauty, living alongside
all of the molecular structures, trying to steer clear of the bacteria.
But the black bugs of disease are still present, trying to further 
the trails of internal dischord.
It is only by viewing them through my various lenses in the dark
on the night of my spirit that I am able to let go of them
and let the forces of my inner cosmos deal with the vagabonds
of my existence,  flying through meadows
of soul flowers, taking nectar from each one where God's love
flows free and divine into my spirit, nurturing the body and freeing
me from old ways of living from inside out.
Birds break free from earthbound nests and soar in to the air
singing songs that light the entire spectrum of feelings with 
colorful sounds.
Happy with my work, and like any good scientist,
I now submit my findings to prestigious journals but 
in the end, the most important judge of these things
is my point of awareness,
the one that is free of concepts,
empty of descriptions,
bereft of patterns,
and devoid of attachments and desires.
It lies like a deep under ground cavern at my core that waits
to be discovered.
I will dig as far as I can.