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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Bars
by Jason Motsch
The clever but shady fences of the world
are about to be smashed.
They are standing compliantly behind bars,
while the hand of Creation is laid upon the cage,
freeing the slaves of Mind.
They feel the rush of open air and
Gasp at the nature of beauty.
The blood of trees bleed into the
scarred backs of these ex-cons who have
committed no crimes.
The tears of the sky soak their hair with
wild torrents of peaceful abandon.
Beasts of the sea, land and heavens greet
the freed captives with open arms,
celebrating their new-found return.
It is like this when we wake up.
Visions sometimes swoop into new territories
and are co-created by themselves and the muse of the poet.
The freedom from mental slavery to the noise of existence
Is the dream of all who get up, get out of bed and greet a new
dawn of love and peace.
Good morning.
Morning Hours
by Jason Motsch
The morning hours...
Waking up to gentle voices,
one next to me and another
delicately stepping out of my speakers.
Trucks and cars pass by outside.
I haven't looked at the birds yet.
Tender little things.
They are such a delight.
This is a simple poem that some would
just call thoughts on paper.
Anything can be a poem
just as anything can be art.
"Beauty lies in the eye...of another's dream"
Telephone
by Jason Motsch
There is an undercurrent of muddy water,
here behind my eyes; a thin veil of ice in the air
distorting the lenses of these ancient spectacles.
Looking over at the rusted telephone
Hanging on the wall, I take my fist, smashing until it's tattered and disjointed.
Echoes of old conversations...
Now dewdrops blanket the floor and the muddy water
begins to fade when suddenly,
A voice from the dangling receiver calls out shrilly,
Announcing a melody that starts to fill the room.
A marriage of an an ending of being blind to the beginning of
Eyes washed clean with love, Creation begins
to form the seamless Now.
The dirt-laden, viscous liquid in the floor solidifies
and becomes a marvelous, verdant bed of down.
The frozen air becomes a warm, inviting ambrosia.
The cold floor is now burning with a field of daisies
and orchids.
I see the present through my God within.
Only the dilapidated phone remains,
as things do, in a past littered with
old voices.
I refuse to listen anymore.
