Wednesday, January 22, 2014


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

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"


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.