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.

Candle Light

Candle Light

by Jason Motsch

By candle light I write,

waiting for him to arrive home.

A quiet assurance of anticipation's delivery.

His face is divine.

He is a radiant starborne bird

Flying by my side as we walk the country roads

that quilt the hill country of our lives.

We paint a dream together realized on a

Love splashed canvas of living rainbow light.

We avoid the radar of vultures and 

Soar into each other's days and nights

like angels of old Gods,

their eyes gleaming like candle light,

shining from my eyes as I write this tonight,

waiting for him to walk through the door.

God I'm in love!

Leaf

Leaf
by Jason Motsch


I hold a trembling leaf in my hand
And with faithful abandon cast it to the wind.
The forge within is shaping the blade
Which is to carve a whole new sculpture
In my soul.  
Further along the wooded path
The wind returns the leaf with a gentle gust nestling it  in the branches
Of a nearby tree.  
My spirit melds with Creation,
and flies to the air above where it 
Sings with the birds of the sky.
The terrain below is a patchwork quilt
Of blessings and life.  
I see the earthen vessel that has been
carved by the Unfolding- my life, my words,
My song.
Tree, forge, wind and dust now mingle
and begin to stitch up wounds godly within.
The throes of birthing pangs give way
to a new life envisioned in the reality of now.
Waters rush through the cascading fires of yesterday
wearing away at the canyon walls and forming new streams
that feed the Ocean Light.
I am a thing of the sea and breath in the liquid like
the holy eucharist of old, inebriated by the blood of Christ.
The mercurial ichor flows deep through the cosmos and I am but a drop
falling endlessly through space and time. 
There is a quilt of stars reflecting the earthly foundation below.
And above, beyond, yet still within it all,
Is the nameless, endless, timeless
Source.

Truth

Truth
by Jason  Motsch

Loving kindness knows no form.
We attach our details to deity or idea
thinking it equals knowelege.
No one holds the amulet of truth
except for the creator.
Heaven is not a country club for the the select
And Hell is not a place for the outcast.
Maybe judgements should be thrown into the sea
like the lead stones they are.
Maybe our versions of ultimateness
should be discarded for love.
No one knows God intimately except
when seeing the daylight on the face of the 
trees for the first time.
No man nor woman speaks
for the Buddha except when they wrap
their arms around the orphaned child
lying sick in the streets.
We are the trees.
We are the orphaned child.
The sunlight and gathering arms
are the medium for a Godly work of art.
So let's pick up our pen, brush and lute!
It's time to fashion a new kind of heart.
Let's show the way.