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.
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.
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.
