Habitation

Habitation   

by Jason C. Motsch

Buried under layers of earth and magma,

His womb revolves around a sun of mirrors.

Reflective of an eternal explosion of color,

The star bathes his eyes in a night of sunshine,

A snowy field of restful sleeping grasses.

The viscous, chaotic puzzle pieces of his being

Have been warlike and at a truce for ages.

He is every tree in the forest,

All the sand at the edge of the ocean,

All the water in the sea

and every star in the sky.

But the roots run deep into the ground,

Gathering the pieces together,

Making a solid image of light,

Easing out of of hibernation and into the fresh air.

Free to walk under the dark, bright sky,

He leaves his tracks in the cold snow,

abandons the trees , sand and waters of the world,

and sets out for a home in his heart where habitation is now possible.

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 Ancient pathfinder

Chaos infested moth

Bombards the campfire

Notices dwellings 

Simmering in the embers

Lasting silhouettes
Cast shadows long

Filtered amongst trees

Creating dark snowflakes

Storms of cool

Deluge rip apart

The soundless forest

Adventurer departs

Burnt out fire

For warmth.

      

        by Jason C. Motsch

        

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.                                

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.

Old and New

Old and New
by Jason Motsch


There are too many flowers to notice the weeds,
although at times weeds are beautiful.
Clothed in the finery of kings and queens,
the countryside gets a makeover every season.
The leaves are earrings decked out with God's finest jewels.
Why talk about death?
Whatever happened to transformation?
The longer I gaze into the heart of autumn 
The more my spirit spills over into the air,
mingling with the canvas of the countryside and
warming by the fireside of the sun.
Change into the wonder dazzling the peace of nights
under Christ's watch and growing into the days of Pan's desire.
Ages past they knew what we know so let's continue
to dine with our ancestors on the food of old,
the stuff of today,
the masterpiece of creation.