Bars

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

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

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.

Telling Stories

Telling Stories
By Jason Motsch


We sat in alleyways telling stories.
Some of us cried,  our tears flowing freely  through the twisted streets,
gathering into puddles, the drifiting wind rioting across their surface.
A flock of birds suddenly take flight and the rain comes down, 
scattering stones into gutters, washing the sad streams of memory
down the roads and into the waters at the city's outskirts.
They are now part of the ocean's vast and timeless form.
We are this place, the pavement, the canyon-like streets, the lines of sky above.
Most importantly we can become the dreamlit signs showing the way.
Glistening pavement in a new sun, mingled with our bright voices now washed clean,
Causes a song that emanates into the sewers and drags the homeless forth. Walking outside 
and led  into the sunlit alleyways by a one-way, right turn only, and a free parking marker,
They wait and tell stories

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!

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.

Forever

Forever
by Jason Motsch



The dog is barking at the mailman.
I baked some muffins today.
Kate Bush sails out of my speakers and into the room.
The cats are resting in higher depths.
The weather is wintery.
I love it.

All these things on any other day
would be mundane.
And they are mundane today too.
Some of the most mundane things
are some of the most divine though.
I find peace and wonder in my ordinary ocean
The waves lull my senses from the inside out into
a passion with the world.
I am restful on waters of common tongues 
speaking out against the slavery of tomorrow.
Today is the last and final word.
Thus it lasts for ever.