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.
Morning Flowers by Jason Motsch The meadow is deceptively quiet. Birds, snapping twigs, frogs, insects: none are present. The flowers seem to wait with expectant vigil. Then, at first strike of sunlit dawn, the flowers begin to sway with an invisible wind. The swirling stem work holds up a quilt of Undulating blossoms to the morning sky, greeting the arrival of day. Nobody ever sees this in the forgotten meadow. Daisies cry out and jump from their roots, spinning like delicate toy tops for invisible children. Buttercups and phlox make love in a beautiful embrace. Daffodils and wildflowers sever themselves from their tethered place and begin to dance wildly around the glade. It is short announcement to the forest that it is morning, nothing more, nothing less, but everything beautiful and sublime. Soon the dance dies down and a mist gathers slowly in the clearing until all is obscured. Eventually the fog clears and the meadow is as it was, appearing untouched and virgin. Like it is every morning after the dance.
Soul Currency by Jason Motsch My vision takes the train across the room and gets off at the stop where my guitar stands waiting. The old man waiting there picks it up and begins playing a tune, his eyes pouring out a question as if to say, "any money would be nice." What is the currency of my soul? Taking the instrument from his hands I start fashioning my own song. Playing my life story, from the first time my fingers tickled ivory, walked hellborne hallways in search of refuge amongst other children who sought the harsh noise of the electric gods, discovering the thrill of hitchhiking throughout the countryside on a radio dial that played music only I liked, never feeling alone while holding my fares for destinations full of treble and bass clefs while riding the bus on school and solitary trips to abandoned houses where records lay scattered in upstairs lofts amongst books about acid and hippie propaganda. Even stepping off the plane for awhile and parachuting to the ground to land in foreign territory until discovering the familiar landmarks again of monuments to my musical loves and lives, until I grabbed the reigns and eeeeevened out. Yes I am standing next to that old man where I have taken my guitar back, and I pay with the only money I have, my love for the song of life. As honeybear says, it's continued freshness of appreciation. And I continue to appreciate. A dance with the old gods of Egypt from jazz to ancient deities of metallic monoliths, a nap with the kittens who lead me to verdant fields where the streams of space and time flow free, reaching into each other, spontaneous and supercharged from a moment played into this symphony from technological fun and frolic, we bring the divinites of other realms to the table where we feast on audio performances from our eyes into our souls.
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.
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.
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.
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.
