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.
They feel the rush of open air and 
