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.

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"

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

Untitled

Untitled  by Jason Motsch


 I have an insatiable thirst for wonder.
Drawn by moonlit echoes, I crash upon the shores of
my muse time and time again.
Today the sun glitters upon his beard like

Ice crystals newly melted into drops of dew
on the end of a morning frost.
Mesmerised by a simple reclining figure in the sand,
untouched by time and space,
The sun pours from his mouth and melts the layers
of my spirit away.
I see the truth as a root system
webbing under the ground of my being
producing whole forests of vegetation where
birds rest on their way to different nests up high.
I am winging across the ocean
Sent back to this screen,
dripping my findings onto the page, 
where I gather them from a journey into wonder.