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.
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.
Railway
by Jason Motsch.
My mind is a railway station,
with many trains converging on the tracks.
Passengers spill out of cars and
Into the city where they live out their lives.
There are parts of town I have not visited for awhile,
Some way too much
And some not at all.
These travellers turned denizens form the body
Of my life.
Sometimes I am not cautious enough when
Inspecting for explosives.
Whole city blocks erupt in fearful destruction.
Jesus and Buddha have walked these streets
Handing out free food and I try to follow them
When I think of it.
But sometimes the sewers call and I am swimming in sludge.
All in all, though, its a city on a hill lit by the sun
and I am getting better at rooting out the gangs that roam
the alleyways looking for trouble.
My thoughts are living proof of successful missions
Into unrestful parts of the suburbs.
Neighborhood watch groups are set up now to police
the avenues of my being.
I let in a little of everything.
I am small.
I am tall.
I am human.
I am a traveller.
