Awakening

The poem

Wherever you are, Know this — There are people Just like you. So find them. Your particular aspect of the world, And its millions of petals, Is relevant and important To the collective psyche of our consciousness. Vibrating with your kin Is an impact for progression. The balance of the world Also depends on you. Don't see this as responsibility That might cause you to not be who you are. See this as an opportunity To belong Exactly as you are — Free. The wind in your heart Describes you if you open your sails. The passion in your veins will define you If you listen to your heart. See the world as it is... Magical — With the honesty to yourself That you might give to those who surround you, If you listen and act With all the love you have To give.

The poem

Reflections.... I skate over the ice Even when the sign says it's not safe Cause I know that even when it's breaking up behind me It's my speed that finds the strength over the impermanence beneath And the weight of my burdens makes no difference And I just have to carry-on believing that's my will keep me safe Sometimes I look down At the person under the ice Following my movements in every way And the look in his eyes makes me wonder How I lost that excitement inside Cause it's a sight to see The bliss of speed and danger Rolled up in one great big thrust and not knowing if I'll make it to the other side but there is no other side just an unfolding mist one day at a time and as I learn the burdens become less and my speed increases driving me faster of course to my death once we have released all of our encumbrances is this the time we fly or die since we have achieved everything on earth or is this the time we realise our higher being and learn to give

The poem

Rivers of light flow through the world, and now through you. You are a conduit of awakening, a living frequency, alive with purpose. As you open and expand into this moment, you remember— your true essence is light. The pain, the density, the confusion, the fear— they dissolve as the brilliance of your being emerges and leads. There is nothing you need to do, nothing to prove. Only to allow this river of light to move through you. To breathe it. To be it. To live it. For this is who you are. And always have been. Welcome home, beautiful soul.

The poem

Streams of energies rolling from the light of the day — through this body I call mine... for this short time. The eye of my mind... a prism of conception — a prison of deflection. Truth... in its own way, impacting this vibrational instance, rolling over the boulders of my impressions — wearing them down to the pebbles that remain... ...clutched in my hands. Unable to stop my growth. Unable to predict tomorrow. Unable to remember what I was... before the power of this understanding found its way over the dam wall Into the space.. I once called home. It took the boy out of me at such a young age... and now haunts the man I've become. Fist around a handful of shiny stones — perfect spheres — burnt by the light... ...and half of this world, half of me, still living in the dark...

The poem

I ask with sincerity, sweet Creator: I give to Your selfish gain through my experiences on this plane. I have explored the hidden chambers of the heart You shaped, I have loved beyond myself, And yet I am not defeated. I have seen Your plan for me — accepted with uncommon acceptance, While everyday consciousness holds a question Between You and their existence. So, sweet Creator — Residing in my heart, seeing through my eyes, Feeling through this body of Your earth, Touching through the hands of Your intention, Loving through the window of this fragile heart — What is here is Your plan. I leap from the world of Your design And find Your gravity no longer resident in this state. I drift through the aspects of Your dimensions, And witness Your wondrous design — Yet all of it rests simply in acceptance. Now I hear You whisper: Let the world come to Me, Be patient enough to recognize a world that is arriving — all at once. You tell me: Balance pain and suffering with joy, The joy of no-thing. Yet while millions sit just beyond The thin membrane of Your Being, I question You, Creator: Why push so many Toward pain and suffering When the joy of simply Being Is but a single, incisive heartbeat away?

The poem

Wind traverses the plain, Marauding across my cheek, Marking the pathway of my flowing tears. Obscure areas of our beautiful world Rape my perceptions with multicoloured impact. Flowers bending to the force Of the movement of air, Spreading the seeds of their future— Recklessly natural and abundant, Appreciated by me, A soul flying in this field, Standing still for a while. Witnessing an instance— Untouched and just being, In an unaffected original purpose, Beningly beautiful, Held in consequence of gravity, Their one aspect of the world We selfishly float above. Sun riding now above the horizon, Dew on the petals to soak up the impact— A symbiotic silent handshake. Words have no meaning Standing here in this field, Allowing its beautiful impact Into appreciation. Hope just an expression, Love an existence— To allow into your life, Or to ignore with selfishness. A beautiful field, Untouched and bound by gravity To a single expression or moment, Exists in every heart— A consequential part Of this pantomime, Its obvious procession and meaning, Just waiting for you to stand still and see.

The poem

Once, I was on the road to grace. It felt like a stream running through me— In every thought, Every moment. Like the sunrise in an untouched field: Bright, full of sound and scent, Crisp to the touch. Leaves turgid with life, Grass cool beneath my feet, Dew casting miniature rainbows— Myriad and bountiful. As the sun rose into the heat of the day, It reminded us Of growth, Of the necessity of becoming. I was buoyant. Mutual appreciation. I remember those days— Still relevant. The same field, Now seen as a challenge. No longer a puppy, But yearning for that bounce Back into my paws, To run wild through that open field, To feel, smell, touch, hear, see— Each step a virgin spirit's joy. But I let challenges overcome. I invested. Indulged in outcomes. They affected me— And I forgot to affect them. I forgot the source of life Was not outside, But within. Put the colours back, please. Lift this heaviness from us all. Let me breathe Your love Back into my heart. Fill these dulled senses. Let your spiritual wind Fill these wallowing sails. Blow through me— Into others. Remove my selfishness. Let me become An instrument of your will, A vessel For the transformation Of the fields of our dreams. Though we are individual, Let me not impose my dream upon another. Let me encourage, And be encouraged— To find our own paths Toward your acceptance And your reward. If heaven is to be known on earth, Let it be in abundance— In all its beautiful forms And relevance.

The poem

Just a window In a corner of the eye— Probability is the left one, Showing a glimpse Of who we are supposed to be. It kind of shines in the night, When we are left alone. It expands into a vision, Opening all the eyes— Especially the one we ignore. And in these moments, The Creator speaks freely Into our inner being. We hear, agree, And are uplifted by the gifts Brought by the words spoken. In this moment, We experience the joy Only freedom can give. Yet tomorrow, We fall back into the familiar armchairs Of our unconsciousness, Disregarding direct contact With our Creator— Like it was a dream. I say this because I am the same, Calling my frontier As a spirit warrior should— Yet there is none. The frontier is me, And my inability To act on that beautiful, Blue-colored voice, Speaking in a cadence of upliftment— Direct, yet non-confrontational. Let me come home to you, Voice of my Creator, In this life— Not the next, And not at this body's death.

The poem

There is a space in our existence where we can exist— not as roles, not as names, but as awareness resting inside itself. It takes a different energy to let go of the self, the past, its intrinsic boundaries and inherited limitations— to float above them and allow the heart to receive the Creator's intention, and its meaning for the collective. This is the practice of denied gratification, of de-identifying from the many voices— and choosing which one receives our attention. It is a high without an ingested substance. An acceptance of our place in the universal fabric. A sense of belonging without another human voice or touch— just a quiet confidence that pervades our demeanour, lightening our steps as we move— simply, often misunderstood— toward our Creator. His beckoning voice amplified through denial. His regard and reward— a prism in the eye, deflecting detraction, rewarding resonance, automatically absorbed in His instance within us all— our heart centres. Perhaps language itself was only given to us to magnify importance. Yet voices became tools of the mind— twisted to serve antipathy to their original meaning. What was born to teach, to nurture, to embody selfless love was bent— through aberration— and manifested as power, as control, as a direct challenge to love itself.

The poem

Graduation The tide comes in With its sense of promise Like an unknown bounty Washes Our dirty feet The tide goes out And all we have left Is the debris That was exposed Inside The sun and the night Just the same I love the warmth And the emptiness Of no sight Feels like I’m running next To a horse That’s always been Inside me My Horse Trots, centres, and gallops And is Sometimes still Just getting to know That I’m the rider And all I witness Is some path I cannot control Conquer one challenge He will give me Another No timeline No straight graph No relation to each other Until they are done No resistance Left inside of me Strange how the speed Has increased Let go of the reins Now we fly Zephyrs in the sky And the tides Days and nights Blend Into each other The only question left Is why Did I resist

The poem

Sun edging its way over the horizon… a slow forgiveness of the night. No urgency. No announcement. Just light finding its place again. It reminds me: I can begin without drama. I can return without shame. Even after everything, morning still arrives.

The poem

I have walked many currents some fierce some quiet some I believed were mine. I have worn many shapes of pride of fear of certainty. Until the river wore them smooth. I have seen the pendulum swing hurt and joy loss and arrival the long arc of becoming. And sometimes when an old current pulls I feel the ancient creature rise — the crocodile mind watching the world through instinct and hunger. It lives in this body as it must. For we are souls moving through vessels shaped as woman or shaped as man learning the textures of this world through skin and breath. And sometimes we forget. But when awareness returns quietly like light on water I remember. Vulnerability is not weakness. It is the open shore where experience arrives without judgment and leaves its understanding behind. We are not here to control the river nor to claim the path for another. Each soul must find its own current its own reflections its own truth. Our task is simpler. To see. To accept. To amplify the light in another without imprinting our own shadow. And when all the striving softens and the noise of the mind grows quiet something gentle appears. Not pride. Not triumph. Just a quiet recognition of the river itself. And in that moment after the currents have carried me through all that I thought I was there remains only one word. Gratitude.

The poem

Some souls meet in this life not by accident but by quiet design. You touched my life with intelligence compassion and the courage to question. If any light passed between us it was never mine alone. It was simply two souls recognising each other. Verse 1 We are born as souls first and bodies second this life a chosen experience spirits walking through temporary forms learning slowly the language of the earth Verse 2 Man with man can witness two lives at once two reflections of the same mystery two mirrors rising beneath the sky showing each other what the world forgot to see Chorus Duality… the world divides what the soul already knows the soul was never divided only the world was we search for truth through borrowed eyes until we stand in who we are Duality… two rivers running through the night until they find the ocean of one light Verse 3 Lights move quietly through the night across a moonlit sky open and bright the universe never struggles to be what it is Verse 4 Yet humanity tries so hard not to be who they are then asks the heavens why life is not abundant when the answer has always lived inside Bridge (music swells) Perhaps this duality was never the design perhaps it was written by humanity itself layers of expectation placed upon the soul until the soul forgets its own voice Final Chorus (full swell) Duality… the world divides what the soul already knows the soul was never divided only the world was two paths walking toward the same horizon until humility becomes the meeting place Duality… not the fall but the return two lives learning how to become one truth Outro (soft spoken) Some friendships arrive quietly yet leave a permanent light on the path.

The poem

Sometimes the hardest part of awakening is not the change within. It is watching the world no longer move as it once did. A skin of perception falls from the eyes like mist lifting from a quiet river. The soul begins to move into another vibration— a horizon that cannot be unseen. And what once held us begins to loosen in the silent turning of the tide. For relationships are vessels on water travelling side by side until the currents change. You are not lost in the breaking. You are becoming the sea. Some souls will sail beside you. Some will drift away. Let forgiveness be the river. Let love be the flame. Every heart is travelling its own sacred way. People walk different paths through the same universe. Respect their journey. And when they ask for light offer a lantern— never a leash. For every soul will one day discover its own horizon.

The poem

The Bridge Between Loneliness and Alone I remember the first time loneliness entered my awareness. Not as a word. Not as a thought. But as a feeling standing alone in the windy halls of the Anderson School. A small child barely two years old. Seeing nothing in front of me except space and silence. Six months into recognising my own reflection in the mirror of existence. Was it a collision? Or the first whisper of the impermanence and fragility of the human condition? Left alone for hours. No reference for what was right or wrong. No compass for how a young mind should be nurtured. Ignored. Sometimes abused. By family. And especially by a step-grandmother who had not chosen the responsibility placed upon her. A child thirty months old learning instinctively how to survive. No rear-view mirror. No map of the road ahead. Only instinct and breath. Years later the feeling returned. Loneliness rising from the silent chambers of memory. As though time itself had decided it was time to face the buried gold inside the wound. And so the repressed had to be expressed. Oceans of tears. Broken relationships. The storm that cleans the sky. I thought I was ready. But are we ever ready to cleanse the scars left by parents walking their own paths unconsciously being who they were? So the question appears. Are you lonely or alone? No one gave you your first breath. It arrived through you. And no one should take your breath away without your awareness. Breath is the quiet sovereignty of the soul. The bridge between loneliness and aloneness is a mysterious journey. The arrival is simply part of inhabiting a human body with all its beautiful dependencies. Every person on this earth feels both sides of the coin. Alone. Lonely. Sometimes the coin is lost. Sometimes we throw it ourselves into the wishing well of life. This poem is such a coin. A small offering dropped into the well of awareness. The journey is a transgression from permanence or the illusion of it toward impermanence or simply the awareness of it. If we expect nothing we become responsible for everything. And responsibility can feel like a burden. Or a liberation. Layer by layer level by level when we retrieve the coin once thrown into the depths it returns as something else. A small nugget in the soul. Transformation. Transcendence. Alchemy. So beautiful souls the answer is not loneliness. Nor is it aloneness. The answer is the journey between them. It is the path of the spirit warrior. And at the far horizon of that journey comes the most surprising realisation of all. Not despair. Not emptiness. But a vast quiet Nothing. And in that nothing the soul finally understands it was never alone.

The poem

Do you live with a question above your head about you and your life ahead? Does it cloud your vision and fill your heart with regret—just one question able to destabilise a world that was once already said? I have walked this planet for more than sixty years. At first, it was like reading a book for the first time—exciting, intriguing, new experiences page after page, step by step. Now I move through different chapters at random, recreating the past with the full knowledge of who I am. I see my internal changes in the difference between who I was and how I act now. I turn already written moments into new meaning, seeing how they shaped past outcomes and how they point to new directions. I relive those moments from a different star—the same terrain, but seen from afar. So much the same, and yet so very different. I was once running blind. Now I am running free— the same ground, but sure-footed. It is the change— so gradual yet so fast. The change within that allows pain to become the past. Changing, we are always.

The poem

Humanity— let's talk. Beautiful beings walking this earth, let's talk together. Plants, animals, rocks and stones, and all the beings around us— seen and unseen, past, present, and future, all happening at once. Only a thin membrane of consciousness between us all. Changes in one reality affect every other. When we grow individually, we grow together. And the world grows at the same time, at the same pace. Patience is our past, our present, our future— waiting for us to be who we really are. So let's talk about it. A family meeting with humanity. Be gentle. Be soft. Be aware. Touch. Feel. Smell. Hear us all at once. Float above encumbrance. Release. And know, at all times, we are— loved.

The poem

White caps drifting across my vision. White sand blowing into my face. Oxygen in every breath— past and present surrounding me. I sit here, allowing access: the corporeal and the reverent. And I am alive. Positioned in absolute knowingness. Tears in my heart, joy in my soul. Unsure of the next steps, yet the unsureness is the joy. Ensconced in acceptance, I float above the problems, out into an open sea. White caps — my master. The force of the Creator still resident, still quiet, inside me.

The poem

Bastions of our perceptive world. Find them on park benches, lost in thought. See them act when catastrophe arrives—always placing others first. They move through the convenient drains of humanity, where the consequences of our mindless existence are carried away from our daily sight: - Hospitals. - Police cells. - Places of abject poverty. This is where the soldiers of our reality are found. Cornerstones— central to this magnificent tent of consciousness, enshrouding all who long to belong in the space of the world constructed for them. A thin film lies between us and the reality that waits for an awakened soul.

The poem

The skin is not a boundary but a conversation happening all the time. Air presses itself against me and I press back without thinking. Sound arrives before meaning. Vibration first, interpretation later. I am touched by temperature, by light, by the nearness of things that do not need my attention to exist. Breath moves across a thin threshold. Inside becomes outside and returns changed. There is no separation here. Only membranes — soft agreements between worlds. I feel before I know. I know before I speak. And sometimes that is enough.

The poem

What is a thought in the still of the night, A whisper that drifts between shadow and light? An echo of feeling, a spark from our flame, A truth without language, too wild for a name. It falls like rain on an open mind, Moves through the heart before it finds A shape, a sound, a place to be— More than words inside of me. What is a thought But an inspired emotion, A downloaded truth From the Creator himself? Living in hearts, Not bound to the mind, It's a vibration We're learning to find. When it reaches the mind, it takes form, Turning silence to meaning, A calm to our storm. Realised in the language we struggle to say, It moves through the body and out into day. Set yourself aside, let the signal come through, It's not what you hear, it's what hears you. Not the words that remain when the moment is gone, But the meaning that hums when the sound carries on. What is a thought But an inspired emotion, A downloaded truth From the Creator himself? Living in hearts, Not bound to the mind, It's a vibration We're yearning to find. More the meaning of it all… Not really the words.