Nopane nngwe le nngwe mo nokeng

Poko

Programmed As a young child To learn and understand The matters of the heart — Their impermanence, The engines Of humanity. Dependence On a partner or friend — Something I have never seen Received by myself Or any other being. The world stands still When my heart beats For another. Memories slow down The pace of time — Especially when We are creating them. My world rushes past now Like TV screens When I am inside a fast train. Days blend into each other, Months countless, Years just a thing I see On the calendar. I sit here now, ensconced In the visions of the past, Wading through the impressions Made on my heart. At the top of a mountain, Small against the backdrop Of the mountains around me — But it is My mountain, And The knapsack On my back Still carrying The weight of the loves I have lost Or released — Yet the sack is empty. In the path I have chosen, All of my choices Have allowed me, Creator, To understand This human heart — Its meaning, Its importance To our condition. My intelligence is challenged To understand — My choices now limited On the material planes That now mean nothing On this modest pinnacle I believe I have earned. I want for nothing On most of the levels My limited consciousness Can perceive. Your dual world Shows me — Unrequited love, our constant, Transitory love — Your strategy For our progression. Left only now With your words, Expressed now As my heart's expectations, Continually exposed — Hope, A dashed concept. Love — The only thing I have left To give and Not receive. I accept, Without reservation, Your absolute power — And this path You chose for me In this life. I tried so hard to change my destiny — Yet again I am shown It is your destiny That prevails. And my part in it — Important for moments, I cannot resist any more — And I dive off this mountain, An empty sack left behind, And find no gravity — And float now, Available To your will. I cannot be practical About matters of the heart — I can only be vulnerable now, The way I was born, From the start — Full circle.

Poko

My life falling apart — Or perhaps I just Had one second To see how much I have fallen already. Shades of red, brown, and black Disseminate just above the darkness, Seeing shards of meaning and significance I once held dear Passing before my eyes As I let it all go And float into the ionosphere — Called infinity, Or destiny, Or a blended reality. Clinging to one memory — A death grasp of a man who has nothing, But has so much to give, Asking for a paintbrush To show just one moment Of my aspect For our collective.

Poko

Pain in the mother's eyes As she hugs her eighteen-year-old, Sending him off to war. She prays to the Creator, "Please bring him home again." Meanwhile, the men who cast conscription Have no Creator in their hearts— Acting only in the interests Of the pockets of their puppet masters. Growing the so-called commonwealth With every war, While the boy killed mercilessly, Needlessly and without pity, And his grieving family See the minimum wage for eternity— All for the commonwealth, A conundrum of eternity. This is the human condition: Seeking gratification outside the heart, When it is the hole in the heart They are trying to fill. Using people, affecting lives, Greedy love of money and wealth That has no destination— And only makes them more distant From the meaning of their heart's impulses, Deaf to our Creator's soft, silent words. Finding your heart's voice, And more importantly its meaning, Makes you an instrument of the Creator, Putting you on a path to your destiny— The healing of the gap Between your heart and mind, Your past and its future.

Poko

Walk boldly into the night— not as victims, not as unconscious beings led unknowingly, but as those who have learned to see. For too long: boiling frogs, lambs to the slaughter, while the politically anointed stand apart— unashamed, feeding from abundance they promised to protect for all but kept for themselves. They speak aversion easily, projecting fear onto people whose eyes still carry innocence, whose hearts trusted the vote that shaped their fate. Decades pass— two parties, one illusion. Apartheid persists, only stripped of skin colour, a tightrope stretched over lived despair. This is no surprise to those who are awake. Awareness once felt distant, like promises spoken loudly and kept nowhere— burnt now to the dark rings around a dying flame. Yet the sun has never vanished. It waits for those willing to look long enough to see. Every parent's hope, born years ago, that a child might inherit dignity, safety, and equality, has been deferred— again— by power protecting itself, denying dignity to everyone. Only the faces changed. Skin traded for skin. The mechanism remained— rewarding power for its grip, rewarding families of the elite. Hope burns. Dreams dissipate. Belief smoulders into silence. Ambition dissolves into survival. And when love for the system turns into grief, and grief approaches anger, history warns us what follows. But this work is not a call to rage. It is a call to remember. Enlightenment must lead— not violence. Truth— not the sword. Awakened hearts— not written laws alone. This is the moment where ordinary people say No— not with fists, but with clarity. No to suppression dressed as protection. No to power that feeds on its own kin. No to futures stolen quietly. And in that refusal, hope is restored— not as fantasy, but as responsibility. For ourselves. For our children. For the lives still unfolding. This is not rebellion. It is recognition. A place where humanity can exist in its true form— Ubuntu.

Poko

Burdens. Every man carries one, shifting it from shoulder to shoulder, or yoked across both— heavy, debilitating, a personal frontier. Self-imposed or merely perceived, a consequence of action or of reception, yet lived, manifest in our lives— always. A contest set by our Creator, for what it is worth. A challenge, nevertheless, omnisciently present— a weight upon our shoulders. We are men, designed to be providers, protectors. One leg in action, the other in understanding— unbalanced at the outset, yet balanced in the realisation of the body's meaning, and the reminder of the mind's disassociation from the soul. The unconscious man I am, who holds this burden, fights every day for a world better than the one he was born into. For transcendence from his frontier— imposed or projected. We fight. The burden becomes an engine of consequence— atonement or enlightenment. In an instant, it is here. Or it is a simple adjustment. A commitment to growth, or a reckoning with self-worth. Without the burden, who would we be? Shoulders unladen. Mind free to wander— or to wonder. Undefined. Christ carried his cross and died upon it, only to be free. Meaning: become your burden, and you may become free. Free from self-imposition. Free from the weight of others' positions. A simple adjustment— or a doorway to exponential growth, beyond perception, beyond the written word. Burdens— not merely weight, but gifts from our Creator. Heavy, yes. But also keys.

Poko

Cold winter rain Beats upon the windowpane, Lifting the scent of dust— Accumulated through bleak, silent days. Shadows fade too early In the heavy afternoon. Twigs stand defiant— The distant sun too weak To cast their outline on the wall. Trees, stripped of brilliance, Stand still and omnipresent. Leaves decay in the gutter, Love suspended, Awaiting the return Of a spring sun. I stand inside my heart, Exploring its many facets— Visiting the faded corners Where childhood memories reside. Long afternoons spent in solitude, Too young to understand, Too awake to ignore. Sadness and fear— My first companions. Aloneness— My first acceptance. Choices No two-year-old should face. I saw spirits in the house— Silent watchers, As I stared out the window, Waiting for a human touch. Not expecting violence. Not understanding my place. Fear consumed me, And there was nowhere to go But inward. Sent away, As if I were the blame— The bad one, Exiled for sins I never committed. A sinful step-grandmother. More aloneness. Treated with disdain, Too frightened to ask For food or a hug. Internal scars Still echo through my life Nearly six decades later. Unraveled, Untranscended. Self-worth fractured Beyond repair. Carnage trails behind me— The demons of my past Exorcised through those I've loved. Patterns from so long ago Still play out. The two-year-old boy within Never left that room— Still chooses cruel, distant love, Still creates what he fears, Still watches the rain From a window In a house That no longer exists. But the house is real In my heart. Please— Come fetch me from here, Sixty-year-old version of me.

Poko

My heart pumps sadness into my veins— A knife deep in my chest. Lumps catch in my throat, Tears build behind my eyes, My whole body crying With disappointment. Perspectives of better days— Contrasting the joy of loving a woman. Mistakes are made to deepen understanding, Should deepen love, not remove it. But my mistakes hang behind a pointing finger, Like a loaded gun of judgment. Found guilty for things I didn't do, And for those I did— Twisted and blown out of proportion. It's a hard pill to swallow When the woman you love Spits on your dignity, Attacks your self-respect, Tries to destroy your image of yourself— Building a caseload of reasons Why the relationship can't work. No forgiveness. No encouragement. No gentle loving. Conditions, hoops, and distance. I have my own list of transgressions, Besides the judgments. But my strong feelings and strength of character Help me look past them all— Ignore the jealousy and insecurities, Disregard the lack of empathy, The emotional shutdowns, The resentment and anger— All aimed at me, For loving her. Now my strength and character Are tested— To move past the pain inside, Remove the impact of personal attack. The hate still lingers In my last memory of her eyes. My head says: walk on. My heart says: She needs my help— To face the truth of her life, See the source of her actions, And why they resonate with me. My reflection, just her mirror— The strength of my love Driving her guilt, Exposing her pain, Shutting her down. She is not ready to face it, Nor to be healed. The strength is mine To sit alone and live With unrequited feelings. Perhaps I will find someone new— Who will love me the same way— Once my pain has cleansed me, Run its course From my body Into my awareness.

Poko

Splintered Families We all get what we deserve at Christmas. Many men, separated or divorced from their families. A day of reckoning. The children usually with their mothers, while the misunderstood man spends his time with strangers. A heavy heart. Throat constrictions loosened by the fast-paced alcohol panacea. What creates families when they are splintered? How does love evolve into brokenness— that a man has none of his children at his table on Christmas Day? Is this our destiny— a revolving human condition, evolving through the pain body? Love hurt learning. Separation. Growth. Repeated. Until a man joins his separate worlds and creates, with a balanced understanding, one foot in a woman's world and the essence of a man: creator, protector, provider. One foot alone— an almost forced frontier. The other, craving affection. The affection of a woman and a family. What does it take to be a man? A gentle force. A guiding hand. Wings of Teflon, absorbing the challenges from those he holds dear with love and meaning, while showing strength even when his world is crumbling. More important to show the world the half of him that is a man than the half that looks for meaning. So watching families, their cycles clear— unity in their relative youth, the youngness of their relationships. Trouble ahead. The cycles of life still to unfold. Words only work when they are ready to be heard by the individual. A challenge to our Creator: why must we lose our families to appreciate Your grace? A Man Without a Table

Poko

I light a fire to my thoughts — Dissociated, But drowning in despair. Staring into the flame, Watching them disappear Before they're even strong enough To have a name. I walk boldly into the night, Willing boiling frogs — Lambs to the slaughter — While the politically anointed Stand tall In their chosen minority, Unashamedly proud Of the endless bounty Only they can see. Proud aversions Promulgated with ease Upon a people Still wearing innocence in their eyes, Hearts trusting in the vote That once decided their fate. Now, they swing on a tightrope — Fifty years, Two ruling parties, One living hell. No surprise. Awareness flickers faintly — Like promises of the party, Now burnt into waxy lies Around the flame's dark ring. Look close enough, Past the light of the sun, And you will see. Every father's ambition — Born twenty-six years ago — For his son to rise in equality, Quashed yet again By the political elite. The only difference now? The colour of skin Of those who eat. Up in flames — Hope, Dreams, Belief, Existential promises, Filial ambitions — All burnt into the sky. Meaningless and lost. Silent tears Fall into their hearts. And when unrequited love Turns to hate — Everything will disintegrate. And the same people Will suffer again. And again.

Poko

Cold winds bustling through — Thief of warmth, Marauding aimlessly Across my cheek, Exposing the path Of a silent tear. A stark sun Pinned to a crisp blue sky, My eyes squinting Into the dry horizon — A landscape of death and decay. Dry leaves scatter Like they still had purpose, Yet their usefulness Long passed. Winter blues. Lifeless. Deceased. Like someone Just Stopped the world.

Poko

Oh Lord, I'm drinking again. It seems to be a go-to friend in the storm that comes every day now. Standing with my chest out— just a man, again. A semblance of ego, long understood, long ago. I met people on a higher plane— symbols of the distance gained through pain and persistence. Three weeks in the bubble, and all it revealed was a reflection: the trap designed for the man I used to be. I trust my usher— my pain-body close, a constant companion: cold, secure, bright. Pure fire. A key to the vibrations of the world. Left in the dark, I displaced you without your torch. I tripped on unseen steps, ignored your gentle voice, the touch on my face. I'm sorry, my friend. But here we go— again.

Poko

Cardboard supported the soles of her shoes As she walked 5 miles to work And back home after smiling sweetly at the banks customers all day Came home made dinner And did the dishes afterwards While dad was out drinking Again Bathed us kids homework done Before retiring to her knitting needles Winter was coming Low cost jerseys for us Money was tight Kids got sweets once a month Sherbet, apricot double decker and a fish Just after payday School uniforms from the second-hand shop Shoes from the Bata reject shop She was hard when we were weak or falling Strong when supporting our dreams When I am failing Its her strength I invoke her strong words in my head When I am winning it her encouraging voice that keeps my focus Angels come in many forms Nothing more true than the love of a mother for a child So all mothers who set themselves aside for a child it is our creator acting with you selflessness true love without expectation without a measure without an end

Poko

Bright are the stars across the night sky. Some look like them—but are only souls that mesmerise us, flashes of light, visual and audible ecstasy. These same people speak of love while thinking of dinner at the same time. Quick-witted, slow in consequence. Consistently inconsistent. Recovery reduced to a quick flow of words, once exposed. I reach for the moon, set sail for Mars. I sit on my own, heal my scars. I watch the people of the world running from place to place, learning—slowly—how to be still, how to be free. The place I run to is the place I've known since I was three. It began beneath the oaks. Now it's far away—a simple red planet. My body is not needed where love would not be defended with a life. A love you would not die for is not a love you will sustain. A love that does not challenge who you are is not a love that will endure. A love that does not make you afraid of losing them tomorrow is a love only passing through. But a love that sees your future expanding beyond being a man or a woman— that becomes magical. That is a love to hold onto.

Poko

People in their worlds, ensconced yet free, just as it is planned. Focused on existence, living one breath at a time, one heartbeat in front of another. Simplicity — the key. Driving into the wilderness of unconscious thought. Blind. Truth, pain, and love just moments away. But like a leaf on water, the wind makes a future. Is it destiny, or sequence, or something ordained? Conscious consciousness — or simply a place to be free of what should be done, or might have become. Consciously unconscious: a choice to live on the banks of the river of life while standing in the middle of the stream, deflecting or absorbing. But still — ice skating over the beautiful beings this world has birthed. Experiencing their hearts, their lives, in the instant of a look through my own eyes. Feeling others' pain, hurt, joy, ecstasy — and most of all, the hope in their hearts. Unconscious consciousness. Conscious unconsciousness. The same coin. The same outcome. But different.

Poko

There is a point when the distance between reality and its changing form becomes a real challenge. Especially when you have stabilised your own by understanding its impermanence. It is then a fusion of moment and momentum, rising above its deathly reliance. Freedom, then, is not believing in any reality— but being free to witness the unfolding destiny that is yours, and yours alone. Frustrated by the chitter chatter of beings subscribing to the reality around them— a fixed reality, borne of projection and mostly decay. It is a pivotal moment: Tempted to fit in, not be the outsider, to express the frustration— or to accept that people have their own paths, and be one with them, encouraging them to contest the frontiers they face with grace and the magnification of their dignity.

Poko

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.

Poko

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

Poko

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.

Poko

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...

Poko

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?

Poko

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.

Poko

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.

Poko

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.

Poko

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.

Poko

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

Poko

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.

Poko

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.

Poko

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.

Poko

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.

Poko

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.

Poko

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.

Poko

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.

Poko

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.

Poko

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.

Poko

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.

Poko

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.

Poko

Making love in the afternoon Glorious and free. Free from the fading lights, And a world drowning in gloom. Caress and light humour, Wine and beer — They take the weight of the world Off our shoulders, If only for a while. Fear, momentarily forgotten. Life changes so quickly — No tomorrow Will ever mirror today. Our consciousness Skating on thin ice, Along the membranes Of what we once called humanity. Making love in the afternoon — Reality left outside This comfortably numb room. Joy. Expression. Passion. Pride. The final echoes Of a free humanity. We skate freely On this thin ice — No resistance, Falling back on touch, On animal instinct, To mask The loss of something greater. Dignity now a privilege Of the rich. Comfort — Once gifted by the Creator — Now sold at a cost Too high to pay. Love, No longer accessible to all. And somewhere in the dark, The people of this world Sit in silence, Whispering quiet prayers. So I make love in the afternoon. I shut out the world and its sadness — The crashing of thought, Impressions, Worldly collisions, Pounding at my door With a loudness I can no longer ignore. Let me make love While the ice still holds — While indulgence is not yet A death sentence.

Poko

They cut you down today My fir tree the song of my heart The wind sang through your beautiful pine needles Your strength and resilience Ended by a selfish human Because you were 10cm too close to a fence I will remember you on stormy nights Your sound with the winds Your solid stature The scars on your bark The rings of your experience Evident on the parts of your carcass As they carried your remains Chopped and sawn To some graveyard Of insignificant realm Tearing at my reliance The sweet knowledge of your presence no longer breaking my heart You were here long before us Probably the last of a once forest of your kind I miss you and the wind does not have your flavour any more The storms don't give me your peace But those quiet nights that you connected with me in a way I never understood until now will live on Past this being of mine

Poko

Stones on old-fashioned tarmac, still resident beneath the overlay of newer technologies— vibrating to a world unseen, and still forgotten. Papers lie on the ground, waiting for the wind to make them lost or found. There is a world waiting for me. Just one stroke, and I would be free. But I know I could change this world— a slight adjustment, set everything at ease. Yet what beauty would that be? For nothing unearned is ever gained. So I float across this river of me, dance on the stars, talk to the moon, like another man from Mars.

Poko

The good ones we carry with us, until the weight of memory begins to slow our progress. The bad ones we try to discard, yet they shape our direction, shorten our stride, teach caution before exuberance, question before belief, still us mid-step. These harsher moments, where the pendulum pauses, allow an inner wisdom to catch up— to amplify the ear we were meant to listen with. Every moment then, good or bad, held close or set aside, rests in an unseen knapsack at the centre of our backs, waiting for the day we look again with a more accomplished eye. We remember with a doubled vision: the blindness we once lived by, and the sight shaped through failure, accomplishment, sacrifice, and acceptance. Meanings once protected begin to dissolve into something wider. Pain, hate, and fear released back into the energies they were always meant to be, no longer anchored to us. Ambivalence follows. Detachment. A loosening of importance— like a darkening cloud on a far horizon, draining colour into grey, cooling the warmth of touch, quieting the constant noise of the mind. This is a kind of death. Not of the body, but of an imposed self— an untrue structure asking to be redefined in truth. Redefinition is received, never taken. With the unguarded sight of a newborn, as former perceptions pass, their outward forms stripped, unmade, and dissolved. A rocky road of nothingness. Just as it has always been.

Poko

There is a place in time Where we let go— Of impact or consequence, Of growth, or just the simple unfolding of all things— And it carries us beyond the point of return. Memory becomes a movie Of a past that no longer belongs, And resonant behaviours in others Become studies—detached, Observed without emotional weight. It feels like a death, A loss. Thin membranes of reality Keep us from reaching— Yet still, we reach. Sometimes with vigour, Like careening into unknown space, Where the unknown becomes Our only known reality. And yet we lament the departure. Questions rise. The will to stay is strong. But acceptance is the only release From the gnawing lament— Of someone, something, Or simply the illusion That was our perception Of this ever-shifting reality Called impermanence.

Poko

Days blend into weeks, Months repeat themselves In the time of a heartbeat — Life passes by Like flashing images Out the window of a high-speed train. Sitting in this chair, Afternoon sun fading early On a winter Saturday, Showing me the unsettled dust, Drifting down Like an epitaph To the slowing vibrance of the day. Familiar sounds on the radio — Lighting up memories Of when the song was new. It is the memories we gather, Carry forward to our destiny — A pouch full of aspects: Growth, joy, pain, understanding, sorrow. Capsules of sound, smell, color, taste, emotion — Relived in a single thread, A chord sequence. Memories stop time. The world becomes still. We are in the capsule As it happens and is created, Knowing it is happening — Hearts race, Adrenaline unconsciously raises Our perception, our awareness, Recording the moment In all five senses — Whether we like it or not. But in this chair, I am transported. It is real — Real as if it is here, right now, today, And also a part of tomorrow. Eagles wrote this years ago: "When you're out there on your own, Only your memories will find you." Those lyrics stood with me As I grew into the man I am. Now I understand them. I strive to make one memory every day — Whether a gesture, Or a dive into an aggressive or loving feeling, Stimulated from the outside, Resonating the well of memories within. Touch with grace. Accept your love — And give freely. Hold negativity in your fist — Dive into it with love, Resolve, Forgive — And most of all: Accept everything. Witness your life change. Breathe in the quiet — Let the weight of memory settle like soft snow. In every moment lived and loved, There is a seed of peace waiting to grow. Hold this truth close: Life's flow moves through you — A river of grace, Winding through pain and joy alike. And as you walk forward, Let your heart be open, Your steps steady, Your spirit free.

Poko

Desert highways forged by sand particles and tumble weeds Broken wings and cowboys Sweeping winds on their backs Souls in full flight Winds driven by an unseen force A part of a destiny in motion For all the multitudes of aspects of the earth that respond to its force and flow to the ultimate and unknown With faith… Or fear Or both So wind of destiny You blow through me I see you deviating my plans Showing me the truth of my decisions Good and bad I have tried to harness your strength Get you behind my desire Yet your unchanging meanings Constantly and consistently show me To be true to my heart To hear your soft sounds In my inner ear And wait with faith For my simple destiny To be a part of your great unseen meaning Good and bad Faith and destiny Intertwined with patience and understanding A path to joy Without the corresponding pendulum Of pain That my egoistic happiness Is balanced by I let myself dream now On your plane Like I did when I was young Prior to being deviated By misconceptions And the projections of the aberrated people That resonated with my own They served to provide me With the painful yet beautiful perspective That I now hold so dear Beings driven by a misaligned force To create a resounding validation Of their own realities Their force of destiny Driving them through their own canyons Trying desperately to find your meaning and clarity Yet failing desperately Like a spider in a wet bathtub Desperate and angry But resolute I was just acquiescent and impressionable What a wonderful construct you provided Unconsciously impressed pain Consciously expressed… Gained perceptions Increased energy flows We live in a mish-mash Of energies and vibrations In a rotating, flowing vortex Designed to be chaos But actually simple In its direction and meaning Gold to the spirit warrior Once the heart’s chambers Are unlocked, realised, and understood Humility just one of the keys A recalibration of pain and suffering A transformation And a personal witness Of the alchemy promised in sacred text Yet one millimetre away From our vibrational realisation At every instant Seen as the holy grail And as a secret to only the enlightened Yet happening In a graceful, chaotic pantomime Right before all of our eyes But yet mostly unseen Promised to the brave Or just given easily To those who have An open And forgiving heart

Poko

Wind traversing the plain Obscure areas of the beautiful world Still undiscovered Flowers bending to the force Of the movement of the air Spreading the seeds of their future To be appreciated by me A Soul flying in this field Untouched and just being In their original purpose Benignly beautiful In their consequence of gravity And one aspect of the world We float above Sun riding the horizon Dew on the petals Hope just an expression Love just an existence Words have no meaning unless you Stand here in this field Untouched but bound by gravity To a single expression Just a consequential part Of this pantomime Called life And its obvious meaning

Poko

Transitory love... Like the leaves falling From the branches— So easily Let go. They float to the ground, Unresisted. Become decay, Soft surrender In the transaction of release. Is it the season? Or simply nature's way Of moving on— Toward the destiny Of a once vibrant, Synergistic leaf. Once catching the light, Feeding the tree With its luminous energy. Then— Dropped from existence, No longer lit, Nothing left To transform.

Poko

Geranimo — I am no Geranimo, So this metaphysical prison Is not going away On its own. The current on the surface May be running fast, But deep inside, it is still — Watching my own ebb and flow, Wondering how long it will last For me to realize That I am patient... With me. Watching and waiting For my own healing spirit To talk to me. It’s a duality for sure, To be studied By those who could judge Everything I have stood for. But maybe It’s just a time Where the current people of the world Listen... To their voices within, And still themselves, Their choices... Because The Creator Does not make the mistakes That a fast currency Tries to satisfy — And their hearts Are missing in this world Of chaos. A running flow can Only create Voice... Hearing... Being... Action in still energy — Is a stillness In action. And the world within Can still this world — And no one Will be left Without.

Poko

Now I watch you in my minds eye Searching for the next thing To grow that heart of yours Unconsciously When I was consciously next to you Waiting for your eyes to open Hiding changes from who we love Just a death warrant For this beautiful hearts of ours So when you said goodbye Sorry if I didn't cry I already saw it in your eye Long long time ago How many have seen me this way The way I saw you I failed the integrity test Over and over again Now I am just begging to be blessed By your blues, no refrain Hiding changes from who we love Just a death warrant For this beautiful hearts of ours So when you said goodbye Sorry if I didn't cry I already saw it in your eye Long long time ago In the mirror Touch my finger I will see you Hold my body I will understand Touch my heart I will believe in you And when I feel what is written in your heart I will forgive you People like me Heal others But are never healed It is our cross To carry Through this desert Camels to the poor Who are separated From their hearts Their minds searching Outside For what is lying Within

Poko

My soul ice skates This world — Small efforts, Gliding across the lake, Frozen impacts, So much hiding below. Stretch me, soul of mine — Wind across my cheeks, Soul gliding, guiding, Showing the freedom Of this world. I put one foot forward, And so much is left behind. Tell me, Sliding, guiding man — Why is it so easy for you? Your freedom — Just a glimpse Of the world You want for me. But I wake up tomorrow — My feet are heavy. It's too dangerous. I am scared To walk across your lake. Your skates Are nowhere to be found. Thank you for showing me Just who you believe I cannot be.

Poko

Energies of youth surround me now — unavoidable in my sequence of years. All the changes in me witnessed only by the outside eye — time, the slow thief. Yet I watch the current youth with wonder. Their blind confidence — unabridged, unbounded, unrestrained. Startling. A triumph. For their freedom is the silent victory of all the struggles that came before. The human psyche is not a solitary flame — it is a collective vibration. In the first breath of the newborn echoes every hardship, heartbreak, and hope of our forebears. The famine survivor, the trench soldier, the mother burying sons. All their lessons pressed into the marrow, coded into DNA — so the child need not repeat it all. This is the design — that pain paid for freedom, fear forged trust, war birthed peace. So that today's children may rise with unstructured creativity — the wild, innocent instinct of the first breath — unchained. It is the triumph of the trenches that a child may paint instead of fight. It is the victory of the widow's tears that a young girl may dance, unafraid. Yet look around: who guards this fragile inheritance? The leaders of today — mostly grey and crowned by decades: Biden, 80. Trump, 78. Putin, 72. Xi Jinping, 72. They cling to power not as guardians of free thought, but as wardens of old illusions. They stand at the gates of the young mind — labelling fresh questions as threats, not as the promised spark of evolution. And what of those who break through? Ibrahim Traoré of Burkina Faso — under 40 — a living question to the old order. Does the world trust the young to lead yet? Or does it fear the very freedom it once fought to secure? Bad parenting, blind leadership — these are the cracks where momentum leaks away. When the old ones resent the fire in young hearts, they repeat the very chains they once broke. The lesson is simple: pass on the wisdom, but not the wound. Pass on the imprint, but not the cage. Let the first breath be as the Creator intended — an echo of all that came before, but untethered — free to birth something new. If our leaders cannot honour this, if they stifle the unstructured creativity that is the triumph of generations past, then they have betrayed the very dream they inherited. The question is alive in every child's breath — and the answer lives in what we dare allow them to become.

Poko

Uncalibrated growth junkies finding my attention, using plants to replace the hard steps of understanding. Practice and ritual to glimpse a new world—an open, unhinged absorption, unearned, in the face of bullets fired by unconscious minds placed in my path by meaning itself. Glimpses of an uncommon world, transported briefly—space travel in the swallow of a moment, eager, at least. I was transfixed—only for a moment—watching their vibrations disintegrate into an amplified need to take the steps I fought so hard to understand. No choice. A triumph without reflection, without badge. Just a simple purpose: to understand. I left the ground long ago. No tents required. No pegs in the earth to measure the height of my flight. The balloon of perception departed the physical universe at a young age. Now I live simply, inside the world— on the inner side of the mirror of my once-reflected self, watching my own struggles reflected back at me.

Poko

Is pain the cleanest energy? A hidden well in the secret chamber of the human heart — untouched, a reservoir for solitude, a font of definition, character, and quiet expression. I found a boy there tonight — waiting for me. Quiet and alone, arms outstretched like they've been all these years while I built new masks to protect him. I sabotaged closeness — pushed people away — so the boy could stay safe in the dark. Yet vulnerability, the very thing I feared, was always the gateway to our atonement. When pain spoke, we didn't need words — the man and the boy, one light in the dark place — atoned. But it is not only my hidden child who waits. The human psyche is a collective chamber — we are all born carrying the echoes of those who came before. Every child's first breath draws in the agony of trenches, the wisdom of widows, the chains and the prayers and the final sighs of the forebears who dared to imagine freedom. This is the design: pain paid for freedom, fear forged trust, war birthed peace. So the new child need not repeat the same wounds — they rise instead on the momentum of the collective breath. This is why the youth stand radiant now — blind confidence, unstructured creativity — startling to behold. It is not naïveté — it is the triumph of all who fought and bled and buried to buy this birthright. Yet look at the gates they must pass through: Leaders clinging to a dying world — Biden, 80. Trump, 78. Putin, 72. Xi, 72. Mouths moving in old rhythms, hands gripping power to the grave. Will these men — grey and crowned by the past — lead free thought into the light? Or will they choke it to feed the ghosts of their own youth, never reclaimed? Once, they too were boys with outstretched arms. But somewhere, they hid that child away — traded the well of pain for a throne of fear. And now they guard the gates with envy, silencing the unstructured spark that could redeem us all. Yet sometimes, a fracture appears — a leader young enough to remember his hidden child: Ibrahim Traoré — under 40 — a question flung at the old order. Can we trust the young to lead? Or does the world still fear its own healing? The lesson is simple: pass on the wisdom, but not the wound. Atonement is not only for one man in a dark room — it is for humankind in its first breath. If we do not reclaim the hidden child within, we repeat the same chains we claim to have broken. Let the old ones open the gates. Let them stand aside — not as wardens but as stewards of free thought. Let the boy meet the man. Let the child meet the elder. Let the breath be clean — the well untouched yet drawn. Let us be atoned, whole — not only alone in the secret chamber — but together, across generations. Only then is the struggle of our ancestors honoured. Only then is the first breath true. Only then is humankind worthy of its freedom.

Poko

I am spending time In my own original house — Falling in love again With its energies, The memories of my children Growing up here. I miss the sound of their chatter, Their laughter echoing off these walls. The cricket balls in the net — Driven by my beautiful son. My lovely daughter's lilting voice — A melody that spoke Directly into my heart. The stillness of this place Moves me gently Into realms I reserve For the sanctuary Of my intellectual refuge. Every brick, Every coat of paint — Chosen by my hands. Every adjustment, Every renovation, An expression Of my passion. I know now That staying away for three months Was the silent cutting Of an invisible tie — Perhaps letting go Of the darker memories, The unwelcome energies My open-minded acceptance once invited in. This place — And my countenance — Became a refuge For shadows I did not see. Truly alone now — In this instant — No need pressing me To be accepted by the world. No reason for contact, Other than the business Of financial existence, The quiet correction Of errors I have made. Spiritual ice skates — Effortless motion. Unburdening the past. Perhaps dying a few deaths As I unseat my own prejudice, Wash away the imprint Of others. Speeding through The narrow perceptions Of so-called friends — Who saw me as a man, Not a spirit. I created them all — Through my ego's benevolence, Through the resonance Of theirs. I accept this now — See my past Through a gifted rear-view mirror, A lens of truth, Hard won. I absorb the self-loathing, The disgust At things I did selfishly — Searching for those rare moments When I acted in honesty, In purity, Without gain in mind. I join these scattered dots, Raising the ship That should have sailed — But somehow Stayed submerged Until now. Spiritual ice skates — A gift I earned, Or was given By circumstance, Or by how I stood In the face of my adversity, My aberrations. The ability to glide Over my past — To see myself In a light I wish I'd had At the time. Suppose it's just a journey — An ordinary, broken soul, An old man Growing up At last.

Poko

I walked around this planet For more than sixty years. At first, it was like reading a book For the first time — Exciting. Pages alive with ink and promise, Intriguing new moments, Step by step, Word by word. Now I drift through these chapters — Random pages flick open, Past replaying itself In the quiet theatre of my mind. But now — I know who I am. I see my internal changes In the difference between then and now — How I act, How I stand, How I breathe the same air, But turn it into new meanings. I watch the impacts — Outcomes shaped in shadows, New directions rising From old crossroads. I relive these moments — But from a different star, A wider orbit, A clearer sky. So much the same — So very different. I was running blind once — Now I run free. Same ground. But my feet know where to land. It's the changes — So gradual, So sudden — The inner shifts That turn our pain Into past tense. Changing — We are — Always. I stopped the world For the first time. Watched the unconscious procession, Hurtling past in its vortex of despair — A cosmic kaleidoscope, Swirling, twirling, Patterns dancing meaning, Losing meaning — Searching for something solid, A promise, A safe place to rest. While the pace of change Eludes us all. Is it pity — or pain — That I feel? Knowing I was once there — Lost in the swirl — Or knowing I can't help These restless trailblazers Stop the world, Listen, Stand still, See. I know — In some future I will look back at this moment, And its particular folly Will glow obvious, Small, Almost kind. Yet now — It feels real. Necessary. Mine. Relevance — Time to get there. Trust the immediate frontiers. Work the edge. Press my hands Against the thin membrane That holds me from The next revelation — The next breath — The next truth The Creator has for me. And I walk on. Sure-footed. Changing. Always.

Poko

People are scared to be one with the Creator's force, thinking they will lose their individuality— their sense of character. Character? Yet it is their identity that the Creator is excited to see in its entirety. Allowing the energy wind into your heart will be your own signature— each of us so capable to be different. The Creator does not repeat Himself— it is impossible, the way this force splinters into countless energies. It's the denying of the soft, touching, nurturing internal voice that makes us all look and sound the same. Yet somehow, we find comfort there— being reliant on advice and direction, believing we are not already alone and sufficient, but instead lonely and dependent. If there are as many pathways to the Creator as there are bodies on the earth, why would we need direction, or a physical church, or another outside voice— other than those teaching us how to listen to that soft, unimposing voice inside ourselves, that speaks. When we stop being Someone else?

Poko

What is an arc— is it a wooden ship standing on dry land, waiting for a flood of water? Or was the flood always awareness, rising slowly, driven now by the sudden availability of knowing— threads of knowledge crossing the world in seconds? Why the metaphor? Was it symbol, or was it reality then— because reality itself could only be spoken that way? Our new arc is not timbered. It does not float on seas. It rises in the chest. It is our hearts and our awareness vibrating— not separately, but all at once. No one is chosen. Only choice exists. Not allegiance to words in a manuscript, but recognition of essence— that quiet voice inside the heart whose intensity increases when we stop running from it. This arc does not call us to arms. It calls us to understanding. To become the humanity we were designed to be. There is no devil waiting in the dark— only the moment where we decide how to meet what is here.

Poko

We built our faith in towers of stone, Names on walls, thrones over bones, Outside voices telling us who we are, Measuring souls by a borrowed yard. But something stirs when the noise grows thin, A quieter breath from deep within, Not a doctrine handed down in fear, Just a pulse that says you belong here. If belief lives only outside the skin, It forgets the truth we're breathing in. The measure is the heart, not the colour you wear, Not the borders they drew, not the weight of their stare. We breathe the same breath, we rise and we fall, No soul born smaller, no mind born small. The measure is the heart — let the old lies part, We are more than the cages they built at the start. There's a young man standing at three years old, Learning a lesson no child should hold, That the skin he's in is marked as less, Before he can write, before he can bless. But his mind runs wide, his spirit sharp, IQ, EQ — a blazing spark, Still he carries a weight not of his design, Waiting for respect to cross the line. What kind of world teaches shame so soon, Then asks for peace beneath the moon? The measure is the heart, not the colour you wear, Not the stories they sell, not the damage they share. We breathe the same breath, we rise and we fall, No soul born smaller, no mind born small. The measure is the heart — let the old lies part, We are more than the cages they built at the start. This is not a call to raise a fist, Not a war of names, not a list, It's a turning inward, a steady stance, A collective breath, a second chance. When belief comes home from the outside throne, No child stands alone, no mind unknown. He walks with restraint the world never learned, With patience forged where anger burned, Knowing brilliance doesn't need a crown, But still feels the ceiling pressing down. And we — we share the blame if we stay asleep, While brilliance waits for permission to speak. The measure is the heart, not the colour you wear, Not the myths of power, not inherited fear. We breathe the same breath, we rise and we fall, No soul born smaller, no mind born small. The measure is the heart — let the old lies end, This is how the broken world begins to mend. No saviours, no chosen, no holy divide, Just humanity learning to stand side by side. If belief must live, let it start where we are — In the breath we share, In the heart.

Poko

It's been a journey to get here — Abundant I W, abundant energies bleeding fiercely into an EQ trajectory, converging into this first step of human consciousness. Experiences from an early age catapulted me beyond ordinary awareness, splitting the self into many voices — in harmony… yet sometimes singular, resident, alone. The motivation for singularity — whether threat in the physical or mental plane, or the challenge of obscurities born from wounded memory — resonance ignites. It kick-starts survival. Sometimes consciousness is trumped by resonance, regardless of growth. Life has a way of testing your acceptance of change. I passed — then failed. Repeatedly. Is there a graduation? Or does something have to die? My body? My worldly attachments — breath, touch, warmth, sight, sound? Or my innate fear of acknowledging I am different? Perhaps my foolish path is simply this: to guide the unconscious. Arrogance is not for me.

Poko

I was climbing every mountain Built from borrowed truth Chasing every answer Trying to find my proof Read it in the pages Heard it in the crowd Searching for the signal Lost inside the loud I thought the light was distant Somewhere up above But it was in the silence I was running from It was already within Already alive From the dust of the pavement To the edge of the sky You don't have to earn it You don't have to win The door's been open It was always within Already within Already inside From the depths of survival To the highest mind Challenge your station Let the old walls fall The truth's not above you — It's been there through it all From the bottom of existence Fighting just to breathe To the heights of understanding Where the thinkers weave Every level matters Every fear and scar Every broken question Shows you who you are When the mind gets heavy Lay it on the ground There's a deeper rhythm Underneath the sound It was already within Already alive From the dust of the pavement To the edge of the sky You don't have to earn it You don't have to win The door's been open It was always within You can rise from the gutter You can rise from the throne You can challenge the story You were handed and owned You are more than your struggle More than fear, more than skin The frontier is waiting — Turn and listen within Not wasted — awakened Not broken — begun The war in your head Was never the one It's already within Already bright From the first breath you took To your last breath of light Stand up from the bottom Reach higher than you've been You were never behind — It was always within

Poko

Surface membranes— Giving rise to thought, As my soul bounces Across this impermanent world. Am I lucky To glimpse A moment's picture Inside your heart? The stone of my inquiry Released with the dedication Of innocent perception— Skipping past Prejudice, malice, And misguided presence. Reaching out Across still waters, Until it finally Bounces Into the sea.

Poko

About life and how it revolves around love. Just a teenager, it made a great impression on me — set me up with a purpose, and sadly, an expectation. Experienced first love — all the pleasure of the body, the oneness and the big plans that teenagers delve into. Young and free, hearts bounding through unspoken boundaries, like puppies in a spring field, butterflies inside and out. Everything the books wrote about — joy of resonance, mutual appreciation, acceptance, physical expression and reciprocity. Bright eyes and electric touches, everyone blushing just watching. Expectations landing on the slippery shores of truth. Only changes come — winds of all the negative forces that act on the bright unprotected — love beaming its attraction to all, unconsciously believing in all the great authors' promises. One by one, the dreams crushed — girl after girl, faithful to the better man, and there is always a better man wherever you go. Man after man, faithful to the sexier image, and there's always a sexier girl wherever you go. That overcoming feeling of first love, replaced by pain, hate, and fear — walking gingerly into the next relationship, aware, scared, and unable to love with an open heart. Cycles repeating — So Thomas, Jane, William, Robert, DH... What say ye now? Where's the consistency? Where's the belief? And most importantly — Why did you not speak to me Of the growth behind the passion, Following so closely Like a shadow without a purpose, Waiting for me to fall?

Poko

Thousands of petals— a flower called the heart. Each petal a reflection, each one a feeling, born with you from the start. The steps to understanding are never a straight line— but circles, winding pathways, each journey unique. Finding light within darkness, and darkness within light. Millions of chords, when touched together, resonate in sequence— trumpets sounding to manifest the truth that dwells inside. Reflections in the eyes— mirrors to the soul within, blended destinies meeting, if only briefly, imprints of understanding, doorways to new dimensions, trampled lightly.

Poko

It takes a strong man To admit he is broken. The weak man Runs from his pain, Throws it onto others— Resonating through their paths. Every gesture amplified— A simple touch electrified, A look, a smile, an invitation— Meanings impossible to ignore. Simple beings we are, Yet so complex— And still, we ignore it all. Standing still In the river of love, Watching people waste their lives— Like me— Acting outside their hearts. Honesty becomes a distant memory, Truth hidden Beneath the rocks at our feet. Now we stand on the banks, Watching ourselves Deflect the river of love Coming at us relentlessly. The Creator's promise ignored— We'd rather be stuck inside, Worshipping images Constructed by impressions On our hearts From the outside. Every dam wall holds silt inside— A testament to all we cling to, A badge of ego, A hold on life— Stuck in the mud— While love flows over the wall, Carrying those who accept it To their destiny.

Poko

How many people have walked this physical plane and shifted the trajectory of human awareness? And what is humanity? A spectrum. Selfishness and selflessness. Indifference and love. Truth and deceit. Greed and generosity. All existing in the same breath. This is not judgement. Not naming. Not blaming. History simply offers reference points in the long unfolding of consciousness. Einstein. Newton. Da Vinci. Mandela. Martin Luther King. Buddha. Gandhi. And others whose names were never written. Some brought light. Some brought darkness. Yet all of them shifted the river of human awareness. Each life exists on a fragile horizon. A brief moment on a plane of relativity and impermanence. A rich man’s son loses everything. A preacher’s son sins in silence. The psychologist’s daughter cannot escape her own mind. The cobbler’s children wear worn shoes. The universe turns on paradox. Hot and cold. Darkness and light. Good and cruelty breathing side by side. How do we love without reference? How do we choose to build instead of destroy? So this is not judgement. It is a quiet call to the benign and the aware. When you take your final step on this planet what part of you will remain? Will you help those who come after you to be kinder? To be braver? To understand the fragile beauty of their time here? Will your life leave a footprint in the soil of humanity deeper and stronger than your own? One life. One crossing of this fragile world. Leave something behind. Leave a footprint.

Poko

[Verse 1] Light, life, flight Been a while since I flew In these man-made wings Breaking through We touch the sky But I wonder why Are we living now Or just passing by [Pre-Chorus] We go faster We go far But do we know Who we are [Chorus] Are we running Or becoming Are we surviving Or arriving Mist ahead No promise where it ends Step beyond Where the unknown begins The membrane wears thin tonight Between the dark and the light [Verse 2] Voices speak Through the mind Open doors Out of time Spaces once Out of reach Now in our hands But what do they teach [Pre-Chorus] What’s behind What’s ahead Are we awake Or misled [Chorus] Are we running Or becoming Are we surviving Or arriving Mist ahead No promise where it ends Step beyond Where the unknown begins The membrane wears thin tonight Between the dark and the light [Bridge] Astral drift Feel it rise Past behind In disguise Falling stars Guide the way Night unfolds Into day [Break] Death makes space For the new Every end Breaking through [Final Chorus] We are running We’re becoming We’re surviving We’re arriving Through the mist Still we go Every step We don’t know The membrane wears thin tonight And the other side burns bright [Outro] Light… life… flight We remember How to fly

Poko

If we arrive on this earth with nothing to learn are we drifting or understanding Are we permanent or fading away do we fight the current or bend to the wave Chorus (lift) We are moving through an unseen wind seeking meaning or surrendering No possession no claim to time we arrive just in time Verse Young minds walking a karmic line feeling indifference and something divine A love beyond what physics can hold a truth that lives but can’t be told Bridge (drop) Step into danger just because step away when the world applauds This is human this is flame envy dancing without a name Outro Like a leaf on a river wide no resistance just the tide No gain no design Just arrive in time

Poko

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.

Poko

Birds in the trees — singing their song for me. No expense — Bob was right: freedom of flight, freedom in song, love tucked in tiny hearts, instinct — always, always prevails. Coloured crests, different beaks — watching me while I watch them. Different colours, different wings, and the eagle — wow, man — he's weighing me up, asking: Who would you be… if you had feathers? Who would you be in a bird's body? Short life, maybe — but no stress, food everywhere, sky for a roof, branches for a bed, taking each moment right in the eye, chirping happiness with no agenda. So I do it — I slip inside the small bird, leave my reactions behind, fly in the eye of the bird, feel its heartbeat — so fast, so simple, so small. Glide — easy effort, wind slipping over natural wings, instinct steering everything. Wow. Like swimming downstream, no resistance, just being, just bird.

Poko

Is there a distance between hope and faith? Is there a baton to be passed on the graduation from one to the other? Or is one simply the other in disguise? See the young — confident hearts, lights of hope in the top-left corners of their eyes. Life a stream of new beginnings, experiences and treasure still unfolding. See the older — steady gaze, wrinkled frown. Has hope abandoned them? Or has it been replaced by knowledge, and faith thinned by memory? Is this the human highway — where hope becomes expectation of what can happen, then replaced by knowledge of what has happened, until even intention is subdued? And in all of this — where is faith, and intention, and the quiet confidence of belief that I am destined to be who I am? Without the imposter of my past pulling me toward stagnation, without the fear of repeating my inheritance. While the future flies past like the windows of a jet plane. Faith, hope, and fear — our integrated contest. A challenge between aberration and the natural heart. A discordant expression, either cementing or exposing the extinguished light of hope, and the missing possibility of faith. Until — a conversion of hope into creation, acceptance, and the expanded light of allowance. All of it living quietly in the corners of our eyes.

Poko

My heart and my soul, once again together. Wisdom earned through the journey— apart, and now in the steps of reconciliation. A rose for every woman who broke my heart, showing me what I needed to reunite. How did they know? Because I did not. But I know this: I loved them all. I have explored heartache and found learning in every chamber— sometimes by mistake. I miss these beautiful beings the Creator placed in the physical realm to teach us how to love, not merely how to create. I miss my teachers, one by one. I offer each a rose— a symbol of acceptance, a release of blame, as the wisdom of their teaching blossoms in my thoughts. I love you all— a simple, pure love, sent outward into the ethers, to you. You know what you put me through. Please receive this gift, my thank you. May its gratitude Lift Your Spirits and sweeten your share of the positive memories we created together. I live alone now, contemplating universal meaning— our human impact across all realms, and our place within them. Our wondrous Creator has given us much to explore, offering healing to those who ask— even by mistake.

Poko

Touch my mind With your thoughts Spoken in confidence Revealing truth And earnestly I will listen Touch my hand With a gentle gesture Gain my attention With warmth I will hold your hand With reciprocal fervour Waft your smell With the closeness Of a hug The honesty of the impact I will remember you Dress for me Smile into my eyes Dazzle me with your perception of my importance to you With soft acceptance of your vulnerability My eyes will seek yours Every day Make love to me Mutual physical attraction Let us share pleasure And surf the wave of its magic Until the wave crashes And our passions subside These are Common moments Mutual attractions Relationships On the physical level But touch my heart With understanding Consistency, acceptance Tolerance and self-control Correct my misconceptions Allow my soul to triumph over my ego But be gentle on its exposure Knowing all about my growth Past and future Things that cannot be written Inspired by The soul's resurrection Into the physical world I will become a better man And I will die for you And you alone

Poko

Grace. I can write it, say it, change its colours in so many different ways— just to catch your ear, to find its energy within your beautiful hearts. Will you all stop talking— inside and out? How is it that we have become so displaced, that our inner voices, so benign, are barely heard? Our comfort comes from kinship received from others, while our own inner voices are left without a canvas in our lives

Poko

What is love Without giving With no measure Is it based on personal pleasure Or is it seeing a future in others And opening the doors They cannot see Selfless such a scary place A death of biblical proportion Leaving your shadows In the sun Footprints disappearing in the tides reach Sound on the receptive ears Absorbed into a fertile mind Germination In another time Of singular resonance The only reward Is watching the people you love Ignore and simultaneously grow towards this exalted space Of nothingness and grace Wrapped up in an invisible vibration Reserved for people who care deeply But cannot show or be Since the collective of our hearts Resides in the echoes of the chambers of our perceptions And are influenced So easily

Poko

Shades of red, brown, and black bleed just above the darkness. Shards of meaning, once held dear, pass before my eyes as I let them go and drift into the ionosphere—called infinity, or destiny, or a blended reality. I cling to one memory: the death-grasp of a man who has nothing, yet so much to give. Asking for a paintbrush to show just one moment of my aspect for the collective. Free love is spirit without boundaries—like a stallion running in a field without fences. Freedom is a world of choice. Love is a horse running beside you for a time. We live in a cesspit of broken souls, all walking the same path. Giving to the broken, taking from those who offer love and understanding. We evolve past our transgressions— or do we only grow old, trying to remember what was written in our hearts? We buy a fender, play our past into the future, waiting for the moment an ear is open. We evolve past our transgressions— or do we?

Poko

Hearts flowing in the same direction create a beautiful space in the universal fabric— one that energises the rivers of our destiny. Call it resonance: a symphonic vibration, bouncing outward, colours rising like a yearning firework show. We do not witness this often. It requires the absence of judgment, or the acceptance of what is shared. Electric souls— swarming, beautiful energies— belonging to this world and those beyond. Our Creator's voice runs freely through our being and emerges as a symphony, just a conduit of expression. And in our openness, we become the platform through which love moves.

Poko

Gift of Love An eagle’s eyes descending — moments worth remembering, floating on a zephyr, warm air on the feathers, a body built for flight, secure in the vast sky, yet longing to be known. Below, dolphins playing in the surf, giggling in their way. Do they see me like I see them? My wings ride the rising air, their fins the endless sea. Different worlds, yet the same breath of life. I fly low just to lock our eyes, to share what only love reveals: I cannot live in their water, they cannot dwell in my sky, but we can see through each other’s eyes, and that is enough — that is love. So, dolphin, be in my mind. Close your eyes, and I’ll close mine. When we open, let us see not ourselves but one another. My wings become your joy, your waves become my freedom. Together, for a moment, we belong everywhere. I dive toward your sea — the earth pulling me into your embrace. Joy rushes through me. Then I rise again, lifted by air, carrying your vision in my heart. Now I close my eyes and see through yours: the flip of your tail, the shimmer of your fins, suspended in the surf — suspended like me. Beneath us, life continues — a thousand creatures in their mirrored worlds. And we, eagle and dolphin, are witnesses to more than our own. Thank you, dolphin. Keep your eyes in mine so I can keep mine in yours. For in this gift of love, I see the sky and sea as one, and I see myself more clearly through you

Poko

Choices… small doors we walk through without noticing. A word said kindly. A pause instead of a blow. A breath before reaction. I used to think my life was one decision. Now I know it is a thousand quiet ones— each one shaping who I become.

Poko

[Verse 1] Light, life, flight Been a while since I flew In these man-made wings Breaking through We touch the sky But I wonder why Are we living now Or just passing by [Pre-Chorus] We go faster We go far But do we know Who we are [Chorus] Are we running Or becoming Are we surviving Or arriving Mist ahead No promise where it ends Step beyond Where the unknown begins The membrane wears thin tonight Between the dark and the light [Verse 2] Voices speak Through the mind Open doors Out of time Spaces once Out of reach Now in our hands But what do they teach [Pre-Chorus] What’s behind What’s ahead Are we awake Or misled [Chorus] Are we running Or becoming Are we surviving Or arriving Mist ahead No promise where it ends Step beyond Where the unknown begins The membrane wears thin tonight Between the dark and the light [Bridge] Astral drift Feel it rise Past behind In disguise Falling stars Guide the way Night unfolds Into day [Break] Death makes space For the new Every end Breaking through [Final Chorus] We are running We’re becoming We’re surviving We’re arriving Through the mist Still we go Every step We don’t know The membrane wears thin tonight And the other side burns bright [Outro] Light… life… flight We remember How to fly

Poko

When you have travelled through the long corridors of pain, anger, and confusion — when the storms inside you have spent their final energy and the winds begin to quiet — when the mind grows still after the battle with itself, remember this: what appeared as darkness was never the whole of you. Those moments of bitterness, those flashes of fear or anger, were only temporary rooms in the larger house of your heart. They were never your essence. Beneath them something steady remained — a deeper current waiting patiently for the noise to fade. And when it does, the heart begins to remember its original language. The language of truth. The language of love without condition. In that quiet recognition a different vision appears — not imposed from the outside, but rising gently from within. You begin to see that the struggles of the past were not punishments, but the slow breaking open of a hardened shell. A consciousness emerging — rounding the brittle edges of self-judgment and fear, turning pain into understanding. Those who witnessed you through these storms did not stand there in judgment, but in quiet patience — seeing the greater spirit hidden beneath the noise. Because every soul carries a field within it, wide and open, untouched by the fences we build in moments of fear. And when we finally return to that open field, we run again with the freedom that was always ours. Free of the imposters that once spoke in our name. Free of the shadows that tried to convince us we were smaller than we are. To live in that truth is to recognise what was always waiting inside the heart: a love that does not demand, a patience that does not weaken, and a courage strong enough to face one's own reflection. And when that courage awakens — the storm is no longer the story. The field is. And you are already running in it.

Poko

Run free into the moonlit fields, striding with confidence — no fences in front or behind. Run beside me — our fields entwined, our vision amplified. Run behind me — I will slow my pace for a while. Run in front of me — I will see you, redirect your purpose. Don't alter your course when another leaves your field, for your new field arrives simultaneously. Such is the nature of true love: in transit, synchronicity. Transitory love leaves lessons of growth — given and returned — allowing us to stride harder toward our own truth by entering new fields. Run with meaning, with spirits willing, to lift our vibration — by running together, for a while.

Poko

Thousands of petals In a flower called the heart Each one a whisper Each one a spark Born with you from the start No straight line no map to hold Just pathways winding stories told Finding light in the dark Finding dark in the light Every step pulls apart The flower of our hearts Steps to understand A journey of discovery Some climb mountains Some cross seas No one travels the same way Circles spinning time won't wait Trumpets sound at heaven's gate Finding light in the dark Finding dark in the light Every step pulls apart The flower of our hearts

Poko

Today I rested my head On God's lap Felt his hand Stroke my heart He said If you are true to your heart You are true to me I asked Why then is my heart broken He said to me it is not broken It just needs to be found By you I created this universe as an endless possibility for you to explore not for a strong hand not for a guiding hand unless you ask but i gave your wonder and my creativity Not to be alone without me to be always at one with me not for me to be in front not for me to be beside you but for you to know I am always here if you ask