Time and the Traveler

Time and the Traveler

The Earth is my Mother.
The Sun is my Father.
The Wind is my Brother.
The Waters are my Sister.

I will ride the green Dragonfly
hovering over fields of Drought.
I will soar over mountaintops
in the body of an Eagle.

The Earth and Sky will meet
no longer separate
but will merge as Creator and Co-Creator
only then will all life celebrate
the oneness of all Creation.

I have been here before
done this many times before.
I do not want to do it again.

There are new places
new spaces
where verdant fields
flow with water pristine and clear as crystal.

All places are different
but still the same.
All only Energy vibrating at different Frequencies.

The Roy G BIV of light is only a speck
in the Spectrum.
The beautiful Rainbow reminds us
how limited we are in these bodies
that we have chosen this time around.

Wealth and Power are a fleeting flaw
in our choices of ways to live.
They are but an aberration.
Where is Croesus now?

Empires spring up and fade like last years flowers.
Still, life goes on
the planets revolve around one another.

Time does not March On,
Time spirals and twists like a serpent
in a Web of Energy.

Go as far as you can go
and you will find yourself along the way
and at your Destination.

Time and Space are irrelevant
on the level of Eternity and Spirit.

I am a weary traveler
not sure if I've always chosen the right path.
But all paths are the right path
because you choose it.

So if one day you hear an unfamiliar sound
or see something that shouldn't be there
it may be me just passing through.

That slight breeze on your cheek
in the dusky twilight
with lightning bugs blinking
their love signals
you may hear your name called.

It may be me reminding you that I am here
and will always be here
in some Place
and some Form.

Until I and my brothers and sisters
finally go home to where we all came from.
To the Light and Love of the Creative Intelligence
that you may call God.

© 2011 Philip G. DeLoach

Sky

"Sky"

I want to take the Night Sky
And pull it down to me,
Wrapping myself in a blanket of Stars.
I will be taken -
I can go -

Taken up at the speed of a Musical Note
Played on a Celestial Keyboard.
Up into the Cold and Windy,
Into the Blanket of Blankness,
Where the Small Blue Jewel
Floats in the Black Soup.

Up where the Inside becomes the Outside,
And the Outside becomes the Inside.
Where the Silence is so loud
That Pain cannot be heard.
Where my Hair and Soul are blown
By Solar Winds.

With Sol on my Right,
And Luna on my Left,
I will become so large that -
I will Disappear . . . .

© 1984 Philip G. DeLoach

Bookmarks

Bookmarks

The parade of deaths and dying people
litter my past.
My life  and the lives of most of my whole generation
are mostly gone now.

They are like bookmarks in my own personal
Book of Life.
The good times, the bad times were all a quest.
A quest for something to believe in.

Something to hold on to.

I feel as if everything is slipping from my grasp
And I am at the mercy of Time and people
that I really do not trust.

People see me in different places.
They always ask "How are you?"
But they really don't want to know.
They don't have time for it.

Besides they have their own troubles.

So do you fall back on Faith?
Faith in the unseen?
Or do you look for tangible evidence that
something exists outside the realm of this lifetime?

What is considered tangible? All life is nothing but energy.
Vibrating at different frequencies.
Everything that has ever been or ever will be is already here.
Is there a doorway to these other worlds?

Is there an Earth where only Peace and Harmony exists?
Is there a doorway somewhere so you can go to where there is no war
and no crime and people help each other?

Who will save my bookmarks after I'm gone?

© 2011 Philip G. DeLoach

Maggots

Maggots

The fat Corporate Maggot
plays the ribs of the starving children
like a Xylophone.

He whistles while he works.
He's happy in his job.
We got too many kids anyway.

He gently lifts the pennies off the
dead man's eyes.
"He can't spend 'em anyway."
"Not where he's going."

Don't these Maggots have children of their own
who will eventually come in contact with the very poisons
their fathers produce?

Maybe they are so far from any dirty place or they are born
with a natural immunity?
I wonder what it's like inside those Gated Communities
With their armed guards?

They never see anybody who is not like themselves.
They never know the creatures that slink and skulk outside their gate.
Those "untouchables" that are just lazy.
They like being dirty and smelly.

The Maggots have no souls.
How could they?
A person with a soul and a heart
Could not cause such suffering and pain.

And not miss a wink of sleep at night.

They learn early on to pass the buck.
So that when the damage is done and the people and animals
are dying they can say "It wasn't me!" And they actually believe it!

The eye of a needle is very small.
And liars and thieves who these Maggots are
will have a hard time passing through.

I hope if there is a God that these Maggots will
get what they deserve.
Sooner rather than later.


© 2011 Philip G. DeLoach

Morpheus and The Sleepers

 

















Morpheus and the Sleepers

I wonder what the people do
Who do not sleep the way I do
What is it that you do
Alone at night?

I listen to old jazz, blues, classic rock music
Music that makes sense
Music that takes me back to days of sane insanity.

In my mind I see images of places I've never been
and people I've never known.
The gold of fields of grain with waves like ocean waves
and the songs of the Meadowlark and Killdeer

The sun is warm on my face and I smell the ripening earth
as spring rains have awakened the stored energy in seeds
of trees and flowers and plants about to be.

Life goes on whether we are here to see or not.
That essence of movement and time and the creative spark
That keeps the stars in their places and the circles and cycles
of life play out in the songs of every living thing in one way or another.

I feel the texture of leather on my skin.
I am wearing deer-hide clothing
Buckskin and beads.
Everything smells of wood-smoke and sweat

I wish that I could be in other places and other lives I know I have lived
I know the heft and smell and color and weight of carrying a musket rifle
I know the deafening explosion of sound and the singing of lead balls as
they carry out their mission of death on the battlefield.

Dear Mother, I write, I am fine , even though she knows I am not.
I want so badly to be back home where my heart and home is
but I have to kill or be killed. The Mourning Dove sings her song
of sorrow for the dead and dying. I don't know if I will ever see home again.

There are doors through which we can sometimes go that show us
where we have been and who we have been. Even doors that show us
who we will be in some future world that may not even be on this planet.

There is a key and a keeper of the key.
The keeper in not an easy person to convince to let you have the
use of that key. But sometimes if he feels it will further you along your path he may let you take a peek. Just enough to keep you seeking the truth of your existence.
You may not like what you see. You may not like who you are.

But your choices make you who and what you are.
If you live a life of luxury it may be a prelude to a life of slavery and back breaking
work for no pay and little food. You can go either way. You can go both ways. There are infinite ways to go and we may go all of them at one time or another.

I don't know why I write this stuff. I don't know if anyone understands or even cares.
It has nothing to do with money. One day I hope to be able to write what is really inside me so that others can actually see and feel what I feel.

Until then all I can do is ramble on and try to describe life. What I call life.

© 2011 Philip G. DeLoach