It takes pause, Pas, and paws.
The birth of a storm
Is it fire or is it form
Is its desire cold or is it warm
Is it delight or is it scorn
Is it a question about to be born
Is the answer seamless or torn
What does the promise warn
Oh I remember why I was born
I want to scream, make a scene,
beyond the mean, a new shot clean
where wrestling is no struggle
nor the options I juggle.
The pin of my creative pen
is power to stop, begin again.
My mind, sometimes blind,
no longer to leave me in a bind.
I’m bound to the sound
that leads me to the ground
at the cross I found, now sound
even when not strong or am wrong.
Salute to rising and improvising.
Learning as I go
to learn new ways, not ego.
Creative and combative
Ear to the ground, as a native.
Now passion to fashion a heart of compassion
Permission with condition to position the volition
that I continue in the venue of the Eye
that clears the sky that will not die
except to be with me
The pleasure of sadness.
Confusion is often the clarity to wait and observe rather than figure out a short cut.
More serious, yet simpler.
Running from or running to a false premise.
Anesthetized by fear and anger.
Lent a lentil.
Either or neither?
Take a breather.
As a believer
A dream weaver.
Though an achiever
More a receiver.
Ear we go without the ego.
Art of the heart.
What’s in your hand?
Demands are like sand.
They slip your grip
Doing only what you can.
Should I guess or bless?
Is your grip on your mess?
What if you confess
No more no less?
Challenge the stress.
Soothe by caress.
Free not to impress.
Listening more, talking less.
Stronger longer to rest in progress
Knowing the promise is always Yes.
Shuck the shackles.