bofransson: Georges D’Espagnat, Nu à la Commode, 1925.
In a void of human contact,
Misinterpreted interactions,
These are the faults I confide in.
Confined in four corners
Closing in always.
And expand,
Like lungs of a greater meaning
Blackened by cigarette smoke,
Carbon dioxide, monoxide,
Hold on to stay alive
And on top.
But we all fall down
Regardless of kings and queens,
Presidents and politicians,
Mothers and fathers,
We inevitably fall down.
And upon reaching ground,
Parallel to Gaia,
Unrelenting force barrels upward
Toward a new beginning,
In order appropriated
By bangs larger than two souls colliding in darkness.
Falling and standing were the first traits learned,
But they’re still very much a part of us.
Glowing only in darkness I find you
Passion sparked with defining
Any mission becomes lost
Only left to surrender timing
Daily plans are thoughts effervescent
Escaping reality, thoughts become planning
Train ones mind to block out reality
Past diction starts unwinding
Blindly lead to a cliff now describing
Scenery too high to imagine
Landscape too alive to be tragic
Rebounding soul to escape love
Blue foam eases to shore now behind me
Walking against grains of sand
Striving to become who I am
These are suppressive memories I confide in.
#poetry
Coldly awoken from a slumber
As if the night sky reached out and brushed shades of light in every corner of a room seemingly unfamiliar.
Dazed eyes gravitate towards the shadow
Not alone in and of itself, but surrounded by opposing frequencies
Flash across the sky now
I wait for your truth to be revealed
I wait because there is too much left
Too many shadows waiting to be healed
By a light.
Quiet.
Quietly shadow creeps over day old shirts and bottles once filled with the very essence of life
And rests.
Quietly resting against a wall known only for the the physical qualities attributed to it
Rebuking fact or belief of greater depth
Quietly shadow rests.
#poetry #reflection
Note: You’ll wanna read the highlighted stuff specially.
Important and necessary roots can be found in the original cultures of North America
One of the articles in Rediscovering The North American Vision (IC#3)
Summer 1983, Page 6
Copyright (c)1983, 1996 by Context Institute
Some of our most influential roots are the original cultures of this land. The following letter, sent by Chief Seattle of the Dwamish Tribe in Washington to President Pierce in 1855, illustrates the dignity, wisdom, and continuing relevance of this native continental vision.
THE GREAT CHIEF in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land. The Great Chief also sends us words of friendship and good will. This is kind of him, since we know he has little need of our friendship in return. But we will consider your offer, for we know if we do not so the white man may come with guns and take our land. What Chief Seattle says you can count on as truly as our white brothers can count on the return of the seasons. My words are like the stars - they do not set.
How can you buy or sell the sky - the warmth of the land? The idea is strange to us. Yet we do not own the freshness of the air or the sparkle of the water. How can you buy them from us? We will decide in our time. Every part of this earth is sacred to my people. Every shining pine needle, every sandy shore, every mist in the dark woods, every clearing, and every humming insect is holy in the memory and experience of my people.
We know that the white man does not understand our ways. One portion of land is the same to him as the next, for he is a stranger who comes in the night and takes from the land whatever he needs. The earth is not his brother, but his enemy, and when he has conquered it, he moves on. He leaves his father’s graves and his children’s birthright is forgotten. The sight of your cities pains the eyes of the redman. But perhaps it is because the redman is a savage and does not understand.
There is no quiet place in the white man’s cities. No place to listen to the leaves of spring or the rustle of insect wings. But perhaps because I am a savage and do not understand - the clatter only seems to insult the ears. And what is there to life if a man cannot hear the lovely cry of the whippoorwill or the arguments of the frogs around a pond at night? The Indian prefers the soft sound of the wind itself cleansed by a mid-day rain, or scented by a pinõn pine: The air is precious to the redman. For all things share the same breath - the beasts, the trees, and the man. The white man does not seem to notice the air he breathes. Like a man dying for many days, he is numb to the stench.
If I decide to accept, I will make one condition. The white man must treat the beasts of this land as his brothers. I am a savage and I do not understand any other way. I have seen thousands of rotting buffaloes on the prairie left by the white man who shot them from a passing train. I am a savage and do not understand how the smoking iron horse can be more important than the buffalo that we kill only to stay alive. What is man without the beasts? If all the beasts were gone, men would die from great loneliness of spirit, for whatever happens to the beast also happens to the man.
All things are connected. Whatever befalls the earth befalls the sons of the earth.
Our children have seen their fathers humbled in defeat. Our warriors have felt shame. And after defeat they turn their days in idleness and contaminate their bodies with sweet food and strong drink. It matters little where we pass the rest of our days - they are not many. A few more hours, a few more winters, and none of the children of the great tribes that once lived on this earth, or that roamed in small bands in the woods will remain to mourn the graves of the people once as powerful and hopeful as yours.
One thing we know that the white man may one day discover. Our God is the same God. You may think that you own him as you wish to own our land, but you cannot. He is the Body of man, and his compassion is equal for the redman and the white. This earth is precious to him, and to harm the earth is to heap contempt on its Creator. The whites, too, shall pass - perhaps sooner than other tribes. Continue to contaminate your bed, and you will one night suffocate in your own waste. When the buffalo are all slaughtered, the wild horses all tamed, the secret corners of the forest heavy with the scent of many men, and the view of the ripe hills blotted by the talking wires, where is the thicket? Gone. Where is the eagle? Gone. And what is it to say goodbye to the swift and the hunt? The end of living and the beginning of survival.
We might understand if we knew what it was the white man dreams, what hopes he describes to his children on long winter nights, what visions he burns into their minds, so they will wish for tomorrow. But we are savages. The white man’s dreams are hidden from us. And because they are hidden, we will go our own way. If we agree, it will be to secure your reservation you have promised.
There perhaps we may live out our brief days as we wish. When the last redman has vanished from the earth, and the memory is only the shadow of a cloud passing over the prairie, these shores and forests will still hold the spirits of my people, for they love this earth as the newborn loves its mother’s heartbeat. If we sell you our land, love it as we have loved it. Care for it as we have cared for it. Hold in your memory the way the land is as you take it. And with all your strength, with all your might, and with all your heart - preserve it for your children, and love it as God loves us all. One thing we know - our God is the same. This earth is precious to him. Even the white man cannot escape the common destiny.
(via ikenbot)
The Answers
Intrinsically Sky kisses Earth on the horizon,
From first vision to last memory,
We return our souls as to keep love inside them
Floating
Eternally floating towards a light
Thought of as the heliocentric center of our system
For out of fear of what we’remissing,
But out of fear we are progressing.
For out of fear we’ve been exploring,
Because nothing easily taken created depression,
But there’s always a reason
Knees bent, head risen
In search of salvation
As if the night sky smiled its crescent moon just to save us
Misinterpreted to offer praises
Of an old, rusted out ford that quite possibly has seen better days, is
Our limit of thought only future and past
Tensing your arm, laughter bursts out of your self
On the realization that we are all linked together from the future to past
And planetary motion,
Becomes gravitational
Then gravitates toward an idea that the universe is misshapen now
I must be mistaken now
Because if our understanding of the universe we build, live and sin in, is incomplete, how could we even think
We know the answers.
#poetry #thoughts
At Once
At the very least, a dream
Memories, true or false
What matters is consistent
But,
consistency is a state of mind
And with a change in mind set
We forget what we came to forget
And the cycle repeats
…
And begin.
Last time was the first time,
This time echoes throughout eternity
All time is an illusion
For if we echo, how can we not hear ourselves?
Would it be too much to say that we are not around?
We are not trees, we are free
Of constraints, at least physically
But we fail to see our constraints are conscious
Our lives are branches of consciousness
Our deaths happen all at once
And once
We see each other, we can forget
Even fifty years of knowledge is physical
Meta transcends, but what stores experience is our own consciousness
So it must all exist
At once.
#poetry #personal #metaphysical
"What a strange illusion it is to suppose that beauty is goodness."
Leo Tolstoy, novelist and philosopher (1828-1910)
@1 week ago with 116 notes(Source: lyssahumana, via samsaranmusing)
