The next day dawned up
After a moon went down.
We held on to the starlight
To return it to the sky
With thanks for the next day.
At labyrinth’s end dwells
The minotaur’s hidden self.
He tends a rose garden
To mourn the past,
To plant for future
Hope.
Medusa seeks herself
As she once was,
While the snakes whisper,
remember.
Hecate leads with her light,
Persephone sets the table,
Hades welcomes his guests.
A journey to the underworld
Is the voyage within
To write a chapter of your myth.
Fairy tales wolves learn lessons
The real world refuses.
Pandora’s last gift
Flew to Psyche
Who gives it to us
For in consciousness is hope.
They want us to fly high.
Yet when gravity pulls,
And we fall—
They leave.
The last labor,
The one Hercules didn’t face,
The one we still carry,
Cries, unacknowledged,
Emotional.
I have waited centuries
To be the first to speak,
Only to find a world
With hands over ears
While they watch Narcissus
Make a spectacle of himself.
When I raise a warning,
They instead obey hard-hearted Hera
Who lets us wither away.
The citizens of vision
Have messages for us.
Whether we listen and learn
Depends on whether we choose
Love or fear.
When the foolish burned the bridge over,
The way under also fell apart.
They sat on the river bank and blamed the water.
The wise listened to the rushing water
And quacking ducks.
They found a way through, note by splash,
While the foolish threw rocks at them.
The trains fell off time and crashed into mountains. They blamed the goats.
Punctuality was never the plan to begin with.
Once upon a time, a new song from the old shaman whistle-whispered through the fallen leaves of time.
The people in the town up the road mistook the whispers for mosquitos and waved them away. They went about their day wondering why everything was quiet, then decided it must be the fault of that other town down the road.
The song flew away and landed in the forest. The birds tilted their feather heads and clacked their beaks in time to the shaman’s notes.
The birds carried the song to the other town down the road. When the people heard the notes, they paused in their work and worry. They hummed and tapped their feet, then rushed into their homes to find forgotten musical instruments that were waiting for this moment.
When the people in the town up the road heard the music and laughter, they gathered in the town square to grumble. “Why do those people get to have fun? Nothing fun ever happens here.” They marched into their homes to find the pitchforks and torches they kept for this moment.
The people from the town up the road marched to wage war on the people in the town down the road. They stood at the town gates and shouted, “Stop that noise or else!”
But the people in the town down the road ignored the threats. They continued to play the shaman’s song and lived happily ever after.
Every dream I had was a message from the soul.
Every insight I had came from translating the language of the soul into sunlight.
What feels good now
May not tomorrow.
Focus on the sunrise to come,
Say goodbye to the morning that was.
Living in the moment only works
When that moment is conscious.
Can we dream of a better way?
Only if we decide to.
Otherwise wisdom scatters across dry land and the people thirst for water they have forgotten.
Flowers will bloom in time.
You cannot shout a rose into existence.
The soul too has its own time.
In reverie my spirit travels to places once unknown, now the home of the soul.
This peace is my way as the fog of confusion rolls through the land.
I want to know, I want to be known, as a spark in eternity.
Before the world rushed in, there was peace.
After the world rushes out, there will be peace again.
The in between is the search for or denial of that peace.
The elder told me,
The wind will while and we while with the wind only to find
The tornado will take us to a place with no water
And empty spaces filled with closed doors.
I listened.
He opened a door.
Hypertext to the next
With plain vanilla text
Lines of handcrafted code
That opened virtual worlds to unite
Now become isolation units.
I looked for signs on the outside when the sign I needed was on the inside.
A word to build, a word to destroy,
Becomes a game some delight in.
Yet any spell cast on others
Returns to the self.
Wisdom has a house,
Hosts parties with music,
But the invited
Stayed in their basements
To watch the madman show.
(c) 2024 solarpsychedelic