LISTEN
Distant to my time, years beyond my tongue, on the palette of man’s imagination, whispers of my yesteryear shall awaken. In classrooms and in theaters all over the world, one day, they will be listing to me.
After my head has quietly laid in the bliss of heavens light, echoed will be works of art, of passion, of love from my soul, and they shall endure my death.
I wish these subtle words to ring as the bell of my heart upon the soul of my fellow man.
When our minds are distraught our hearts inevitable will falter. The faltering of this heart shall lead to our souls decay. This soul decaying shall slowly unravel the fabric of subtle life, and this life will twist and turn through time growing further from is resting place, and shall be born again to roam.
Open your soul to all the passion inside of you, beyond any place you have ever known to exist, past your heart and your mind in to a world of misunderstanding, a place of which you know not where you are. Just drift through days of flight and amazing dreams of amazing nights. Let your mind disappear and your body shall follow. You’re now floating amongst the air, in the clouds, above the sky of blue. In your passion you realize that you are alive.
You learn to appreciate all the gifts, which are given to us. Not the literal state for which they exist, but the lines behind them, the passion, the love of music from years past, of poetry from the beginning of time. These things install gifts within each of our minds. They allow us to create, to dream, and to go to a place that very few have ever been. They allows us to be alive
Not all of us are gifted with the greatest of gifts, but all of us do have the one gift, which is greater then them all. That is love; love of what ever may intrigue you. Love of things you cannot explain:
To watch a bird slowly soar the evening sky
The winds of change tickle the branches of trees
The clouds dancing in pattern bordered in blue high
The sun laying its head to sleep
The witch’s hour amongst the air
The deer grazing in morning woods
The rabbit as it stares
The way some one looks
The way they touch
The way they feel
The way they make you feel
The flowers
The fires
The flames
These are things that create such beauty, and it is beauty that cannot be explained. There is nothing to be taught nothing to be said. There are no words to explain, because the true beauty that lies amongst us all are the feelings we posses. Listen to a song and enjoy the passion it brings. Read a poem and forget about life. Let your self disappear a moment out of time. Just drift in that dimension which lies:
In the words
In the music
In the passion
In all our lives
PEOPLE, LEARN TO LIVE BEFORE YOU DIE
SADLY TRUE
Hate seems to rage vigorously with in the minds of sovereign
They have lost their meaning they say, have they ever held one
Inadequate, abandoned by reason, distant to just time
Where lies the hand that installs, where lies the heart
Where does the truth lye, why has it not burned a flame
Aspiration and dreams or forgotten traits to those who hate
What they see what they hear, or maybe simply who they are
Can the minds of destruction ever tame the fires
Or may they be burdened with an eternity of demise
In the intricate time of severance from evil lies a voice
A voice that reasons out the dwelling doubt
When that voice lies somber a wrong inevitable becomes right
They than hold dear the right side of wrong
Just, in their being sits a convincing conscious
If there is not two one will reign as reason
Where does the voice of right scream
That is the only time to truly change
As ears of hate listen, remember well, they do listen still
ON VENTURA'S EARLY HEART
The speaker of these poems is a man who has tried to write, and for all his effort he sits thoughtless. His eyes are of the day’s events. They clutter his mind. His body sits in a relaxed state as if the world were as one. His voice is of relief, as words he speaks to the night. His demur is one of a man who wishes the world well, and in his mind that world is peaceful through his words. His face smiles at the comfort of settled souls. There is an air of confidence as his words calm the day’s events.
This man is a man of talent, but for all his talent he is humbled. He wishes no praise, no acknowledgment, just a finished thought in his mind. He is a good man, a man of character. His writings tell of peace, as in all trials and tribulation the stroke of his hand relaxes the adversity.
Life is this mans will, will to love, to live, to make all wonders answered. He enjoys people. The way they move, converse, associate, and their undying drive to survive. He is a watcher, an observer of life. In his time he will touch many. He will hold some. He will love few. In the end many will have loved him. To himself he is an average man with a hobby, but his mind lingers memories of all he touches.
There are symbolic jesters that speak of wealth, but truth is discovered deeper. In the words lay a man who lives a moderate life. His possessions consist of things that most would consider worthless, but passion is his reason. He loves the nature of emotion, and things that move him exist around him. He holds material things only as necessary. His life is tame in the day, but night is when his true work begins. His nights are filled with expressions of passion. He writes, paints, draws, and creates. His career is only his means through life.
He works within the field that brings him in contact of many. His true work is his methods of expression, which pay him little notoriety and no wages. His confidants are individuals who live a normal life. His friends are people who know his passions. His cause is simply to move all that is possible. He challenges this cause less to none, only moving those who see his passion. There dose however lie a confidence to touch many. That becomes his submission in the words of his poem. His concept of life keeps many around him. His outlook of life is the irrational that people seek.
God is his source of values. Gratitude for his talent is placed in prayer. He believes in right and wrong, there is no in-between. He lives as a soldier fighting for humility. He enjoys competition that raises the will to succeed, and wishes it existed more in the world. He wants people to act as one forming the future through the actions they perform daily. He believes society views life by the burdens that are laid on them, and that morality is becoming a faded memory. He asks why or people blind to the big picture, which tells the tail.
He often speaks into the night, after trying to write of the day’s events. He reflects on his art. He spends the moment realizing his will. This is a moment when all he has done is brought to light. He remembers why he writes. He spends the night felling as if all he does is for the comforting of others. He also is awoken to the light of contentment, which says there is no money, praise, or stage that could compare to the self-gratification of completing his thoughts through methods of art. As his frustration of cramped hands build, he opens his voice to answer the lacking of meaning. All he has done has satisfied him so, yet the time has come where the epitome of his satisfaction has been reached. Now his soul cries for an awaking to answer his talent. “Why dose art so great lye somber in a world of genius, held in one amongst many yearning, why then dose it burn so?” For all reflected, there is now the asking for more then a single ear.
The appearance of his text is in such a way it shows of memory. He spoke and then he wrote. He felt he should write his effortless thought. The words came to him, and in the simplistic line arraignment this is shown. He was more impressed by his words then his style. His words are chosen as if they flowed from pure in prove. He held no meaning or thought. There was a subconscious voice, which rang true the words he needed to her that night. The conclusion can be drawn that he unexpectedly spoke to his self and then wrote what he could remember. He speaks clearly through his words, talking literally leaving the reader with a precise understanding of his craft and sullen art. He explains why he does it and what affect it has on in his life. His lines rhyme as a poet who is starring into the mirror or the moonlight talking to a nonexistent figure and letting the words flow in the simplest of terms, rhymes.
His poem takes place as waves of the ocean or softly rolling over his feet. His mind is at peace in a cloudless sky of the early a.m. light. The moon is full and asks for his reply to his pages, which blow down the miles of sand. His fidgeting hand is morbid as he sits in his chair on the coast in solitude away from vacationing shores. The night is his friend. The soft reflection on the water inspires his past, as he looks into the sky. Stars clutter this sky as words clutter his mind. He finds the one thing alone, separated from all in the sky, the moon. He speaks words separated from all those in his mind. A night of loss words and time turn into the first true art he has ever done, for this night he spoke of himself, not passer bys. In this scene he finds the greatest work he has ever achieved, because for the first time in his art his soul was the inspiration, not his interpretations of others. He speaks to the night answering the question of why he is blocked in his mind. He asks and answers in the same words, opening and closing the doors of wonder.
He speaks because he is forced to. Forced through his will to create and his stagnate state which now haunts him. He is forced to, because for all his days he has spoke of others and never reviewed his own meaning. He is forced to by the desire he holds. If his mind will not tell him the stillness of his craft will. He then finds a reason for his thoughts, believing their from God his own words will motivate the reason he walks as one of the living.
His poem exemplifies the fact that we live our lives through the lives of others never finding our cause or meaning. We are lost souls guided by the leadership of others. When in our nights, as we lay to sleep in solitude from the world we discover our dreams. When morning comes we have forgotten. His poem reminds that inevitably our passion will awake. As it dose we can ether write the chapters to our life accordingly, or we can fade to practicing our craft in the safety of our dreams. We must carry our passions into the day and shine them bright as the sun.
