healing power of the raven bundle

I felt sick at the edge of polluted fields where the raven bundles up despaired fear he caws in the echo of countless streams passing the beaver dam drowning scene beyond the winds whipping brave eagle peaks straight into the solarplexis sunlight reach pulling out the chords attached to gripping pain the pollution screens the scrape of pure wild recalling the thoughts of bent sad styles contained in the caws where a cave dreams a gentle smoke cleans the air around freedom it searches hearts and minds to feel through battered and breaking the remains in two breathing rebounds the prick of the thorn with sacred songs clearing out a cold storm riverside shamans found my new power shield where I felt sick at the edge of polluted fields

time graces turning

upon visions of northern stormy winds encircled verses flew into the sky full of human creatures their features burned in four groups of faces scores into the sight of light following the viewing eye colored medallion feet in shades like sharp calf shards four counting the number before the next four creations all beauty in a terrible sense drilled moments intensified sending warm panels of shear mutual light healing multiplied as their wings touch without turning the least lesson learning a lion in his strength vowing the unstoppable majestic return the ox upstanding and branded with seasonal torches to flight with the eagle upright and beautiful in the sight cleansing light burning coals drained through a minute into the spread wings then the incredible brilliance of light shoots the wind upward to sing like beryl on the earth of new found senses teaching new art form rings the creatures followed the path of sensual word shapes from the storm glazed light shines as time graces turning to the one where facesform

the sky lighting brush

this abrasive new life climbs into smooth aged breath beyond the past decapitation of the burning chest where a prayer became meditation into nimble feet jumping and skipping along a wounded mountain retreat I join the birds from the top of this eternal bliss set in place to grab death from the city screen we shape it into a recycled paper bag refuse thrown behind the escaping fraid burlap noose hung on the hanging garden leaves of jazz blues dripping equal amounts into unbalancing lids I fell from the sound of what wisdom was and is it chose other heroes in manic reaction buzzkill cries it really formed the song around my questionable eye when the view from the solo crossed paths with the two bright immune light under the drowsy skins of night sins bubbling over the steam engine fragrance bending impossible the words shape what art connects to crumbled ancient fossils old living lavender fields completing attractive shield wheels revealed in a magical world calling a million choices through where the voices burned frequent predictions sipping stew the numbers combine by the crowds in one hundred and forty four thousand soaking in the sky lighting brush wild vine wings stumble with the thrush

patterns from the loose

this will be the last time we're together looking back upon our violent lifetime chase where bold colors met the open dry air space twelve shakes drew patterns from the loose could we see friendship form around remains could we feel the space between three days when a question answers itself on a lap written into a stone forcing aged maps new light shines through the dense field of time thick with green on the silver shield scene beauty builds to empty sounds of strange yet distortion shakes abstraction through another day you'll see my image in front of you old men and young will see visions and dreams when the wind blows clean into cleansing it blows something fresh before old feathers this will be the last time we're together

gift ear dreams

departing is hardly the saddest time it rebuilds the texture of new life signs toes pointed forward into the questioning next winds blowing into the north south east or west I wonder where my feet will turn when the silver rails call me through beyond the Van Gogh canvas gift ear dreams into a magnet attracting dastardly schemes upon the page of a poets pen and ink somewhere just to give me time to think life is so full of every emotional level the stair choices cry into joyful dead smiles where crevasse falling cracks divide the abstract into broken backs spilled like mosaic stones detailed bold brushworking yellow bones straight to the sun reflecting milky ways where a star shoots Utah Phillips past purple decay I stand on the edges looking into the beyond I jump into voices from a hobo sounding song and then the wind then the wind the wind begins

one golden dish

wild free colors in the lucid leaves songs abound surrounding thee Timpanogos god of my subconscious sea memory begins in purple meadow moors opening the abandoned cabin door the floor is musty green obscene in vapor steam it dreams away dissolving branches in piles of time shingle spilled broken roof signs places where we used to fall through slow above all illusion faces in the wind chilled snowing places absolute sacrifice becomes offerings for the creators wish counting seven fragment moments into one golden dish how they cleanse and rebuild eventual decay how we give song and praise come what may twelve amphitheatre pine logs rounding stone crippled toes layers in the cooling fog sweeping up the colby shows

peach bucket ballin gym rats

the squeak of echoing gym shoes someone calls out the pick the bodies collide with sweat and blood helping hands offer a friendly way up assisted passes sweet as can be fast movements drain like shots free a ghost of short shorts past listening in for a little help from 3 point apparitions they seem to give it a little extra arch this art form bends deception into teamwork in a strange way of looking at the game faking and dodging with tricks to win luring and conniving opponents all in good fun then cramming it down their throat... and one with a yell and a howl from the pensive crowd five points to the star like our team shining proud this game is in my blood and bones this game is attached to me forever when I die I'll be scrounging up my five looking for an old spirit to ball with sitting front row at any old game diving for loose balls for old time sake even dead hustle is better than no hustle I'll bleed ghost blood for my team seeing the floor with my wings dunking like a mad man on a ball high heating up and shooting the lights out hoping my teammates will start to see I'm hot... pass me the rock this game gives me the chills this game is a beautiful way of living this game is in my blood and bones this game is attached to me forever the old peach bucket became a bending rim once again...the janitor kicks me out of the gym

empty absent rooms

I feel the great hand of sunshine sing lighting the dreadnought soldiers ring bringing songs from a deep internal sphere grabbing hold of my salted shoulder fears I know the names of numbers weighing in faces bent on faces smiling free again shapes in pattern fowl spaces found where understanding stands the ground smoke fills these empty absent rooms with open oak cabinet dusting views disguised on the grayish blue word page misspelled under headers of leather old age working the fever pitches sold into pounds leveling the unlevel graveyard grounds sending mind notes to stranger ghosts pen & ink on the spot filled words turning over our next page to burn crackling logs explain then explode sounds echo songs of ancient swords reminding me where the stone is born weather soaked barren beauty forms cleansed with the bronze dikini string songs mounted on the white horse of hindu tunes smoke fills these empty absent rooms

raining gold pain

cool shattered voices of the woodland rain fell before the cause rippling wave in puddles pounding from the down pouring seas sounding like the roar of a jubilant crowd or a wave sending endless grains of sand upon dry lands in a lush green mystic forest where the shadow ear hears every leaf fall where the voice being trumpeted calls free to the empty handed artist framed on the wall standing on the chains of impossible distance stretched out over valleys and moors the mast of a sail was seen beyond dreams coming over the horizon towards cliff side foam where caves held the star fishes of the sky with fast busy nests being built near bye under the color of something born all new the master of abstract ologies stood scratching thoughts skulls form the head of winter leaving summer clay pots all bleeding into the pain of a future history served with a brush of new color stains this shattered voice brings in the rain unequaled balance drowning under bridges earning allowance frowns in the stitches draped over eyes blood covered stones grape spoiling cries hoods over bones sad fascination faces killing the broad news glad breathing spaces filling just to lose rain the rain the rain gold the gold the gold turning cold other pains the golden rains raining gold pain growing old

my tree of life vision

I awoke in a forest from a vision where the light is deeply hidden upon the path a white haired man is seen smiling he says... c'mon lets go into the forest I say... but I need my shoes to be rolling he says... you won't need them where we're going so barefoot and free, we stroll up this eden sea it gently rose up toward a clear stream parallel to changing scenes of green slow as the pine needles crunch underfoot I smelled every breath where anticipation stood vivid and closing in around my view the man faded as the trees surround me they join hands to become one circle all around where the stream bubbles up like the earth giving birth my joy is exclaimed as I look up above inside the hollow to see glowing light balls swirling like perfect doves the spring is being born from the center of a tree where I stand all amazed in the mist of the free so overcome with joy I play in the water the moss on the banks soft as feather pillows astounding sights change my frame to find where is the man who drew me into this time I jump out of the hollow to see him aglow he smiles like a pure sun morning on snow I ask him just what is this place I see from the night he exclaims with incredible clarity...this is the tree of life! I turn around nimbus to see just how tall this tree grew to the highest of even higher walls I fell down to faint as it was too beautiful a sight I awoke in my bedroom wiping my shocked eyes

swap thoughts

something as of late seemed retold shaping faceless folder english gold swirled and dropping the pensive bright working its way apart from old relic hearts whistles played delayed to the crescent moon waiting amounts of time stood holding true announcing the tribute to light echo fields according to strange minutes melting shields answers shaped their own centered eye positioned under brave painted cushions placed while brushing moth blue seas preoccupied february thoughts bent free tingle toned hair spirits honest pure emotions hear it only with captured wing bats under deep cavern joyful drowns going up towards the different downs helping traffic jam snarls relate to themselves tempo worked the questions unequal scales swap thoughts flying swift sparrow tails

distortion croons

when time works away the magical vein like painting with a brand new view a voice cries out in the tempest twisting winds does it cut sharp or face the players part sliced into dining fragments defining art could the question leave deception behind where the rusting screws of avenues die contaminating the final day around disintegration a viral sight played with life escaping tears cutting sharp abundant beauty on false veneer liquid razor dead eyeball distortion croons all from the lucid sound of sad empty pain when time works away the magical vein

one thousand robins

just as the morning sun peaks over the reach one thousand robins sang abstract praises through as if their prayer was the least they could do I listened closely to their magical pure sounds it seemed to close in from a twisting wind above the expanse where the exact point of morning pierces cold dark layers leaving that empty hour player decomposing away again like some holy thought built momentum into sacred life at first rays light when one song becomes another dream leaving the despair of a restless danger in the dark forgotten as if their songs strength actually pulled in the light gripping the sun to save them for another day and night true purity of this praise is in believing from the heart the gift it brings reveals itself if you sing the feel our world has many hidden secrets there to teach just as the morning sun peaks over the reach