Poems About Love
Constructing Your Self-Portrait
When you were born; you’ll never know,
how you came to be on this earth;
for you pre-existed, many lifetimes ago,
and cannot remember your birth.
You were born to be an artist, forever;
working in clay, and many a medium;
destined to create yourself as
Memory Of Consciousness
Memory is different from Consciousness;
one is a stream; the other, sporadic;
memories serve; the past to address;
sometimes, they appear dogmatic.
Consciousness; a stream that permanently flows;
looking ahead; but, not into the past;
moving, in time, into the future, it goes;
death assumes it’s
Illusions
Illusions; thoughts on the mind;
where thoughts decide to go;
a room where reality’s defined;
they’re reality’s picture show.
That which we think we see;
was created within our mind;
all to become reality to be;
was, by the soul, defined.
We create our own reality;
…If you….
If you’re unable to love and be gracious;
you deserve to be left all alone.
If you don’t regard each life precious;
how can you claim you’re God’s own?
If you’d abuse any living being;
what evil is dwelling inside?
For anyone, the
The Commoners
All wish to feel they are different from others;
something about them sets them apart;
standing tall, amongst sisters and brothers;
due to wisdom, or the size of their heart.
Some achieve goals beyond comprehension;
causing jealousy to spread far and wide;
looking down on all others with
Quagmire Of Tears
The soul is an energy called consciousness;
of which all of life is comprised;
bringing forth light to replace the darkness;
and, reality, itself, is revised.
The body is immersed in the aura of the soul;
the aura possesses the energy’s power;
controlling the physical is
Acquiescence
Why do some seek division and hate;
just what is evil’s role?
With such people, I cannot relate;
division is evil of the soul.
Such thinking is limited and confined;
for we were all born to be together;
unified, in love, is how we’re designed;
all, brothers
It Takes A Village
I’ve heard many foolish words uttered;
that some people take as serious;
some, such words, are as wisdom, stuttered;
for the authors must be delirious.
Some are quite harmless, like piles of sand;
an idle mind’s thoughtless expression;
but, others are preludes to what
