Poems About Love
We live our lives, seeking what comes next;
each of us, with a definition of success;
much that we do, brought about by pretext;
as we’re drawn by our desire to impress.
We all worry about things, done in the past;
some of them led to disaster.
Everything that
All life poured out from the Master’s fountain;
resonating, from above, to below.
Consciousness is thought’s Holy Mountain;
from which living waters flow.
Thoughts became imaged, to what were to be;
and sound, as well, was heard by the mind;
whatever we thought; was what we could see;
She was never the center of attention;
others comfort was what she sought;
as though from another dimension;
it was unconditional love, she brought.
It seemed she was able, to only see good;
only the best in all others, were found;
somehow, it seems, only she understood;
a life will
It was a lifetime ago; or so it seemed;
places and people; no longer here;
a cloudy mist, as tho it’d been dreamed;
its very presence, become austere.
Maintaining an aura of energy sensitivity;
my thoughts became what I feel;
consciousness demonstrated no proclivity;
to separate a dream, from
Higher than the highest mountain;
deeper than the deepest sea;
water, from the purest fountain;
is God’s depth of love for me.
How can I, this great love, measure;
thru such jewels as rubies and gold;
to imagine such an endless treasure;
for mere trinkets; was willingly sold.
I
…The Master is omnipotent and omniscient;
total control is within His grasp;
the Lord of All is in no way deficient;
no form of rebellion, could last.
His will is nothing, other than perfection;
and, by Him; His will shall become.
He can control and eliminate rejection;
making all of
Sadness is much like an ocean;
a wave of sorrow, mingled with grief;
a constant energy, filled with emotion,
from which there seems no chance of relief.
Appearing in the distance; mere thought,
it quickly envelops all that we be;
transforming us to becoming distraught,
the energy morphs itself into
I really can’t say, how it all came about;
somehow, I became a sculptor of words;
voices are troublesome, when they shout;
and poetry is the sculpture of nerds.
They always say if the shoe fits; wear it;
so I slipped those shoes on my feet;
they squeeze my
