Poems about Reality
I’m a worker, attempting to master my craft;
constructing messages; word by word;
whenever, in time, I construct each new draft,
such a thought, seems even more absurd.
Wisdom and knowledge float about in eternity;
available to those, willing; to seek and find.
Must I be the one, to
Creation’s painting was born out of thought;
nothing so exquisite, is a product of chance;
souls are the paint drops the artist brought;
no masterpiece evolves out of happenstance.
For the life of the Artist was within the clay;
and the paint drops granted it’s beauty;
only the
Created in the Master’s name;
identical in His perfection;
embryo and soul are the same;
configured at His direction.
From energy we have all been made;
the physical body came later;
first the energy template was laid,
by the embryonic Creator.
The embryo was first made a soul;
given
We think all are born in innocence;
to which most can relate;
but such is merely illogical nonsense;
there is no room for debate.
All of us, have been here before;
when we leave, we’ll return again;
life keeps coming back for more;
there is nothing, but now, and
Only two known witnessed his birth;
for they were here in the beginning;
the Father of heaven and Mother of earth;
here when the earth began spinning.
Two were One; and from them, came all;
and what was, changed into what will be;
so that a world, created, and sure
We know life’s divided by seasons;
is that true of reality, too?
All acts of the Master have reasons;
that divisions of reality will do.
Are multiple universes stacked together;
each one, on top of another;
endless lifetimes; all cycling forever;
involving each sister and brother?
Spring is the
…If Dr. preceeds their name;
or some letters follow thereafter;
none, may disavow their claim;
not being the subject of laughter.
No matter that others know more;
if they lack that special degree;
their opinions, the experts abhor;
unless the experts agree.
What of sheepskin conveys knowledge;
is it contained
I returned home from a long day at work,
my gaze, like a magnet, drew me there.
In the corner of the room, it just seemed to lurk.
Such a benign object: an empty chair.
I stood for a while, transfixed so it seemed;
mesmerized by what wasn’t there.
