When the Music Stirred Edward

Edward

Edward

when the music stirs ohio,

streets are on fire,

dancing feet; chi vapours,

child shadow, voices in heads.

 

come dance on the streets,

she moves in ripples,

like child in sand,

come dance with me,

angel come down;

 

there can be no losers in

these virgin moves.

we learn as we burn

by turnpikes we turned right.

we are safe in the certainty of

all the things we don’t know,

staying young and doubtful.

 

the world joins when we dance;

just a touch

in seamless fields

where we love; one motion,

one act, one giant wave in the tears of broken hearts,

broken messiahs and the chronic mission.

 

the mountains moved legion

beneath cracked heels,

after all these revolutions,

ages of tyrants and fate,

dreams still steady as the sky,

endlessly open, endless oceans;

falling! falling! falling! (for something)

never real.

 

mother, please know that

i’m no longer dying,

no longer taking for granted

the storm signs that weathered

my soul,

certain to suffer freely

without remorse.

 

the teachings unearthed were wise grains,

in drums and strings

assured,

one step east

and we recline

in the easy chairs of liberation

(and a full refund with extras).

 

so i wear my make up hard,

life is dressing up,

losing your head and

growing it back again;

falling deeply into grooves,

all components lost and found

to feel silent and humble,

mute models of perfection in

spiralling implications of true beauty

realised.

 

one cloud migrating, no longer strange,

no longer longing, no longer desirable;

just desire, not wanting to pray anymore.

i love this here.

 

my maker, help me to the sun,

i reach for you to become

the stars and forgotten corners,

to be come courageous in the dark,

close my eyes in final peace.

 

i wish you to sweetly dissolve in

one effortless leap of true

endeavour,

a child again, at play,

changing trains in mindless states;

pushing off into never never land

for good.

 

on the road, still far gone,

caught way down the line,

wishful and fearful of death

in equal measure;

 

when i woke as a Burmese monk, in a dream,

i was murdered for what i believe.

a bullet in the brow and I was no more.

 

mother call; to live fresh in now.

down here; into light, into sound.

not turning cold shoulders on love

in this dawn of jilted lovers.

not to feign bliss, fake the freedoms to be found;

but to live immersed

in the higher heart, suffused with soul

and carefree verve.

 

When the music stirred Edward,

many apples came calling

and hope fell (BANG!) from the tree.

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3 Responses so far »

  1. 1

    lostinmist said,

    I think i’ll print this off later. very nice. better to be murdered for what you believe than to allow some gutless punks to impose a ludicrously evil variety of purdah on your women, i say.

    • 2

      leroywatson4 said,

      I must admit to being a little lost with this, I realise the poem is rich in abstraction and contradiction. The picture above is actually of a Hindu sadhu who I met in a remote shrine in Arunachal Pradesh. He loves all beings as one and live a very peaceful existence. From what I saw, any form of ‘purdah’ relating to his beliefs and actions are way off the mark. Peace and light, lee

  2. 3

    lostinmist said,

    i may do some mass emails, but seeing as im in the process of moving and just of the loony bin, i wont be organizing the protests myself.


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