poetree of peace :)

With All,

Gutten hagen. I hope you and yours are well and will continue to be. Great creativity, art. and poems, etc., compliments peace well. Twigs of poetree :)

A Weaver Of Life

Happy Birthday
To a student of Christ's and Ghandi's.
One who had a dream that someday
We'd live in the promised land and
Took us by the hand.

Yet, we won't get there
If you don't break your chains,
Refusing to be a pawn in their games.
We can't turn our back to those
Unchosen, on the outside or in,
Simply 'cause they can't afford.

We can bring them with us, if we,
Resisting, everyday, their common
Delusions, not be a link in that chain.
The chains that keep our humanities
Growth arrested, our potentials
Unexplored; our thoughts,
Feelings, and deeds flawed.

If you don't refuse
To be the chains that bind you,
We'll never break the chain.
The chain that murders.
The chain of delusions.
The chain of death.


YOU CAN

Talk the talk, walk the walk, and even
Be the be, but, if you don't vote the vote,
You won't ever be livin' in a democracy!


Shadow and Light

Growing, expression, experience,
Movement, uplifting of mind,
Then heart of dance, "To leap and
Contend", choreographed by self
Unfolding, is art incarnate;
Gestured. ...As in language symbols
Letter poets words through
Their languid dance on leaf,
Thus evoked lifelines are
Freer and freed.

As well, a non-chiseled beauty
Expresses humanity in children's...,
Only the non-sculpted can unsculpt.
Dances soul, our viscosity shadows
Its expressions breadth, realized
In depth through compassion,
Is being universally accessible
Only from inside one's self .
Spirit, quintessential experience of
Fluidity in movements enlivening;
Muse, soma, piety, gaiety.
Earth and sky, we, as agua
Uncontainably articulated, dance!


Carry On

"We will never stop
'Til we get our freedom."
The song sings, while them that kill it,
Greed driven, avarice ridden, never
Filling their enlarging hole inside, for,
They can't be, nor hide
Their poverty or deathly stride,
Murder to die. These murderers of life
For delusional profits and pleasures,
Why aren't they tried?
Delusions are sweet,
Illusions sweeter. So, what do we do?
Their choosing is losing their potential
To grow, and personal power in the
Moment so, we show the growth, and
Walk towards the dream,
We're realizing for both.

While life, here and now, is the point
Made with art, in our hearts,
Our beings are the heart of the point.
So, it is I stand and say,
The murder stops here.
Turning out back to the convolution,
We walk, evolution's way.


Leaf

A raindrop forms
In love's eye.
Joy, sadness, let go.


Illumine

Fire in the sky
And your art,
Entering my eye,..


Ring Unbroken

The way open,
Beyond time and bone of space,
In front of nose, original face.


Soul

As my breath is the one, prana,
And the life's pulse, pala,
Reaching angelic source, sura,
So is this mind, manas, a
Flowering unfoldment,
Unendingly touching
The eye that would it see;
Unbeckoning unto thee.
As well, this Bodhi, a temple,
Of the four and fifth, nur,
So entered by atma, a ray of thy sun,
Thus being winged, and
As such with wind;
Flying only in dharma's dance,
Is returning to, Brahma, you.
For, there yet, by thy grace, go I.


Prema

Timeless, sublime, tonal,
Melodious sojourn into life, self.
River banks, as petal and thorn
Roll, filled by agua's flow;
Entwining on her bed,
Know, love is. Mauna,
Silence, echoes its song;
Which no words could trace.
Thus ananda, bliss, intimates
The eternal, and details
Living shantih, peace.


if

One lived as prayer,
Their light adding
To the well of light,
Their every step in grace,
They left no footprints;
That will echo always.


grace

Feeling with your spirits hands,
See with the eye of your heart,
Hear with the ear of your soul,
And know with the body
Of life's knowledge,
We can be prayer;
Being forever answered.


Thanx

While feeling sacred on
This All Hallow's Day,
I also feel pangs of the
Hungry, so wrought by
The profane; for the food
Wasted by us could feed
All the world's.... Yet,
Betwixt, in the mundane
It's only hurled.


clarity

Sword that cuts all ways,
Without, for, there's no cutting;
And a pointless point.


So

You, a joyous lake.
Me, the mountain, underground,
Which, you fill,

That holds you always.
Within and without us,
Is this love.


Heart

Like the wind moves,
Not love, nor hate,
Only everything and nothing
At all; at once.


Departed

The depth of one's sorrow
Is the well's fathom,
Of meanings and moments
Shared with them.


virtue

Were it a cause that
Opened those tiny arms,
Alighting brilliance, a smile,
As I hugged him back, then,
It could not be known.
For, this child towards
The divine leads goes.
Would it be that we say,
It is not the life;
Rather, we know?


why

As acid rain from your closed eye,
An acre of rainforest falls each
Second, and the earths tears bleed;
For, all you see is grey.


V.E. Day

Denatured, this first,
Still, inside life's waters rise
To Spring's tides. We feel,
Below emotions ebbs and flows,
"Go On"'s vernal
Raison d'etre, to not know!


glory

Will of life's wind howls
There is no fear.
Being all the way live, 'til.


If

Tree's leaves found,
Though, they empty be,
May utter profound, and
Image immeasurably.


Manners

In which doings and not doings
Are done or aren't,
Brings life and light to them,
Or it doesn't.


gray

Those more attached to
Living or dying,
Are more closely death.


Another Mournful Day

Tuesday, 28th of May, 2002, they say
the last girder to survive 9-11-01, at the
base of the World Trade Center, was
being removed. Solemn ceremony in
honor of the many deceased, as well as
relief workers, and volunteers took place.
The faces of the fallen were present and
they were remembered. The New York
City worker's silence, as that steels,
echoing America's doubts, unanswered
questions, born of grief, hardship and loss,
reflect what's still missing in our nation's
psyche, answers, as to why.

Not just those directed to God, reality,
derived from existential angst, also, those
"we", as a people, silently ask our souls.
Did they not prevent them purposely?
Stanzas of Longfellow's "Psalm of Life":
"In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, - act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!"

While still girded by cries for justice,
will "we", at least, stand on the land
of our birth and demand truth from
power, seizing the hour of our countries
need? Or, stand aside and watch as
humanities' slide into the abyss of history
follows those 3000 lives lost, and the
Twin Towers. Will this ever again be, the
land of the free, home of the brave? Or
will Liberties' torch be scorched forever?


Thee

Her quill beckoning,
We, blossoming, hear, feel, be
Worship, bliss, love of...


One's Mental Cell

Built of walls of delusions,
Made with bricks of illusions,
Is one's hell.


Eden?

Splitting of atom,
Cloning of adam, hubris;
Leads to extinction.


Cityscape

Hustled and bustled,
Still, hands only put to heart,
Beings, only art.


When

A sea of souls, one echoing all.
Clouds exclaim on the run,
Who is rolling by.
Watered thus and sunflowered,
Bringing forth abundance,
Earth's richness furthers.


Artist

Their innerselves, stretched canvasses
On that frameless frame, the world.
They being painted by life itself,
With reality as the brush.
The painting ever evolving,
The frame continually changing,
Their beingness as gleaned meanings
For all to share; seen through,
If they were there.


Injustices

Addressing, not addressing them
Have costs, former is individual,
The latter is global, as well.


Bridge

An artist isn't one who creates art,
For, all living beings do.
Palate, as you'd have it, sparce or
Abundantly, an expression of self.
The mystery of the suns grace,
Perceived by us within our eye as
An ethereal rainbow in kaleidoscope,
Always unfolding, is dabbed from and
Given to form; with reality,
The brush, holding us.
Betwixt those two we, being life, art,
Fill, and are fuller, still.
Not grasp or let go, it's all we know,
Feeling's reeling in living art.


Shoulders Unbent

Humanities' call,
Being unburdening; a
Path less travailed.


Music

Life's song
Accompanying
The Abundance of
Joy's Spring!


You

You share yourself
With us, evoking
Words so true.
It does our hearts good
To be with you, being you!


Emanations

Worthily wrapped, a
Rain-bow unbroken, a gift
To the beholden.


Beauteous

Macroscopia allows a view,
Verdant brilliance, a star's birth.
Yet, our microscopicness ignores,
The atom should not be split.

400 years of supposed "science"
Has stolen the earth's richness,
Michaelangelos from the sky;
Is killing life as fast as
Before last ice age ensued.
Biophilia or necrophilia, choose!

Vie's evolving song is as silent as
A stone's ballad for being's loss.
Yet, manifest destiny rag drags on,
Turtle Island's shell won't cover,
Approaching abyss on the horizon.

Vitae's wail echoes crimson,
As acid rain from your closed
Eye falls, and earth's tears
Bleed; for, all you see is grey.


What

One hundred thousand miles
Of red rivers flow,
In nature's rythm, we follow.
That tattoo of the heart
Brings us throughout
Our inner ways, felt full.

The unbeat, rhyme,
Eternal pulse of life,
Leads us from without,
Perceived by our mind's eye,
On our paths of heart;
From within. For,
We are the blood of life, so...


multumultum

As machinations of
Travailing winds,
Miraging, veil and mirror
Narcissistic nihlistic
False-ego, as self,
We evince to be!


To The Setting

Still, unknown to all,
I'll let the feet fall forward;
Well meet by earth, first.


Felt

Eternally danced, I,
A whirl unending
Within, am.


"Love Is Not All"

They ask what they know. For, if I'm, but,
the shadow of a man, then, my life proceeds
me, no? As their psychic abomination
breathes my life, again they refrain, "she rides
on your back", I Beren be, on paths untold,
On Elbereth, of old. They mock, and harking
boast, as they've already drunk many a toast
to what is man's, woman's death, entombed,
in-crested by their seal, their ghastly host.

False-ego, the answer to their opening joke,
their precious just a parlance for,
what you grasp possesses you. "Though,
if there's no possession, how could this be
true?" The body, phenomena too, of
elements and to elements goes. Like attracts
like, the earth beckons, as well, to her womb.
Yet, as Longfellow's "Psalm of Life", retorts,
"dust thou art, to dust returnest, wasn't
spoken of the soul." Nor, of spirit, the whole.

Grimace, they fear undermining life's fabric,
the evolution, will be more arduous than
undoing a thread. I liken their mask to Eric
Fromm's admonition, "people tend to escape
from freedom to familiar forms of authority."
What of the fullest reach of life, being
ourselves to be? There, they fade, "From
Whence..., To Wither", they go, shadow.

For, now Socrates entreats them with, "the
unexamined life's not worth living". Defying
the tacit assumptions of their convolution,
like, winner, loser, predator, prey, sides,
the most fit instead of those that fit most
to reality. Why, you ask, do they substitute
slogans for being? 'Cause, "the introspective
life takes more courage than soldiering." Still
ossifying, the corporate machine continues to
shape the world in its own adolescent,
patriarchal, oligarchic image, as it has God.

Here, hear, off in the distance, hearts tattoo,
Cornel West's "Socratic, prophetic, brought
together blues." For, it's old news that "we've
hardly any rights, and liberties left. Just
sounding brass, tinkling cymbals." Reigning
on humanities' parade. You see, we've not
exercised our responsibility, so, its Siamese
sister, freedom, has withered as well. As
Emily Dickinson's poem's refrain refrains,
"Not In Vain", now, will we be this day,
what it is to be this day?


Glean

Waves spraying our faces, for, we don't walk the walk.
The beaches edge, which ever changes, is where we,
Sky, earth, moon and sea meet.

Breezing through the strong breeze, the
Fuller our lungs the lighter we'd run,
It was to be, with ease.

As reality, she and I stalked ourselves
In those shells silences, like when
We leaped from a slip on a rock to the next, well.
Then sitting still, we glistened, the sun splashing
Through us, as the ocean's and our salt were one.

Her thoughts and mine flowed,
Our feelings were its ebb and flow.
Nature, true, would not be unsung.

That blue gray cloudy day found us in the end.
Finding it by moons ray, our ears to waves did lend.
It was as our footprints,

Truly there, 'til waves did gently lift.
For, if it were that we held it,
Like sand grasped, it wouldn't be a gift.


A Flute Echoes Us

A light within that has always been without
As well, grows, while life's vultures ever circle,
Below. Why has it always been that human beings
Who be more so, have had to be exiles in
Their own lands? This time, more than any other
Before, beckons all life to be most vividly that.
As long as I can, walking the road in the world,
Which is the unwinding path within,
Will enlighten; as it does.

Listening to a song sung and un, without words and
Nature's sing me, I'm naught, but, it's echo and
The mountain which does not rise as that eagle's
Talon leaves a rock perched in its eyre, I,
At the top. Singing, this voiceless rock that isn't,
Resounds a universe's song, which leaving as
A talon did, is felt sky bound, for, it ever plays on.
Now, a galactic wind weaves me through that
Stormless storm, on this unspeck of dust, to here.

Being filled with this songs silences,
I'm reminded of where our mundane life and
The unseen are one. Walking that balance we glean
That living is the grist of our individual mills, and
Discover that inner unfolding is unending.
As well, life is the grist of realities' mill.

So, we've come to pass and learn, as well as teach,
Through life on that wheel, what it is to be,
From within and without.
Ergo, ourselves are the question we always ask,
And the answer we never find. For, when
You put your finger on it, it's no longer there.


The Rainbow's Gift

Blood, forever pouring
For all life, not
One drop spilt, and
Truth, never yellowing,
Though, ever changing,
Create orange, you see;
On the palette of to be!


Musings

In between words and lines,
Poetry's music fathoms
The depths of our heart,
The heights of our intellect
And imagination,
Breadth of our spirit,
Well of our soul,
Alluding to the unknown;
Saliently. For, the muse
But whispers, silently;
Moving in mysterious ways.

Painting's music?
Inexpressible and felt,
Unknowable and experienced;
Of echoing images and silences.
Even the shadow
Speaks of the light!


Oyate

When every moment is
Struggling with every
Fiber to inspire, expire
Breath, feeling is a
Dream deferred;
Unrealizable, they say.

Yet, to feel builds emotions,
Power innate; the thread
Interweaving the fabric of life.
Though, proscience projects
Thought is power, sensing,
Just informing, to be processed
By our computer, brain, for
Exigent programming.

Yet, conscience intuits that
Thoughts are emoting, voiced.
...That fear is naught, but,
Shadows of past's unintegrated
Experiences, cast over our
Presence and future. While both,
Integral to realizing insight,
Growth, balance and movement,
Are necessary to humanity.

"La Machine", uses them to rote
Us into unbeing an efficacious part
And parcel of it, an automaton.
More, better mechanistic survival,
The reason for human being;
In societies' eye. Who dares to
Disagree, all in for a penny, in
For a pound; mostly, decay bound.
Sides, delusions, clouding their eyes.

Though, feelings hibernating
Emerge with strength, through
Discipline, which Castaneda relates
As, "the art of feeling awe", they
Can be concentrated. Focusing,
Realizing reality on wing,
Imbued co-creation in flight.

As well, what of our soma's foci of
Attention, solutioning all life,
Through myriad interrelations?
What of the breadth of our
Perceptions, the depth of every-
Ones earthen interconnections?
...Of the intimacy, hearts fathoms,
Touch's immediacy, aural artistry?

Mammon says, "what of it", being
Doesn't make money, take control,
Projections do. "We" say, they're
Le raison d'etre, potentia evolving,
Humane being; alival. I would be
Just for a day, as a mayfly, if I were
More me, rather, than as long as
An eagle flies, selling out, killing.


"Painting is poetry which is seen and not heard, and poetry is a painting which is heard but not seen." ~ Leonardo da Vinci. Enjoy a festive eve' as you can. Lest "we" forget, if you don't exercise responsibility, its Siamese twin sister, freedom, will wither, like a muscle, as well. Sadly, now, it first needs to be exorcized before its exercised. Viva la evolution!

Matutinally Yours,

james m nordlund reality (aja) :)

Music is life's song accompanying the abundance of joy's Spring. For those interested :) "of or pertaining to the morning, day: relating to or happening in the morning or in the early part of the day (formal), (Mid-16th century, from late Latin matutinalis, from Matuta, goddess of the dawn.)". I look forward to hearing from you. Copy, share, as you will. Au revoir.