....parties to plan,
the boys first kiss...
The babie's christening party...
The house is a mess,
The mortgage is late...
Removed from the human sphere in an instant,
you no longer wait,
no longer fearing the next day...the next hour...
It is gone for you and yours.
From these skies, you have descended...
now to another you ascend.
Aloft upon the wafting breeze...
you know your way home.
There are many with you now,
but you will soon be alone...
how else to make this journey familiar?
To whom shall you turn to recognise your
fields of green?
...kin you are now...
to the shadows and dimmed corners of the parlors, of the homes
that still reverberate with the sounds and gaiety of life...
you will sate there and listen to the gossip and whispers
of which are only some distant memories to you...
but as you do...
Remember that no breeze goes unnoticed in a barren desert,
The flower brings more to the heart than it's essence...
You may have disappeared to those whom you loved and knew...
and yes there is loss and pain abound as you reach for the Sun.
The sum of every soul, is perhaps...
the subsumption of it's previous incarnations,
once missed, thrice reborn.
Walk to the shores of your memories past.... lift your eyes
to the Light of Life. Do you smell the familiar breeze
just now passing?
They are soon to greet you,
You are home ...
You are Safe...
Make tall your stories tonight,
that All may relish and live your Life
once again!!
GM Sexton
(Dedicated to the 166 passengers that perished over they skies of Indonesia yesterday)
Sunday, December 28, 2014
Tuesday, December 9, 2014
"....Having Never Left"
(For My Beautiful Love....Sally)
...it parts from me ever slowly,
the chance and the pace of a not so distant past...
...the rune suggests that all is well however,
casting times a plenty all through these winter nights;
...tumbling and resting on open and closed sides,
I peer upon the oak coins...looking for sight,
and forlorn grace.
...i see you tonight, or rather sense you here...
as though a ghost,
vis-a-vis...
soul to soul.
Touching your face ...and openly declaring the contents of my Heart,
I pour the sacred mead, and my promise to you upon this broken ground,
knowing it to be reckoned , and soon to be healed.
I have always loved you...
souls having touched once...
remain steady, despite the facade of separation.
this I know,
I have always loved you.
....having never left,
I will always love you.
Gregory M. Sexton 12/07/14
Sunday, November 24, 2013
THE NIGHT THE SUN DIED (a cold embrace)
THE NIGHT THE SUN DIED (a cold embrace)
The Sun fell into the ocean,
punctured by the ribbons of steel.
Gently caught by the waves and mist...
As it slowly died.
the enemies leave us in darkness,
our streets lit only by the flames of our burning homes and their
misplaced vitality.
Our children shiver as the season draws so near.
Where are the God - Fearing?
why do they slumber and not call the brothers to arms?
Like the Son of Miriam,
have we been "forsaken"?
No. Soon we will all awaken to the charges that
will befall the darkest of men.
They too will sink into the ocean, cut to pieces by our ribbons of steel;
starving for the Light that was taken from us.
No. It is here that I find warmth and comfort
amongst the cold and broken,
the disheartened and abandoned,
the legions left as though they had no names.
It is here,
it is here that I see hope in the eyes
of the hopeless......
the touch of a lonely hand that
makes well the course of a fractured heart.
Yes...
The sun has died.
but only this night...
only here,
amongst the cold and broken...
only here...
the sun has died.
Soon.... to cast her rays through the cedars
like fingers of light...warming the hills again...
resting ever gently upon the gardens abound!
Caressing the faces of our Martyrs...
and giving strength to our laughter and joy.
The Sun died last night...that is certain
but only for a night.
(In memory of the Palestinian brothers and sisters
that struggle every day to claim their dignity and pride
....and ultimately have already won the battle!)
By Allah's Grace
Gregory M. Sexton
The Sun fell into the ocean,
punctured by the ribbons of steel.
Gently caught by the waves and mist...
As it slowly died.
the enemies leave us in darkness,
our streets lit only by the flames of our burning homes and their
misplaced vitality.
Our children shiver as the season draws so near.
Where are the God - Fearing?
why do they slumber and not call the brothers to arms?
Like the Son of Miriam,
have we been "forsaken"?
No. Soon we will all awaken to the charges that
will befall the darkest of men.
They too will sink into the ocean, cut to pieces by our ribbons of steel;
starving for the Light that was taken from us.
No. It is here that I find warmth and comfort
amongst the cold and broken,
the disheartened and abandoned,
the legions left as though they had no names.
It is here,
it is here that I see hope in the eyes
of the hopeless......
the touch of a lonely hand that
makes well the course of a fractured heart.
Yes...
The sun has died.
but only this night...
only here,
amongst the cold and broken...
only here...
the sun has died.
Soon.... to cast her rays through the cedars
like fingers of light...warming the hills again...
resting ever gently upon the gardens abound!
Caressing the faces of our Martyrs...
and giving strength to our laughter and joy.
The Sun died last night...that is certain
but only for a night.
(In memory of the Palestinian brothers and sisters
that struggle every day to claim their dignity and pride
....and ultimately have already won the battle!)
By Allah's Grace
Gregory M. Sexton
Thursday, May 30, 2013
THIS DANCE 8
"This Dance"
If there were days enough...
I would learn this Dance,
to dance with you.
The flood light is our sunrise...
like Icarus - we ascend to the heavens,
like Icarus - only to fall to the earth again...
and again.
This is my dream...
our feet shifting the dust,
ancient and coarse,
cold and splintered planks, worn and true...
do they selfishly hide the passion and words from years past?
Or simply crude constructs of oak...and yew.
Another stage to attend Sir Will!
where genius rings true...
and the plagiarist is found and scorned.
Gnostic flames (our path embellished)
illuminate our face,
certain to displace the darkest of shadows...
while leaving enough to hide our scars,
and portend any claim to grace.
This was the Dance,
when steps and twists and turns,
left us both to hope and chance,
and we knew the Light - never to leave -
all the while the wax and wick...
spits, shuffles, contorts and burns.
....much like this Dance.
Gregory
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: January 19, 2014 6:00 PM CST
About this poem:
It's a long story...hopeless romance and all that it
encompasses...one of several
If there were days enough...
I would learn this Dance,
to dance with you.
The flood light is our sunrise...
like Icarus - we ascend to the heavens,
like Icarus - only to fall to the earth again...
and again.
This is my dream...
our feet shifting the dust,
ancient and coarse,
cold and splintered planks, worn and true...
do they selfishly hide the passion and words from years past?
Or simply crude constructs of oak...and yew.
Another stage to attend Sir Will!
where genius rings true...
and the plagiarist is found and scorned.
Gnostic flames (our path embellished)
illuminate our face,
certain to displace the darkest of shadows...
while leaving enough to hide our scars,
and portend any claim to grace.
This was the Dance,
when steps and twists and turns,
left us both to hope and chance,
and we knew the Light - never to leave -
all the while the wax and wick...
spits, shuffles, contorts and burns.
....much like this Dance.
Gregory
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: January 19, 2014 6:00 PM CST
About this poem:
It's a long story...hopeless romance and all that it
encompasses...one of several
THIS DANCE 7
"This Dance"
If there were days enough...
I would learn this Dance,
to dance with you.
The flood light .... the sunrise...
like Icarus - we ascend to the heavens,
like Icarus - only to fall to the earth again...
and again.
This is my dream...
our feet shifting the dust,
ancient and coarse,
cold and splintered planks, worn and true...
do they selfishly hide the passion and words from years past?
Or simply crude constructs of oak...and yew.
Another stage to attend Sir Will!
where genius rings true...
and the plagiarist is found and scorned.
Gnostic flames (our path embellished)
illuminate our face,
certain to displace the darkest of shadows...
while leaving enough to hide our scars,
and portend any claim to grace.
This is the Dance,
when steps and twists and turns,
left us both to chance,
and we knew the Light never to leave...
while the wax and wick....contorts, spits and burns.
Gregory
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: January 20 6:00 PM CST
About this poem:
For Anna Rose"Taste of Love". (for Anna Rose)
A breath and a sigh...
the look in your eye,
when all else drops from view,
cept' your desire to touch souls and
ride the wave of abandon....
eyes meet and carry us on,
hands caressing...
heartbeats heard...
and stares through half-closed eyes...
tasting the sweet nectar of your lips..
I disappear.
Gregory M. Sexton
(For Anna Rose)
Jan. 20. 2014
If there were days enough...
I would learn this Dance,
to dance with you.
The flood light .... the sunrise...
like Icarus - we ascend to the heavens,
like Icarus - only to fall to the earth again...
and again.
This is my dream...
our feet shifting the dust,
ancient and coarse,
cold and splintered planks, worn and true...
do they selfishly hide the passion and words from years past?
Or simply crude constructs of oak...and yew.
Another stage to attend Sir Will!
where genius rings true...
and the plagiarist is found and scorned.
Gnostic flames (our path embellished)
illuminate our face,
certain to displace the darkest of shadows...
while leaving enough to hide our scars,
and portend any claim to grace.
This is the Dance,
when steps and twists and turns,
left us both to chance,
and we knew the Light never to leave...
while the wax and wick....contorts, spits and burns.
Gregory
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: January 20 6:00 PM CST
About this poem:
For Anna Rose"Taste of Love". (for Anna Rose)
A breath and a sigh...
the look in your eye,
when all else drops from view,
cept' your desire to touch souls and
ride the wave of abandon....
eyes meet and carry us on,
hands caressing...
heartbeats heard...
and stares through half-closed eyes...
tasting the sweet nectar of your lips..
I disappear.
Gregory M. Sexton
(For Anna Rose)
Jan. 20. 2014
Sunday, April 28, 2013
The Miracle
The miracle of Life is not found in books and research (singularly),
in argument and counter-argument (particularly).
No.
Life is its own testimony, manifested from the depths of pre-existence and clearly reflected and demonstrated in the common run-of-the-mill day we all wake up to every morning.
It is seen in the movements of the earth and her sister bodies...
validated from the simplest life forms,
admired in the noble and the most complex.
Life is both artist and canvas,
her subjects, reflecting the pains and sorrows -
the joys and ecstasies of our existence.
She suffers the fool and touts the genius...
and in demonstrating her cosmic humor,
sometimes begets them...
as one and the same.
Gregory
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
About this poem:
Just some moments of inspiration...loving life
in argument and counter-argument (particularly).
No.
Life is its own testimony, manifested from the depths of pre-existence and clearly reflected and demonstrated in the common run-of-the-mill day we all wake up to every morning.
It is seen in the movements of the earth and her sister bodies...
validated from the simplest life forms,
admired in the noble and the most complex.
Life is both artist and canvas,
her subjects, reflecting the pains and sorrows -
the joys and ecstasies of our existence.
She suffers the fool and touts the genius...
and in demonstrating her cosmic humor,
sometimes begets them...
as one and the same.
Gregory
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
About this poem:
Just some moments of inspiration...loving life
The Face of Truth
The Face of Truth
How can I cloak the Face of Truth with my shroud?
Dare I shadow its splendor and beauty...with my doubt?
Can I impose upon this wonderous ally, my own notions of truth without staining the reflection unseen?
Dare I suppose anything of Truth, other than what it declares itself to be...
born in a babies cry....
shed in a lover's tear....
left on a lonely battlefield...
what I see in your smile....
in the touch of a hand...
in the precious gift of love...
in the radiance of a soul...
These are the badges of Truth I declare...
Let my heart be their beacon, and let my sight be their sword!
Gregory S
Dare I shadow its splendor and beauty...with my doubt?
Can I impose upon this wonderous ally, my own notions of truth without staining the reflection unseen?
Dare I suppose anything of Truth, other than what it declares itself to be...
born in a babies cry....
shed in a lover's tear....
left on a lonely battlefield...
what I see in your smile....
in the touch of a hand...
in the precious gift of love...
in the radiance of a soul...
These are the badges of Truth I declare...
Let my heart be their beacon, and let my sight be their sword!
Gregory S
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Sat Apr 20, 2013 5:36 PM CST
About this poem:
Thinking...about "stuff"
Thinking...about "stuff"
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