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Transmuting Thought from Pain to Tranquility We are Free

Watering our Garden of Compassion

By Joseph Lieungh

Photo by Chase Yi on Unsplash

Fall from atop the maple trees, wind in sails knocking out every breath, helplessly looking up at another broken sky. Floodgates watering spouts, nourishing life’s pain inflicted upon self-squirrelly forgotten playful songs.

Planted seeds of hope and tranquility growing between the stranglehold of weeded thoughts, battle of the gardener’s fever-toil in fertile grounds of possibility. Plucked one — a thousand more suffocating vines of death amidst the Great Mystery, laying them out as not to be forgotten, there for all to see upon the sleeves.

Uncle Bill, childhood friend’s gone-too-soon, the brick wall’s barricading life from seeing the light of day, smack of a Mack truck eighteen-wheeler running over our dreams and aspirations. Bare witness to the all, good, bad, and the ugly truth, survived yet another barrage and carnage of soul’s fleeting energy.

Enter the self, sacred space reserved for one, puffing on smoky Joe’s mysterious Cosmic Dance with alpha and omega — present in all the disfiguring faces foretold by the beholder of creative power handed down by the poets before. Breathe in quenching thirst, squelching forbidden memories whilst watering the hole in our heart.

Outwardly vines, vibrational pull, filling space for a new episode of life’s Great Mysteries. Open arms, reaching to heaven’s breath, magnetic polls attracting more of our greatest desires, all the while remembering the steps bringing into a present tense.

The golden globe is rising in the East, the daily promise of tomorrow’s bountiful cornucopia of reality spent in the present visionary animation that is true to self and collective well-being. Filling cup, watering canister in hand, a cleansing spirit of future generations, spreading love’s true home on pasture’s undertow of soul-filled strength and nonce within unconditional.

Henceforth, forever shall it be, wind-filled breathtaking songs flowing through the physical. Carrying sans fear-ridden hold of past and future’s untold stories, intoning planetary natural aligning thoughts, painting a brighter future, lighter and freer than the day before.

~Ani Po

By Chrisssie Morris Brady

I've read poetry since I was nine and have written creatively since I was fourteen (probably long before that). After writing book reviews and social comment, I decided I wanted to write poetry. I have no formal training, but I surround myself with poets and their writing. I am honing my craft.
I have two published collections which I don't feel good about, but have been published by madswirl.com and other publications. I live on the south coast of England with my daughter. I am seriously ill.

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