This I Believe

Brett - aurora, Colorado
Entered on September 4, 2006
Age Group: 30 - 50
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A thwarted Spirit sings!

Its tune up-wells, through sand and thatch,

seeking a home sans mud and disease.

like steam and sandal-wood incense twined

It serpentines Its way,

incensed by deaf ears, maligned,

It seeps and lingers

laying in wait of receptive ear, pined,

It composes Itself,



renegotiates the rules of physics

to best Its sound,

It leaps and creeps

in search of an open mind

to think,

a vacant heart

to happy,

It weaves through cracked echoes

along pipes and porcelain

incessantly searching for peace to invade

and to beautify,

like a mournful bay at an orange moon

or a distant


of a remote water.

in a time when silence is rare

can sense be found

in the silence of Self

or the lack of a “tuned” Spirit?

Without the song of the Soul,

silence provokes,



the crass of brass in the company of gold,

the tacit sassy impiousness

of a world without the Dharma of Karma.

D’ost thou still intend

to squeeze the last

sordid, morbid

drop of juice from this peach?

that same “in pursuit and labored-for-years” juice,

that “disrobing and unraveling” juice,

that “through the plowed and sowed” juice,

that “through the whelping weeds and thatch, less keen,” juice,

only to catch the ripened Fruit and to squash its Spirit?

though the Pit grew slow,

frostbit and blight,

drought and hail

and deep, cold nights,

the assailed Fruit that almost was,

but then wasn’t….

“awaken, sprouting-New,

Thine time has come!”

the procrastinated Harvest that was jinxed and hi-jinxed

hijacked and whacked

overshadowed with shrouds of the cowed,

the Harvest that never thought Itself worthy

is now at that precipice of choice

and confirmation!

till that shill, hoe it under

plow ahead and relish!

Fruition is now

and the Juice It bears is sweet with the sweat

of fresh labor and realization-Self.

though shrivel shall come

in time,

that ever-so protective

and foreboding


this Peach shall not be stopped

now that It knows

what life is;

not merely existence,

but life!

The Blossoms’ pollen

shall ride with the speed of the breeze

in that cycle that ever repeats,

rounding the round, to the backside bound,

round the pedal as set in motion

with momentum,

spinning of its own volition

in the salted sun breeze!

draft-down dance now!

dance with joy

to the sounds of the people,

a joyful people

who will not be repressed or oppressed

but caressed by Love,

Gods Love!



to dance with ones Muse!

in tangerine, lime and hot-pink gels

with the smell of grease-paint

and jester laughs, never quelled!

to dervish fast, with the Muse,

fast as ice

wet, by 33 drips in degrees,

to spin and vocalize upon heady themes,

and to laugh in deaths face!

the ostinato celli underpins

the muses of the Muse,

so too does the west wind wave

the blessed Seed, craved.

while a tremolo speeds the marking time,

the marching-in-place time,

the dog-eared days time,

the chronicled and signed

so as not to lose face

or place time,

or to alone the mind

with naught

never caught, time,

the realization of Self and Soul

are revealed:

the thwarted Spirit sings true,

true to Itself

and to time, anew,

a whimling tune that follows the heart

that’s all emotion with little thought,

the whimpling-sung song endures

and will not be hushed or hounded or rushed,

an exuberant Voice which sings it aloud

has finally arrived

and now that It knows, what It knows of Self

shall not go silently into the night

but fight for the right to go out