#visionsofpeace

Illusion of a detriment, leaving me 

with an idea 

of what

needs to be fixed

in a life.

Hafiz said,

spare the world your ideas of good

until you know that all is holy.

Until you know

that all 

that is loose

hindered

tied up wings of a great

bird

are not problems

worthy

of resolve.

Rather,

they are wild hearts

covered

in locust honey,

aching

to be danced with.

Has anyone ever told you that the inside of your mind,

your heart,

your very soul,

resembles the excitement

of a seaside amusement park?

I do not know 

where

all of this 

magic

comes from.

Maybe you can help me.

I woke up one day,

and just as it was told to me:

the river of life turned once

and suddenly

you are 20

beginning again,

just as the wise woman

in Ireland

said.

She said

life turns slowly

like blue fire

and

you are there,

with the gardens

and the sounds of subways,

all the ancestral

voices

crowding out your 

bottled fears,

ushering you

to

Go on

go on

go on,

move while you can,

sing your wild verse

from the far mountain

for all to hear.

You do not have to leave 

to arrive

and you do not

have to

arrive

out of nowhere.

Pay close attention,

 to the journey

pilgrim.

Consider your life

as a complex

abstract

table

that begs

not

to be deciphered.

Rather, 

consider it

all colors 

running together

to form

dreams

engaging 

all organs

and bones of the body

to

listen

listen

listen

stand attention.

This life is moving

rather quickly.

Better get 

to sifting

through

all

this 

golden

honey.

Heart 

cor

core

courage

a working 

thirsty drum,

slicing

through the

core 

of a sleepy world,

entering into

layers

of unheard tasks,

angels 

singing

There is much magic to be done.

And what

we have imagined

all along

as the most difficult

momentum

to stumble upon,

is 

blue fire beneath feet

quiet and waiting,

whirling unde

slow steps of children,

city noise,

the sound of grandfather,

the sheets of summer rain

that come

when the world stops

for a minute.

It comes,

just as suddenly as it goes,

and we are left

with the quiet of a room

and an eager 

wish

to tell

what magic

we have just seen

in our own words,

our own verse.

Our very own verse.

To rise from slumber

quickened

by the rumble 

of the voice

once a stranger,

now

a dear

dear