time for keeping,
time for sleeping,
time for weeping,
time for letting go ...
such sweet surrender
when, finally,
we turn from watching clocks
- those strange omniscient tickers pumping pressures high -
stop trying to fulfill
forced obligation,
false expectation
of when and where
or who and how to be
in this disconnected
world of he to she,
of me to we,
when all that's really
possible is
willingness
to try, or not to try,
the feel of each new day
for size and fit
til Dhelphoi's Law permits
the weathered eye to tell,
at merest glance,
which suit accords sufficient
space for character to grow
Autonomy
True Sovereignty
the liberty to find our place of Quality.
So, yes, let's hear a mighty cheer for Freedom
But Freedom?
What word is this to those of us
who cannot say and mean our Ay' or Nay
to Life's selection box of options,
even to the face of disapproval,
even in the face of bold presumption,
especially to the disappointed soul
whose needs are seen and served despite our own
if, in the moment we concede
the smallest step toward our dream,
the spirit sinks -
unconscious yielding
in prison cells with bars 'neath clever gilding!
Yet bindings breach. Just as buried dreams resurface and reform.
Tis us, not them, decides the spell before they spawn.
Oh the joy of being human once Desire's seeds are planted
are visions seen inside ourselves that none can take away.
E'en we could never sabotage their play,
for Sun, and Moon, and Nature's wheels will have their day.
We must be free!
And freedom glimpsed is freedom found!
Like the spider spinning webs with
Her eternal thread of time,
we're bound to weave our way
through lessons learned to clearer sight.
With eyes, or not, we're born to see
that Day is Night and Night is Day and we are It,
the candle 'pon our altar, forever lit.
We can't but shine!
With these senses, minds and limbs to fuel,
ourselves,
our Source,
our Joy
our Love,
our boundless faith
in sacred Trust,
we'll shine through all eternity,
that we might cheer, ecstatically,
this raising up ...
a raising we ourselves
perform once on the wing,
with lungs so full, like cloud-borne lark,
we start to sing our own peace
