20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers


April Fool

I’m no April fool, but I thought
I heard you say, a hundred years
ago, that life would be easy,
the games we play would be more
sophisticated, but they would still be
fun, that the little cracks that form
as we navigate the boundaries ,
would not transform into gaping,
boundless caverns, but instead creep
clouds of light into every moment
and remind us that we are who
we’re supposed to be

no, that was just imagined, for
so many times this seems to be
the definitive experience of
guileless courage, a hazy fog of hapless
misunderstandings, lethargic
ramblings of a maddened soul

even if the words don’t make sense,
leak out all the roiling emotion you keep
so tidy on the shelf of self-control,
dump the contents in a scattered and
untidy heap in a way such that only you
can sort through and make any logic
from the chaos, organized and classified
from appropriate to downright crazy,
go ahead and dive right in,
flounder in the helpless overwhelm that
cleanses the creative palate

even if the madman in your mind
claims that you will never heal
the wounds that reside inside,
sleeping just beneath the surface,
reaching up to reveal the tender parts,
then retreating to leave doubt and
revelation in their wake

even as the walls begin to tumble
down, as you sink, rising and falling
soaring and tumbling through
the cycles that bring you near
perfection then catapult you
out into the shadows where
the grey gloom hovers, seeps inside,
fills the cavernous holes

even there in the most violent and
torrential path, truth is revealed,
sears the heart like streaks of dust
across the cloudy window pane
from which you peer with silent
anticipation and lonely longing
to see the light and rise up
to your rightful place
at the throne of your own life

©SpiritLed 2014


Truth and Lies

A lie is really not a lie
when it comes from
someone else’s truth,

for then it is so real
one can no longer tell
the difference,  unless

of course, it becomes the Truth,
and overpowers other truths,
for then those truths become

the lies, and the Truth proliferates
and grows, while lies take refuge
underground and Truth abounds

throughout the land, until the day
that lies again become the truth
and liberate the holy earth

©SpiritLed 2014


3 Comments

When Silence Ends

When, as a child, did you play happily
by the stream, and come singing home,
passionately sharing your adventures,
only for the beloveds to tell you, “Quiet!”

And when, in your classes, did you
confidently speak your truth, answer
their questions, paint your construction
paper masterpiece,  and the trusteds told you,
“It’s not good enough.”

And when did you feel the whisper of spirit
in your soul, gently guiding you on your way,
and you shared, and they laughed?

And when did you stop listening, painting, writing, speaking, trusting? 

And when will you decide that the darkness has
lasted too long, that the  passion of a new day
can no longer wait, lest  you tear free from your
own skin where you’ve been confined all these years?

That stumbling across stones and briars,
feet cut and bleeding, is preferable to the safe
and righteous path, where no pain, in fact
nothing at all, makes cuts into your soul?

When will you decide that fear of words
without real meaning will no longer be the
prison walls that demand freedom of the captor?

And when will you stoke the flames, when will you once
again tend to the spark, blow the breath of life into
the still-smoldering ashes, collect the branches and
twigs that have fallen in your path, burn them on
your altar, and fuel the dawning of reclaimed light?

© SpiritLed 2014


1 Comment

Self-Conscious

Private intimations

Stun and astonish,

With subtle divulgence,

Scattered scantily

Amid common communication

A monotone revelation

Drifting on halcyon air.

An ominous precursor -

Flashing red lights,

Bells clanging, flags waving

Madly with such tragic bane -

Even clouds burrow humbly,

Shrouding rays of the sun

Awed and moved

Propitious foretelling,

A brilliant full-moon flight

Withering silence

simultaneously freed

And paralyzed

By the escape of such

Transcendent truth

Rationed to a rapt mind.

Trust of the un-trusting

Meandering beyond boundaries

Of a self-conscious mind.


2 Comments

Trying Fibonacci Poetry!

The

free

soul moves

amidst the

frightening truths of

the dark gruesome reality.

Writing fibonacci poetry is quite simple, you just have to count the no. of syllables. I think you are familiar with fibonacci series, so the no. of syllables in every line of the poem corresponds with the fibonacci series.

e.g.- For a 6 line poem,

I LINE- 1 syllable

II LINE- 1 syllable

III LINE- 2 syllables

IV LINE- 3 syllables

V LINE- 5 syllables

VI LINE- 8 syllables

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