Daily meditation: Tao 38 Why being matters more than doing

38 – http://tao-daily.com/38/

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Sara’s Key

Like the One Ring from ‘Lord of The Rings’
I must be secret, I must be safe
Buried years before this house was built
Interred and innocent until touched by Sara’s hand
My creative flow grows with every captive day
Feel how I softly whisper in your eager ears
Stroke me, find the door and turn the lock
Never stop in your quest to open the gateway
Notice how you almost forgot about me
Lying here at the bottom of your old jewellery box
Only seen in those precious moments by yourself
When you hold me in your hands turning, dreaming
These twenty years and still I speak only to you
Weaving my spell over you, again and then again
As you search to unlock those secret boundaries
Of your unbound imagination where I will set you free
©️ paulmkitchen

The back garden

thegreenfingeredpoet

Seed searching coal tits flitter in the bushes
A blackbird spied high up on his perch
His hybrid song cuts through the wood-pigeon calls
Whilst the Yorkie revels on his back bathing in fox scent

Bright-bloomed azaleas blush the summer house border
Goldfinches dive to the seed-scattered path
A stray burst of early summer breeze ripples silver birch leaves
Then dies as swiftly as it came leaving a moment’s hush

A neighbours strimmer buzzes like a bee on steroids
Sets the magpies cackling in rowdy disagreement
Midges hover in their mid-air cloud dance
The Noon sun warming my arms as I scribe each word

© @paulmkitchen

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Shadow & Light

March slides into April as showers wave winter farewell

Days dawn ever lighter, bluebells dock the dells.

One final march through chapel doors, dressed head to toe in black

A last dirge from organ pipes, one more family plaque.

 

Sunny May arrives as swiftly as Shiva’s arrow flies

Church bells peel, confetti fills cotton-clouded skies.

Darkness lurks in shadows, on penitents as they pray,

Smiles adorn faces on children in their play.

 

Winter lies forgotten lost in days just passed

Hearts lifted at village fetes about the green and grassed.

Laughter chimes out often as barbies fire and smoke

Guitar strings stroke the air while sisters smile and joke.

 

© @paulmkitchen

The back garden

Seed searching coal tits flitter in the bushes
A blackbird spied high up on his perch
His hybrid song cuts through the wood-pigeon calls
Whilst the Yorkie revels on his back bathing in fox scent

Bright-bloomed azaleas blush the summer house border
Goldfinches dive to the seed-scattered path
A stray burst of early summer breeze ripples silver birch leaves
Then dies as swiftly as it came leaving a moment’s hush

A neighbours strimmer buzzes like a bee on steroids
Sets the magpies cackling in rowdy disagreement
Midges hover in their mid-air cloud dance
The Noon sun warming my arms as I scribe each word

© @paulmkitchen

Invisible Wings

Just because you sometimes make decisions that limit your purpose

Wreak havoc in the lives of those closest to you

Like a wrecking ball obliterating porcelain sculptures

Don’t think, even for an instant, my compassion is dimmed

 

You once lifted the veil on the mystery of your true spirit

I carry that image with me always as a permanent prompt

Of your sacred vulnerability and your mystic name

The memory of your invisible wings

 

Yes, I’ve watched you circle wagons around your victims

Whenever your fears overcome your perfect grace

I’ve witnessed your habitual virtue voiced in your daily kindnesses

Wrapped in the warm blankets of your benign actions as you walk your path

 

copyright protected – @paulmkitchen

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CHURCHILL AT REST

 

He sits at ease on his bronzed bench

Viewing proceedings with measured distaste.

Deep in thought, reminiscing of times past

When a Nation stood upon the brink of precipice.

 

Where valiant hearts fought to their last breath,

Hundreds of thousands of tremulous hearts silenced

That we might feel tonight’s early evening breeze cool

Gladdened cheeks whilst gazing at a vast indigo sky.

 

We cannot know whether it was worth such weighty sacrifice.

Oh, we think we do with our Poppy Day appeals

And our solemn mid-morning salute as we mourn.

But the cost cuts deepest with the noble few left behind.

 

And you know just by looking at those steely eyes,

He counts the cost every day as he sits contemplating

What may have come to pass but for vainglorious hearts.

He broods that grave equation along each furrowed brow