When the walls come tumbling down

From self to worldly encounters, we plead

The world continues to spin with or without assistance — trapped by our existential belief or entrapment of collective truths — setting out to find another course. Stepping into the initiation of self-identifying realities — handed down by the ancient wisdom reserved for seekers pleading case before the cosmic hyperbole.

Bittersweet is the flesh binding trajectory — spirit calling to the winds of change — answers not but to echoing the pleas of families and communities’ pain-staking cry. We sit upon a sacred stump left by the Sequoia ripped from existence — a rotting corpse formidable to the meek unguided pilgrimage of a lonely path.

Holding sacred space — truth not fully translated to comprehension — Great Mystery calling upon those willing to walk away. Narrow is the way, open is the road — walking the solid yellow bordering this broken boulevard of dreams.

Devouring every book, attending every class — guru giving the nod to inner-knowing of what lay beyond the horizon. Stepping into the Canvas with a brush in hand — painting a new story-line, song-line, holding steady the bow in broken seas.

Self-inflicted wounds turn into self-healing songs shared with those willing to listen — afraid are they to step into the initiation of higher consciousness at first glance — accepting the path before them. Firmly standing ground, rocking and trembling with every step — into the unknown, they return, whence they came before spoken words.

On the threshold of being — contemplating muses, gathering thoughts — sharing in silence, peace deep within the soul — fragmented self, made whole. Observation greater than small — walls come tumbling down in grandiose proportions — bodies stacking up at the four corners of the globe.

Stand with me, dear ones holding space — sit with me, locking arms for this human race. Breathing in our troubled soul brothers and sisters — cleansing transmission of thought carried vibrational chorus line felt by very few.

~ Ani Po

No decoder ring, term penned by Marcus aka Gregory Maidman, but thoughts on emptiness this cloud-filled morn. When the world crumbles around us, and it probably has, we sit in quietude, holding space for those unable to.

Is it writer’s block? Sadness? Bleak outcomes for the week to come? Or is it an invitation to sit quietly, holding sacred space in knowing that all is present in love’s inviting tone. I will choose the latter and hope you will too.

These are my thoughts and maybe you relate or repel against these thoughts, that is ok. Thank you for sharing this moment in time.

Much gratitude for Diana C., jules, Spyder and Ravyne Hawke, along with this wonderful community KTHT.

I wrote the title with John Mellencamp coming to mind, hope you enjoy this song.

Universal timing, as this song comes on just after Mellencamp, I share with you now:

Much gratitude for those who take time to read, ponder, and allow the inner workings of self to come forward. Grateful for the feedback, love shared, and more importantly, the Dance with Inspiration. Deep Peace.

Joseph Lieungh

Past the Physical Reflection of Emptied Wisdom

Upright and boldly going where others fear

Like Gypsies in the night — not of tribal sense, small and tight-knit — but grandiose, traveling with the masses, waiting for the shepherd to tell us where to go. Carrying everything in our knapsack — ruling out all possibilities of the day may bring, be prepared was the motto of the larger tribe told where they should lay their heads.

Striking campfires with bug juice — creating treacherous flames — empty space merely filling black smoked clouds and warmth’s falsities of identifying joyous returns. Wildfires ablaze — lost in trances egoistic pounding of one’s chest with authoritarian demise.

Kicked out of social functions — unorthodox approach to breaking from the herded sheep with fox-like mystery — instinctual approach to what comes next. Disbanded tribe — building community afar — calling to seekers of joining hands with Great Mother and Mystery of it all.

Hiding in plain sight — the wisdom of another tribal force said to have taken over the world — secret societal fraternities and communities bidding of light. Broken are they — if not careful of insidious tormented entrapment binding the soul.

Physical mirror’s gaze — going back to the beginning — misled by Cardinals and bishops playing a dirty chess game — letting the pawns out with no endgame in sight. Shattered dreams — thousand-piece broken glass — waiting for puzzles assembling to a sacred tune disregarded once before.

Broken are we — reflecting all misguided understanding of what holds true — down to the bones, rewriting the pages upon our hearts, painted pictures coming into our minds’ eye — manifesting into the reality of our own. Perfectly imperfect — songs of the ancients carrying vibratory truths — lifting our soul, inner developing outwardly projecting a new village we call home.

The baggage we carry — suitcases filled chock-full with useless remnants of century’s belief of holding onto all we can, burden too great and weight of equal value — burying us in the seas of misery alive. At bottoms upward glare — wishing upon starry skies blanketing stories — lifting us to a higher plain, caught in hindsight twenty-twenty finite belief — moving beyond the bedtime stories whispering soothing chapters of fairy-tales and mystery.

Awaken thy spirit beyond flesh meat devouring — consuming behavioral pages from epic battles greater than war and peace. Singular turmoil — on homelands mind-altering, earth-shattering, breathtaking view of canyons — great pyramids inner sanctuary for those pursuing asylum from outer worlds bell-curve nature.

Past the physical — inner mirrored reflecting wisdom — baggage once carried, building us strong, upright and boldly going where others fear its path leading to nowhere but home. Arrivals totality of it All — dragon’s heartbroken faltering, fleeting song — new script, new compositional tune — creation speaks with authority over all authority — we sing a new ballad with emptied hands, filled with All There Is.

~Ani Po

Sitting in sacred space, with no script in hand — only prompted ideas provided and timely snap of, for anonymity sake, Banni Tim as his name. Twelve year old chiming in on what letting go might look like.

To me it means letting go of the baggage slowing us down. How can we play with all that stuff weighting us down?

Thank Banni Timm for your timely response. Much Gratitude to the whole KTHT family for sharing in sacred dance. Thank you Ravyne Hawke for this weeks offering.

Keeping to the rules of this prompt:

The Rules

1. Use the prompt to write a poem or personal essay.
2. *(Tag) Mention at least (3) three of your favorite writers (here at KTHT or elsewhere on Medium) and ask them to participate. Each of those writers will then mention at least (3) three more, and so on.
3. You may submit your story to KTHT or to any publication that allows prompts from other publications.
4. Regardless of where you submit your piece, You MUST include a link back to this page and (Tag) mention one or all of the KTHT editors — Diana C., Spyder, jules, Ravyne Hawke.
5. List the prompt and these rules at the end of your poem or essay so that those you’ve (tagged) mentioned will know the rules.

Tagging a few favorite writers, who may or may not join in the dance: Upasana Sharma, Brooke Kochel RN, Ulf Wolf, Keri Mangis, Anna Woods, and Somsubhra Banerjee

If you are interested to where my mind went, during this prompt, here is a song from my playlist.

Much gratitude for those who take time to read, ponder, and allow the inner workings of self to come forward. Grateful for the feedback, love shared, and more importantly, the Dance with Inspiration. Deep Peace.

Joseph Lieungh