Particular Moments

More Stars than There are

Tag: art

A Call To Champions

Sun Will Shine

Broken Hearts are not forgotten, not in this Operation. Karmic justice is swift on those who hurt the defenseless.

The Golden Jubilee

Let go of your scarcity complex; the Tree of Life holds enough for everyone to enjoy, to share, and much more. Raise up and reach for the hanging Goodness. Don’t get obsessed looking down at the dirt—I’m not a financial advisor, but it’s high time to look into investing, if you haven’t (look into Ripple, Stellar Lumens, and XinFin, and how they tie into the ISO20022 new online banking protocols to soon sweep across the entire globe. Put some spare cash into these things and wait for a year or two—abundance awaits). Photography credit goes to Clay Banks, find his work on Unsplash 🙂

YOUR PASSIVE EXISTENCE

A simple reminder — let your actions be guided by absolute intention. Have you forgotten your Purpose?

She Loves Like An Elf

— Feb. 2021, Heres Pang.

 

Must We?

Had a little fun with open source photography — stunning and tranquil image credited to “duckman1992” on Unsplash 🙂

 

A walk and a song, before dawn

Every so often, you may find that
The humans, in their various manifestations
Of desires, vulnerabilities, shortcomings, and even
Hopefulness and Beauty ---

Are simply far
Too Heavy ---

You immerse in it, daily,
Like wading, knee-high, in an air
Filled by Molasses.

But every so rarely, you may discover
Creature companions of sorts, 
Whose dimensions only spare them
Very plain needs:

To eat, to drink, and if ever so lucky,
To wander and play, 
Mindlessly ---
Free from Love and Grief,
Free, in the absence of time,
Nowhere, and Everywhere.
 

Fall from within The Cave


is beauty more noticeable when it is rendered limited and incomplete—a tease?

Take It to The Heart, Please

These days
Are of endless novelty,
Absurdly modern:
High profits for the ones
Who trick passion with
Morsels of jittery confections—
Fast melting, quickly expiring.
Highly. Profiting.

Age of sensational Spasm,
Locked behind which, a long dusty
Book of delayed shame,
Regretfully nostalgic.
We cannot perceive the reality
of how we arrived upon
This existential wilderness,

Whilst being too busy
Occupying our conscious,
Shunning The Truth;

Rather to take it all
Up the Ass—
Than to bite real Peaches,
Causing them to Gush,
To Spew and Bleed—

The Sticky Juice
of Act and Consequence,
Pleasure and Pain,
Dispute and Acceptance:

Will We Ever
Relearn to open up
that rusty chamber,
Neglectfully sealed in our Hearts,
and refill its long-emptied
Reservoir to the Brim
with True Essence and Blood?

Not Yet Ready for March

Crowded places filled with gazes of much un-needed Inquiry:
Curious, tense, lustful, and envious—mostly afraid—
Vexing to the extremities of bone.

Can’t a Brother eat alone
Without getting smothered by cloudy and judging glances?

damn unwholesome souls
lurking rampant on this Earth

so disturb me;
perpetually motivated from outwards, of which’s approval they seek;
must we ceaselessly suck like maggots
and compete with one another in nothing
but creature obsessions? 

Escaping the suffocating boxes of Men (and Women too),
Rows of densely packed Crackles sing like
Stereotypical Hispanic Aunties,
Fast and incessantly energetic—
Sitting on the power lines, they look like
Lines of blotched ink, so morbidly jet black,
That a weak mind may just mistake them
For a bad, bad omen—

and can we stop reducing our fellow creatures
into metaphors of our own mere understandings? 

You see, it might just be a rest stop
Along the journey of their mass, seasonal migrations—
Amongst themselves, a make-shift conference is undergoing.

A slow walk toward less crowded blocks,
Outdated Post Offices and Abandoned Factories,
Peeling Paints; Corroded Metal Beams—
Ironically, at such sights, the soured Heart sits more at ease;
Maybe they remind Us of our lost
But once True Essence,

Now empty shells, waiting to be swallowed up
Whole, down the fat, fat belly of the Real Estates,
and gentrified into “Creative Work Spaces.”

Looking into the dark corners of these obsolete Sentinels,
A pair of dimly gleaming green eyes peer back
in Innocent Caution; a Young Black Feline.

“Hey there, Friend.” You say.

For it is a rare encounter, after all,
On this humid Dusk quickly morphing into total Night Fall,
It is only you and the cat
Keeping Sigil at the Graves, six feet under which
Lay the molding corpses of the Earnest and Industrious.

Eventually, this on-foot excursion ended,
Leaving you atop an empty garage, possibly
Another tasteless fruit of some Real Estate Empire—
The view falls far short of what you anticipated:
Foggy flatlands scattered with boxes containing men and women
who mostly busy themselves glancing at each other.

A breeze blows, but does not freshen your face.

Oh February of 2018,
You stubborn Animal,
Must you so soon leave us empty handed?
I dreamt of more adventures in your bleakness.