The poetry of life exists through the expressions of the wind, the sights of the world, and the dreams that fill our hearts with feeling and our minds with thirsty longings. Either we breathe this poetry into our lungs and allow its expression to guide our being, or we close our eyes and block this sensativity by choosing to believe life's little moments are wrungs upon a ladder that must be climbed to something higher, something better.
We forget the truth and start believing this ladder of life is something which requires training and sincere force of will in order to be climbed. We trudge upon a path that becomes dependent upon our own strength of self, our perceived successes and accomplishments. We unknowingly cut ourselves off from the greater flow, roll up our sleaves, and decide to wear the captain hat, believing we can steer and bring the boat ashore ourselves.
It is the little moments of life and the choice which they present that precisely opens us to light or closes us within the darkness. Each moment has its medicine path, and each choice provides a challenge; to fully trust and collapse beyond fear within surrender and allowance, or decide to work, get beaten, and continue to fight until we get sculpted by life into believing in a truth that is bigger than our self anyway. The choice is always present, and it is the awareness of this choice that ultimately guides the breadth of our fate and the poetry of our lives.
-Light Within Dark Within p.1 by Craig Martin Canedy
The rocky dirt beneath my feet felt like small cold shards of dusty bone, even though the real skeleton lay sealed within a pine box inside an empty pruned skin sack that was gently resting in a freshly dug dirt hole before me.
I looked with vacant translucence down upon the wooden coffin, bent down slowly with one knee on the ground, grabbed a handful of dirt, and threw it on the top. The dirt made soft music as its granules and rocks spread flatly upon the coffin's face. I looked with apathy and disconnect. The moment was a clear window of time for me with no deep relationship to feeling at all. Maybe I was in shock, or maybe I had become so numb that I just didn't care.
"It wasn't always this way," I thought to myself, as some small trace of memory within my heart clung like a drowning man clings desperately to a life preserver.
The memory popped its struggling head above the surface of these dark empty waters one last time, took a small whisp of breath, and then collapsed and fell deep into the darkness once again. It was swallowed by the darkness that had swallowed me. And although it would not last, this drowning trace of memory forced one solitary tear drop out of my eye. It made me squint, and as I pressed my eyelids together in the hot sun, this solitary tear drop, this lone wolf of hope, rolled slowly down the rough skin of my cheek and onto the dirt. The trace of memory was trying in vein to keep me from retreating into the cold hard fortress that suppressed regret. But it would be the only tear I would cry for the man. For regret demanded remembering, and that I was unwilling to do. As I slowly filled the hole with shovel full after shovel full of dirt, the memory became burried, along with the coffin of my teacher, the man whose body lay bloodless inside.
Once the earth was level, I gave a comforting pat with my hand upon the dirt, like patting the back of a friend when embraced in a long departing hug.
"All is as it should be," I thought. "Everything is in its proper place."
I stood up and brushed the dust and dirt off my pant knees with intense concentration. Like a weary snake shedding its tired old scaly ragged used up skin, I brushed the dust cleanly off. With each smoothe and focused stroke, I felt refreshed. I felt new life.
I turned my back upon that space of earth and took a step with firm footing in a new direction. That is the best course to take. That is what he would have wanted. That is also where this story truly begins. In a new direction.
-Excerpt from 'Light Traveler' by Craig Martin Canedy
Landscape of Dreams
The vibrational undertones of love and pain,
The rhythmic pitter patter of the falling rain,
The infinate echoing tick tock of the eternal clock,
The silence between heart beats when the heart beat stops.
Emotional environments of frequency that bring eb and flow to life.
Rolling waves of sound that give motion to this ocean .
Pulsing tonal colors casting shape upon this light.
The current of all thought is at its purest, energy,
and all that does come after is just its rippling waves.
A material creation is a child of an idea,
and the material form itself is just one single phase
that when experienced seems complete
but, in truth, is passing away.
From muse to thought, and from thought to form,
and then from form into decay.
One single wave of energy one simple creative ray.
These landscapes that we dream
Vibrate within their core.
And through the music of human expression,
They communicate their lore.
Beauty, and love, and grace divine
Are the architectural tools
Used practically by angels
And prophesized by fools.
Hear and now the muses say.
Hear and now today.
Dream thoroughly your creation
And create intently the landscape of your play.
For all is one in harmonic flux,
And potential is the name of the game.
So dream and dream and dream and dream and dream potentials name.
Reality, in truth, is but an overtone of thought,
And thought and energy are the same.
Although we dance within our minds
and sometimes drown with its cream,
We sail through this wonderous life it seems
On the landscapes of our dreams.
-From The Songs of Jacob Naintiian by Craig Martin Canedy
Spectral rainbow tides; Bright colors bending thru mysts, The passage of lives.
-Ocean Rainbow Mysts within 'Seasons of Haiku' by Craig Martin Canedy
Easy 3 Step Plan to Write Your Dreams into Life:
- Wake Up-Give Thanks
- Throughout the Day-Give Thanks
- Just Before Sleep-Give Thanks
