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Posts tagged ‘writing’

Time Stood Still – Sailing To The Stars

SAILING TO THE STARS

Time has stood still. I can’t think and I can’t play. There are pieces of me missing that I never knew. And yet I knew them intimately. They leave before I know them and it feels hollow, empty and shallow. Like not in my body anymore. In 2 places at once or maybe more. I can’t keep track any more.

Awaken

Awaken To Your Dream

AWAKEN and be blessed once more to shores unseen by man or boy or kin. You are the first in your harbor. Bless it and be yours.

Pieces of our soul come in during our lifetime as we need them. Some are agreed upon ahead of time and some we can ask to come as we heal more and more of ourselves. I have seen so many pieces of me come and go and learned so much from them and yet I know so little. These are the pieces leaving as they are ready to go because they are finished with what we need, whether we know it or not.

But now there are other pieces of me leaving. The real me. They are ready to leave and have left before and now again. They leave in numbers now causing wide voids and emptiness, losses maybe. But they are not losses. They are just missing, absent. Like a friend on vacation or that has moved on to another place like Dawn & Tim’s friend who just moved. Gone, but not forgotten leaving memories and shadows unseen. Ghosts of the past and whispers of the future all torn together. The shadows part and open and a whole new load comes through letting go another favor of things forgotten, learned and known.

Ships at sea leaning and learning from the wind would know what I mean. They tilt this way and that and learn the sea by bottom, not by top. They are inward, not outward bound and skilled beyond knowledge unfound. The sea learns inside onward and takes its course to another side of the world. So it is with the soul pieces gone and the real me gone. Gone and never to return in the same form, if at all. Called upon for the knowledge that it set forth to sail. But knowing it will never return and must leave all gotten behind. Knowing there sings a new song in it for another color of the rainbow to be added and designed with colors unseen before.

There are sloops and drops and colors turning inside out that cause us no avail of things. But we can’t sing them anymore because they are not seen inside us. They are strings tied to the sea of consciousness and pound away in the distance unknown to us calling our name to come their way. To turn into the wind and enjoy the freedom of peace and understanding on a new level of being before us. The colors turning rainbows in our heads.

The colors stand beneath us dormant if lying on the bottom of a pile. But we tear them apart to find them inside ourselves so that we can come alive again causing trouble to no one other than ourselves. The drips of time forgotten in sand and rhyme become the very foundation of our rhyme we are becoming and stand on time itself bold and blending into the unknown favors of the sunshine in our home, our body. Colors unseen again for time forgotten into eternity. The choosing is our own. Blend us now and let us come home together in the rhyme so that we may not forget time again where all things are the rhyme as one.

Call us home once more so that we may come undone in our generation to create another vibration of song and dance among the sun and stars. The third eye opening into a continuum of caches and treasures of the light unseen before opening into a new own of who we are. New and fresh and seen.

I am missing and I am present in my own. No one else is home but I, new and unseen before in the jewel of the high. Forever unspoken and kindled in resoar. I am known no more for I am soaring in the stars. Home. Blessings home.

Gain strength in this and go no more to stow the ships away for they are harbored in the states of wind and called out to the sea once more to sail the winds of time knowing they will be stolen in the whole of time forgotten and blessed beneath the sea where they can see and feel the time. Stow away now and go with them on that rhyme before the wind takes you away no where to rhyme. Go. Steal the show your way and make it home. They are you own stars now, not others. Your sea is your own and your ships await you to the stars. Go

Channeled by me, Dawn M Cheney, 12-11-17

 

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BLANK AND EMPTY

believe1 smallBy:  Dawn M Cheney

Blank and empty my mind staring at you there, flat white outlined page on the screen. How we look alike at this point and time. And yet I feel your challenge directed at me just as mine is at you, “Go ahead, write.”

We balance each other up and poke each other with keystroke hits and black marks pretending to be doing something creative. Who’s going to give in first? Will you mark your untouchable white surface first or will brilliance surface like bubbles in my mind and appear like magic on your page?

There is no choice here but to look away and grin inside myself, smart, satisfied that I have out smarted you again. I have won.

There it is. The marks upon the page and you haven’t even smudged your surface to make a wave or move. I feel superior, elated that I have made these marks upon your contours and you haven’t thought of your first ripple yet. I am smug.

But then You ask, “But who made those marks, you or I?”

“Well I did, of course.” I exclaim in all my expanded righteousness.

“Are you sure?” You ask with such a mark of reflection in Your voice that I hesitate to adhere to Your remarks.

But I must not be put off. “Well, absolutely. Who else would have the aptitude to put such words to Your surface than me? You can’t mean to think it was You. You haven’t even moved yet.

In soft reverberating tones You blow the challenge my way. “And how did they come upon my surface if not by me?”

“Surely not by You, ha. There is the matter of the keyboard on which I typed MY words and the software that interpreted MY keystrokes into MY intelligence and done all through the machine brain of the computer CPU. But I was the one who first created their original brilliance in front of me now.”

“Na ah, not so fast.” Your voice now rising in my ear like chimes out of sync. “Where did they come from in their origin?”

“From me,” I exclaim in a haughty might.

“I don’t think so my dear friend. How soon you forget where your inspiration came from. Where did you start? Go back to the beginning and think again,” this insolent white surface gleams in mock gesture as I smugly try not to listen.

“I dare say I started at the beginning sitting here staring at You, a blank white outline on a computer screen. Nothing more.”

“And the challenge you felt came from where to find these words you put on me?” You impertinently demand.

“Why from You, of course. We were in rare opposition I’d say to get things done. I won though, of course, in Your defeat.”

And again You demand, “And from what depths and to whose surface have they adhered from such challenge, which makes it whose origin?”

Flabbergasted I explode, “My word are on Your surface because I put them there!”

Calmly stating, You begin, “I am the one you brought your blank mind to, am I not? And I am the one to whose challenge you arose to put those words on my surface. Is that not right? And the marks were stroked on my surface by your fingers from you mind after great contemplation with my help. Is that not right?” And I am the one whose outline they could not have been seen on unless I was there in the first place. Is that not true?

In deflated exasperation I must concede, “Yes, that is true.”

With an imperceptible curl of its edges, as if one would put their hands on their hips in superior satisfaction, You softly whisper, “Touché”.   And with that one word my computer goes inexplicably dead.  And the winner is?

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