Goldenspiral Healing Arts presents:
 "Alaskan Moon" |
Poet, Bruce Bushman Visit Bruce Bushman's blog here To contact this poet email: Goldenspiralart To read more poems view this page ← |
OVERHEAD WALKS THE SUN1983Overhead walks the sun in majestic stride... not caring to run eternal abide, slow ride... fast tempo to shun... at peace... one. The clouds softly drifting, complimenting her pace... slow movement, shifting... knowing their place... oft taking chase then her chariot lifting... her rays sifting as they fall from the sky to brush my face, and capture eye... feel their embrace... time, space, their merging nigh... completed... sigh. The sky’s movements urging my soul to be purging... my life unify... my heart purify. BKBushman 1983 CULTURAL WISDOMJune 25, 199711:52 PM Felt, softly, as if so long ago, a people who lived, and worked and played in a place my people call unlivable. I find a trace of them in an arrowhead or a broken piece of clay... I find a remnant of their day carved in a cliff wall where I’ve brought my scouts to camp on this winter morning. A message left from another time, about a story I have heard before, in my own legends. I hear the whisperings and the laughter of this people as they sit by their fires in the cool of the night and tell stories of the stars that majestically surround them in ways I will never see so near the cities where I live. I hear their old men talk in council about the days to come and dream of days gone by when they were young and led the family that was more than the families that we know now. For they were not just mother and father, but more, the old ones honored for the wisdom of their years, the young ones honored for the bravery of their rides, the youngest ones dreaming of the days when they too would walk the dream that would give them their earth names and their glory. I feel their story in the desert I see around me tonight. I hear their laughter and their sorrow, their loss of yesterday... their hopes for tomorrow And wonder why my people think we are so much different or better than they. Maybe both our ways need to blend, to come together in songs stronger than either could sing alone. Both our peoples have shared war and peace... and song. Is it possible that both might share love as well? BKBushman 6-25-1997 (.......)Listen.Listen. Listen. Quiet time is listening, and in listening there is much to hear... Even in silence. Listen to the silence of your mind... the mind beyond the chatter. Does it matter to drop the storyline of your day and play in silence? Listen. Listen. Listen. The language of God is silence. When Ego stops letting God know how it should be... then God can finally be heard... in silence. The still small voice is... BKBushman 01-03-2009 New BeginningHold life stillwithin your heart this moment. Be still. Listen. It is time to put worldly thoughts on hold And hear the Music Of holier realms around you. Be true to the child within. Begin today in a new way... Not just hoping... Not just believing... But seeing the divinity within yourself, and in everything you do. Be Still. Listen. The world you knew Is changing now... And you are invited to the feast. BKBushman 01-14-2009 THE CHILD WITHINI looked insideAnd found a child, Wild, careless, and free... A part of me I often hide from the side of reality and reason... A season always comes When the child has to roam, to ride; to glide along the timeless paths of Eternal freedom... Away from the nonsense of being grown up and having so much to do. Be true to self Is often said, But I?m not sure understood? Good, or bad no longer exist when the child is at play. Every way... Just is. How unique! Peak at the little one within the Grown from time to timeless form. It warms the heart knowing the child still plays in the soft... even when the fires of reality are burning. Never stop playing, little one! BKBushman 01-31-2009 TRAIN RIDEI board the train and observe- the colors of the day, and the people- packed- avoiding the eyes, or gazing therein- (the lovers). Riding to the day. Some lost in fantasy, eyes hid in paperback... some lost in the market, or the sports page... some dreaming outside, as the city goes by. The dirty streets, or the backs of the rail yards and businesses where the graffiti grows abundant. Art of the rebellious, or comment of the disenchanted. Packed tight, we ride the rail. occasionally the quiet chatter of strangers exchanging ideas. I watch: the young mother with the baby, the old mother, hair grayed, and the long hair on the middle aged man with the tattoos. The legal’s and the accountants... (the suits), and the blue collar men with their dirty clothes covered in the cement and dirt that makes our city grow. The young boys with the earrings, and the headphones and the shades, and others losing themselves in the noises of their worlds of music. The oriental young man in a tie, the black girls, the Hispanic workers, the white girls I glance at once in a while..., And then a glance again out the window at the sky, and the passing of the buildings as we close in on the city. For a moment, all of us, together sharing the ride of our eternal journey together, most of us never giving it a second thought as we depart at our destinations, and start the boredom of another day on our boring planet. BKBushman 09-16-2000 |
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Poems this page by Bruce Bushman © 2009 These poems property of Bruce Bushman...they may not be reproduced without express permission. Thank you Home © by Golden Spiral Healing Arts 2004-2009 Last Update: 03/12/09 |
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