Last updated on October 25th, 2018 at 06:53 am

Evolution’s EndEVOLUTION

Speaking from the heart I implore you to feel your own.
The life and light of God resides there.
Shining through eternal dimensions into the singular entity we,
infinity times infinity equals me.

Blessed and broadcast on seas of never-ending love
and witness to the miracle manifesting below and above;
within and without and beyond.

Standing on shoreless shores and blasting gamma rays into shoeless
sons and daughters
whom dance in the rain and sing in the fields,
vibrating energetic pulses and flipping cartwheels.
The play of a magical existence at our fingertips.

As children of the Holy Mystery it is our duty to be free of shame and fear
so that we can explore the very thing that gives us the breath of Life;
an endless garden of sanctified delight.
Consciously interlocking in relative and Absolute
we can come to know the bliss that is our birthright.

But as we’re locked in the rigid confines of a mind programmed to project
we reject our true nature of One and in doing so self destruct.
A sedated construct designed for the very purpose of waking up.
Whence we come to remember the feeling of freedom that was never really absent
but was only hidden in the time of a counting and labeling mind.

The most divine of golden shrines deprived of sunlight and left to wallow in darkness.
Courting demons and devils and all manner of evil entities and energies
we pretend to exist astray
until the sacrosanct day that collapses all days into One,
all beings into suns;
shooting stars that traverse every possibility
which is always happening in the eternal and immaculate Now.

So let me show you how to see yourself in me.
To taste the fruit of heaven plucked from the trees of Earth.
To be freed from death and birth
so that we can experience everything
while being No-thing,
and be part of the Cosmic Liberation that is and will always be
evolution’s end.

by Jason Turner


The Fire Peach

The sweetest fruit seeks the highest ground
In aimless pursuit I climb
Teetering, tottering, I allay my suspicion of the ladder’s disposition
Up, higher and higher until the sun is in sight
Hidden behind the wispy tail of a fan-shaped leaf,
sits the fairest of fruit, a peach so sweet
Backlit by the flaming hot summer sun,
it glows with its fruit nature, so juicy and complete
With gentle precision it communicates its wish,
dropping into my hand
This sweet fruit radiates with white-hot intensity
This perfect earth-star burns with the flames of a thousand fires
A passion so intense, my seeing eyes go blind
Scorched by the sunfire, my once firm hand fumbles,
she falls to the ground
I find the fire peach beckoning me empathically
With satisfaction my heart looks deep,
beyond the bruises of an earthbound fall
Already satiated, I bite



The smell of microscopes
does not belong on a farm.
The fume of lab coats,
clinical from a day of numbers
has no place in the soil and seed,
suited to grow on their own.
No place is needed for committees,
councils, injections or genetics.
The farm wafts of old things:
old dirt, old wood, old ways
of doing things that are harder to think of these days,
and harder still to do.
The chemicals cheat,
and trick mouths into taste,
bellies into full,
and minds into peace.
Scents of the farm are not to be learned,
but understood.
There is a holy alliance
between ourselves and nature, constantly,
and understanding this is doing our part.
Our reward is places no one has ever seen.
Small places entirely our own,
under trees or in-between the rows,
nestled quietly in the curve of her caring arm
never seen by another’s eyes.
These secret glens and arbours,
sheltered by life new for the year
make us unique because they are unique.
They are stone solid, tree strong evidence of our
unique position in this world to understand and appreciate,
to foster and shepherd.
So great a reward for so small a task,
so often hidden behind concrete, chemicals and cares
hard for the quick buck hunted, but never shot
because the chase is too good.
And the dull pungents of stuffed, empty fruit
falls from plastic trees into hands
withered, aging, and weak.

by Dave Fletcher

image: FunGi_

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