Philosophical Poetry - Poems on Life, Love & Truth

Poems on Life, Love, and Truth

The Release

In morn’s pleasant aroma,
with gentle breathing,
I released the burden,
a shadow companion,
not of the world,
but whirled in my head,
a being of my own making.

No irons bound me,
clutching fast,
but threads of thought,
so tightly spun,
today I let them loosen
from their hold,
to drift beyond
the mind’s own edges.

The skies,
a wide and unsealed canvas,
no longer stained
by “what may be.”

The trees
whirled wildly in the gust,
and I, at last,
was given sweet release.

For anxiety,
that foul specter,
was no more than breath,
pale and dim,
a play I’d written,
a story I’d spun.

Today,
I tear those yellowed pages in two.

And where dread had sat,
there is a garden,
its tale told
not in the icy grip
of “what might be,”
but in the radiance of
“here, with me.”
The Thought Architect

The thought unrolls, a tender leaf,
uncurling in the dim light of what is.
But—what is?

A construction, they tell us.
Spun from threads of notice,
dyed with hues of credence.

This space, these walls,
hard to the hand,
yet viewed, interpreted, known
only through the prism within.

A shift there, a subtle re-tilting,
and the light falls differently.
Shadows stretch or shrink.
The texture of the wall
softens,
or sharpens into new distinctness.

If the mind,
this silent architect,
can raise these thresholds,
can it not also bring them down?

To redraw the blueprint,
erase the lines etched deep
by habit, by fear, by expectation.

To choose a new palette,
brush strokes of possibility
upon the canvas of the day.

The weight you carry,
that unseen burden,
may lighten or lift
with one re-imagined breath.

The world waits,
formless and fluid,
for the shaping of your eye.
Change the mind, they say
and see the world re-arrange.
Who’s Watching

Though status, faith,
or class may seem
to set us far apart,
the common thread of error
marks us,
star by star.
Each falters in a fashion
uniquely their own.
And this shared imperfection?
It’s a truth
we’ve always known.

It is natural.
No one’s past
is a single color.
No one’s present
is one-dimensional.
And no one’s future
comes without a choice.

Meaning is learned.
Reality—chosen.
A path is formed
by the vibration
of consciousness,
its frequency.

The story unfolds
as one of witness—
probabilities realized.

The observer
is observed.
The observed
is the observer.
Where No Key Fits

The quiet hum of solitude,
an enormity where my unsaid thoughts
find no echo.
Freedom here, independent
from the knowing glance.

There is also a peculiar refuge in
being gently misinterpreted,
a shield from the sharper outline
of flawless understanding.

I realize that, upon seeing me,
upon mapping those winding roads
of my heart,
do they indeed not hold a key?
Do they not lay claim to those wild,
unbroken spaces
that I keep even from myself?

To be known is a gilded cage,
Where bars of love,
glinting bright,
still keep an aching heart.

So I walk at these edges,
hugging the immense loneliness
and the soft oblivion
of not being quite seen.
My soul breathes here,
not bothered,
free to live.
Knowing Beyond Knowledge

Make
From sunbeam slanting dust-motes dance,
a universe.

Make a breath,
a sigh from lips still moist with dawn,
and in the breath out,
shape the gossamer swoon of longing.

Make a memory,
a phantom limb of lost laughter,
catch it on to the silence
where whispers tenderly bloom.

Make a wish
upon the bruised velvet of dusk,
let it drift like dandelion seed
on currents unexplored.

Make a tear,
a dissolved pearl
tracing the landscape of sorrow,
and in its shining descent,
find the glow of resilience.

Make a silence heavy
with unspoken realities,
a canvas where the heart’s unspoken language
can be read.

Make a bridge of bone and tendon,
bridging voids of doubt,
with every step a testament to the will
that relentlessly unfurls.

Make a song
out of the murmuring secrets
of the leaves
a melody of impermanence,
sweet and haunting.

Make a firefly’s blink
in darkening indigo,
a tiny spark
against the vastness of night.

Make an outstretched hand,
comfort gesture or angry hug,
touchable link
in the tangled web of being.

Make a story
from fragments of a dream,
weave the surreal threads
into waking’s tapestry.

Make a life of learning,
a mountain of stored lore,
then in its shadow,
find the knowing
that requires no more.

Make the mind a vessel,
filled to its boundless capacity,
then trust the deeper flow,
the wisdom that it holds.

Make a moment linger awhile,
a sweetness on the tongue,
linger over its fleeting sweetness
before it dissolves into the now.

Make a world
within the limits of your own skin,
a sanctuary where strength and vulnerability
are blended.

Make it real,
this fleeting,
glimmering dance
this short and lovely becoming.
The Pyramid’s Knowing

Do you know the pyramid’s deep significance?

It is this:
a blending of polarities.

A foundation laid,
a single line connecting
the vessel,
the earth below.

Then, a rising,
two pathways reaching,
stretching for the vastness,
the distant stars,
only to meet,
to fuse as one.

The heavens above,
a spark’s flash.

You inquire about fate
and freely chosen options.

“Not one,
nor the other,
but two visions encountered,
collided imaginations,
seen and watched,
gave birth
to the world you live in,”
the pyramid informs us.

These are the forms
of possibility—
the dream worlds
and the images they contain.

The deepest conviction
is that it never exists
outside of us
but rather thrives
in the way we create
the ties that bind us.

Filed under: 🜃 Infinite – exploring the unseen forces behind creation, truth, and existence.
The Reaching

A hand reaching,
across a table,
no agenda concealed in its palm,
no desired outcome fluttering
like a bird in a cage.

Only the space closing,
skin meeting skin,
a silent current flowing,
unbidden, unexpected.

Not to gain,
not to fix,
not even to comfort,
though comfort may unfold
in the quiet that ensues.

It is.
A gesture stripped,
of calculation,
and of the relentless chorus
of why.

In that naked simplicity,
a resonance.
A weight that comes to rest,
not heavy, but authentic.

Meaning unfolds,
and discovered,
like a vein of gold
buried in the plain stone
of existence.

Filed under: 🜁 Self – tracing the inner landscapes of thought, feeling, and becoming.
Threshold

The voice of the teacher,
is a note on the air,
spooling a story,
threads of alchemy.

Eyes meet with yours,
a flash of comprehension,
a breath of understanding held,
as the magic word is proffered,
one syllable, a phrase,
simple sounds charged with power.

The door is in front of you,
plain wood,
a simple catch.
No fanfare, no trumpets,
but the unspoken offer
borne within that breathed word.

The promise on your tongue,
a vocal key.
The choice unfurls
a peaceful landscape in your mind.

To say it,
to unlock the secret lock,
to step over the threshold
into the space waiting.

It is yours to take.
The story given,
the secret revealed,
the journey offered.

The way inward,
begins with a word,
spoken, or perhaps,
kept silent,
a truth recognized,
and finally,
stepped across.

Filed under: 🜁 Self – tracing the inner landscapes of thought, feeling, and becoming.
Rooted Riddle

A shadow,
my only consistent friend,
becomes shorter with the rising sun,
a lie, this shrinkage,
as it also extends,
an outstretched darkness
that drains the dew-frosted leaves.

Sun-lit, I stretch,
a still green reaching,
for the very light
that sears my edges brown.

A dryness quenched by the storm
that comes to tear me from the soil.

This rooted life,
a paradox of immobility and wild growth,
of receiving what consumes my being,
carbon’s gentle touch,
and returning the very breath
that enables the robin to sing.

They say I am plain,
a fixed point in a turning world.
But in my bark and flower,
quiet battles are fought,
a contradiction to living,
a paradox to being.

Filed under: 🜁 Self – tracing the inner landscapes of thought, feeling, and becoming.