Crying Savior

A tear of blood ran down his face.

For man, all pain and suffering had been absolved while for him, all pain and suffering he was about to bear.

The tears fled leaving only blood, blood of the world, blood of his.

His blood to shed for the world, his blood to shed until death so that life could be eternal.

©Christopher F. Brown 2009

Crying Savior by Christopher F. Brown is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at pentopaperandfingertokey.blogspot.com.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.blogger.com/profile/11413583303828509283.

 

Technorati Tags: jesus,salvation,blood,death,pain,redemtion

Words Like Bohemian

Words like Bohemian once meant: collectively or solitarily creating by any means affordable.

Bohemian once marked the artist and their instrument; maybe they had one good suit that they wore to every showing, reading, exhibit, gig, ect.

In the morning they returned to the life where normalcy lives.

In the morning they returned to their jobs they most likely despised and most likely only paid in perks; like being able to live upstairs in the attic/studio/ bungalow cheap or even free. The view of the city is perfect and the light is just right, or might be that sitting out there inspiration comes down like never before. The muse takes control of the hands and before long two maybe three books are done and number four will have to wait because some one is at the door.

Today, words like Bohemian is the name of the IKEAN furniture set that one can place in their trendy little apartment; in a trendy little neighborhood that going through the trendy little process of Gentrification.

Old homes demolished to make way for factories that are then turned into cheap office space to later be renovated in the form of living lofts or expensive studio apartments.

Today, words like Bohemian means having an air freshener in the shape of Buddha or Kali hanging from the rearview mirror of your hybrid, energy efficient, carbon foot print conscience vehicle. Making your way downtown fast to buy those jazz posters you saw at Target, it would go great for decorating the music area, but first you have to stop at the corporate own café and get your moca loca latte; which is made from environmentally friendly grown and fair trade beans with organic soy.

Today, words like Bohemian mean nothing more than Trendy, Chic, Modern.

Today, words like Bohemian have conformed to convention and are nothing more than a label for something opposite than what it use to mean.

Today, we use words like Bohemian because they are not Bohemian.

©Christopher F. Brown 2009

Words like Bohemian by Christopher F. Brown is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at pentopaperandfingertokey.blogspot.com.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.blogger.com/profile/11413583303828509283.

Technorati Tags: bohemian,society,culture,gentrification

Forgot to Remember

Did I turn the stove off? Maybe I dint lock the door.

What is it?

Wait! Yeah that’s it! No its something more.

My wallet, my keys, and my phone I do have so what is it that I forgot?

What is it I don’t remember?

Whatever it is I’ll remember before my live is over.

Oh yeah!

It already is.

©Christopher F. Brown 2009

(This was also based on a painting I saw today. When I get the artist permission and info I will post the pic and their credits)

Technorati Tags: death,forgetful,remember


Forget to Remember by Christopher F. Brown is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at pentopaperandfingertokey.blogspot.com.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.blogger.com/profile/11413583303828509283.

Primordial

Where time and creation begins and ends your arms stretched out from the new, creating love, forming the first house of light, the first temple of truth.

Pure and untouched it was then, so shall it be in the end

©Christopher F. Brown 2009

(This was based on a painting I saw today. When I get the painters permission I will post a pic and their credits.)

Technorati Tags: creation,love,god,spirit,truth

Mercury in Retrograde

Why are people afraid to say NO; as if it was a bad word or meant something other than the opposite of yes?

No does not mean that you are hated by the person saying it.

No does not mean that you; what you have said; what have you have done or thought about doing is ignorant, dumb or even wrong.

No simply means I disagree.

No simply means that I have a difference of opinion.

No simply means that I don’t want to at this time.

Simply put No just means No.

©Christopher F. Brown 2009

Technorati Tags: NO

Naked in the open

What are you hiding behind?

The many words in the many books you’ve read. The lyrics you pour into your ears then repeat back slightly out of key. Sometimes a joke or two, or the smile they are meant to bring.

What are you hiding behind?

I use to use an intimidating face and muscles. I now use the very opposite, strangely it works just the same.

Some like the rain because it hides their tears.

For a while, a brief while, I was able to use money and the big home, but not the fancy car.

I personally hid a long time but now I’m open, now I’m naked.

It’s funny what you see when you realize you’re standing naked in a soul tundra with only a mirror as company

What are you hiding behind?

©Christopher F. Brown 2009

Naked in the open by Christopher F. Brown is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at pentopaperandfingertokey.blogspot.com.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.blogger.com/profile/11413583303828509283.

Does my honesty offend you?

Does my honesty offend you?

Are my words cutting too deep, past skin, past muscle and bone right into heart and soul.

Does my honesty offend you?

Laughing when you cry, stillness when you run, dancing while you cower.

Does my honesty offend you?

When I speak you cover your ears. You even run away as I draw near to you.

The fact that I’ve never said one word to you heralds resound.

Does my honesty offend you?

©Christopher F. Brown 2009

Does my honesty offend you by Christopher F. Brown is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at http://pentopaperandfingertokey.blogspot.com/2009/08/does-my-honesty-offend-you.html.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.blogger.com/profile/11413583303828509283.

Problem Solver

A sweet smell turned stench is what I’ve become.

Moth to flame is how they were before. The mere mention of my name is like water on a cat’s back or a whistle to a dog’s ear.

Every effort is made to stay away; a dramatic change from praying for a moments peace.

You say that I’ve changed.

You compare me to all the rest and say I’m no different from the others.

I see now why they rebuke you.

Have you ever wondered?

Did you even stop to think, as the years turned to decades that maybe, just maybe it could be you?

As the months turned to years did it ever accrue to you that it might not be their fault?

As the days and weeks became one endless, unyielding moment in limbo that you’ve come to call life; did you ever ask of yourself,

“Is this really life or am I just existing?”

Today I ask you,

“If you know that its no one else’s but yours; no fault but your own; no blame or issue but your own then today, again I

ask you; what are you going to do about it?”

©Christopher F. Brown 2009

The Joke Is

I am not a joke.

When you saw me that first time, were you scared?

Did you see the scars on my head and face and want to cross the street?

Did you clutch your clutch just a little tighter?

I know you didn’t think I was cute or sexy. You might have a few years and pounds back.

Maybe you saw me that day and my clothes that were ragged and out of style and thought I was poor, or a crackhead, or something to that effect.

Maybe you wanted to laugh.

I warn you, I am no joke.

That day you came upon me laughing and smiling; being generally happy I could see in your eyes you thought,

“how unmanly, punkish even.”

I tell you how sorry I feel for you. While I continue to do and be me fully and completely what do you see?

When you look in the mirror what stares back at you?

When you put on the latest and buy the greatest I wonder if you ever wonder,

“why?”

When you spend extra for the super silky human hair, or make sure you’re the tips of your locks are the perfect red, or even spend thirty dollars on the perfect brush to make your waves come out just so. Do you ever wonder,

“why?”

I am not the joke

©Christopher F. Brown 2009

Vows

There is no I in We but Us is just U plural.

I know, that’s hella corny, but it’s true.

We have united our separate flames into one that burns hotter than either did alone, shines brighter than either did on its own.

Our foundation is rooted in trust and creativity our walls; while everlasting faith is our roof.

You see what I can not see.

I hear what you can not hear.

Where I am weak you lend me strength.

When I am confused you enlighten.

When I am lost you help me pray.

We are two imperfect creatures coming together to share something so unique, so special that there is only one, and there will only ever be one.

I share with you Me and ask you for the same.

I already know your answer before you speak because we share a single heart, we share a single light. We share the SAME love

I ask U to be plural.

I ask U to be Us

©Christopher F. Brown 2009

Walls

I can’t be defenseless with you.

You and others like you have built my walls brick by brick.

You and others like you never hear me speak. You would only save my words to use them against me latter.

You and others like you would jot down letter by letter every word from my mouth to hand over to my most hated of enemy.

It’s the same reason why I do not answer your questions when you ask them.

Never in my home shall you be. You’d only compare the insignificant things that I don’t have to yours that you prize.

Things that trap most in a world of material, blocking their spirit.

You’d laugh at all my things that you would call meager.

Yes you.

You are the reason why I can not be defenseless. You are the reason why my walls are up so high.

Words of disdain instead of love; looks of contempt and conceited instead of caring and compassion.

When you see me on the street continue to walk on by and do not darken my doorstep with the hint of your shadow.

Your only care is of self and your only concern is material.

I can not be defenseless with you.

©Christopher F. Brown 2009

Words from the Third Eye

I never listened to it except for what I heard when flicking threw random radio stations trying to get to a particular one, or when it was in some movie sequence.

It was old people’s music and it put me to sleep as child so why bother.

It was not till I got a night job, downtown San Francisco, did the subtle tones of a muted trumpet or saxophone, or even the voice that was more like a dulcet whisper start to infect me.

Some how, all of it, the tunes, they got in my blood. I began to felt them where as before I only heard A, C, or E I now heard my soul speak.

When I got into deep passionate fights with my ex only to make up with even more passionate sex I understood why Billie Holiday moaned her notes instead of belting them out.

At night, when it began to drizzle and then lightly come down I started hearing Charlie’s piano as the rain drops captured the glow from the many headlights of the many cars and for the briefest of moments come to life, become visible. For the briefest of moments on was truly surrounded by falling stars.

Walking around the city on a cold winter night watching the steam rise from the sewer caps; listening to the people on the corner and even down in the BART station play what ever instrument they had in the way of the siren called jazz;

I was swayed and I was rocked till my being crashed into the shores.

My soul opened and the notes that Miles’ and John’s horns played turned to words. These words that I now could hear, but could not see like other words poured out of me and into me at the same time. These words only made sense to my third eye. These words only made sense to the depths of my heart.

One must experience love to know how it sounds.

One had to experience loss, death, even birth to know what key they are in.

This feeling that is jazz is a soundtrack to a life lived in touch with emotion, in tune with pain; a life that had joy, high and low.

This thing called Jazz carries spirits of lives lived and yet to be lived.

This thing called Jazz must be the sound of life in its entirety.

Jazz must be the sound of love.

Jazz must be the sound of time.

Jazz must be the sound of life in the process of living it.

©Christopher F. Brown 2009

Capitalist’s Nightmare

An Empire of Painters and Poets.

A Region of Philosophers and Photographers.

A land of Monks and Holy men and women where war is never studied, rumors of deceit are derelict.

A Kingdom with no need of arms.

A Government ruled by compassion, laws born of vision and spirit.

Moral conduct based on acceptance not exclusion, thought not action.

A place where one is not greater than the whole and the whole is not more important than the one.

There is no place to be taught, given a skill, or even told a format, but many homes where one is helped to discover their own and then dared to locate, if any, and explore the limits of such.

Farmer Philosophers, Educator and Confectioner in one.

Poet fisherman, Holy men and women overseeing the keeping of the history.

I woke up wishing I could go back to sleep.

©Christopher F. Brown 2009

Truth and Seduction

She gave birth to twins.

As they grew one spoke very little but when she did her voice boomed. When she did speak her voice resonated in every corner and all that could hear heard; all that could feel felt their chest vibrate and their souls stood at attention from its harshness. Their souls stood from being convicted and chastised.

Her sister spoke quite often. Her voice was so soft and just as gentile as a whisper in the mid autumn breeze. Sweet was her tone; like baby laughter or lemonade in the hot summer sun. Not all heed her call but those that do rarely escape. You must choose to listen to her. You must decide if her pianississimo is worthy of your attention; deserving of your time.

At any given occasion they are around the other; in the others presence. You may never see them in the same place at the same time. There are other instances when it is most difficult for anyone to tell them apart; instances when ones voice is repeated over and over that it sounds like the others. Very quite often when one can not be heard it is because ears and hearts have been made deaf.

Most of the time when ears have not heard either; the fact of their twinship leads some directly to confusion and chaos; their mother and father.

©Christopher F. Brown 2009

Damascan Eyes

Confused by clarity Damascan eyes see.

I could say I didn’t know already even though I did. I chose to ignore the times before; disregard displays made plain as day.

Acceptance was total and whole; that is what you are supposed to do.

Confused by clarity Damascan eyes see.

While I gave a damn about you, so was it only.

It became clear; long as the benefit ultimately remained yours at days end things were fine, but if and when the light could not, would not, center you any longer that is when you are known to shatter.

Liken to a small branch you are; given a little pressure you break, or leaves blown left and right by the wind parallels your sway.

In the end it is care of self and nothing else.

I think it is your time to be pruned.

©Christopher F. Brown 2009

Why and I

I had just come out of coffee shop with some Tea. The part of town I live and work in has never heard of such a thing as a Tea house; it could just be me, being picky and particular. I headed to my normal spot on the bench in the manicured, man made, open area park on the roof of the building I work at.

Today was different.

Today when the escalator brought me to the top floor (like it always does); I opened the door to the manicured, man made, open park area and inhaled the relatively fresh city air (like I always do) which is always better than the recycled air that circulates in my building.

Today was very different.

There was an old man flying a kite, or rather had already gotten the kite in the air and was now watching it glide, watching it’s tail whip and snap in the wind current. This old man was sitting down right in my spot. I made the decision to not care and to be happy anyway. I only get a half hour for my break and the majority of it I spend getting to the coffee shop and back. It only leaves me a few moments to drink my tea in peace, drink my tea and relax. It only leaves me a few happy moments during my busy day.

The old man said to me,

“Asking the question Why is part of being happy. Most people don’t live long enough to realize that to get to happiness you have to start with self, with I. They make it quite simple enough you know. They put it in the words; Happy ends with a Why, but to get Happiness you have to stop asking Why and realize I. Then you finally can get to the Ness the state of being. Realize I but first ask Why and it will lead you to that state of being. It’s different for everyone though. I think that confuses a lot of people too. They like to think that it’s the same for everyone and its not, but that’s part of realizing self, realizing I.”

The alarm on my cell phone went off letting me know that my break was over. I did not even get to drink any of my tea, but it was cold now so I gave it to the old man. The next day he did not come back, or even the day after that. In fact I never saw the old man after that, but I always ask myself and wonder what ever happen to him.

I don’t work in the building anymore but I still come back every now and then. Today I thought,

“What the hell”

and I brought a kite. I’ve never flown one before so why not today. I got it up really high I think for my first time. I sat down in my spot and tied the string to the bench.

This guy opened the door and looked at me as if I had said something foul to him but I did not care, my kite was high and had a steady wind. The guy looked so mad with his head phones on. I was not going to say anything to him but then I remembered the old man’s words and I though I would share them with him. They might have the same effect on him as they did on me. After I finished he grabbed his pocket and practically ran back out the door leading back into the building. He even left his drink.

I never went back to the building after that until they told me that they were going to get rid of the manicured, man made, open area park on the roof and put up cell phone towers. I made a promise that I would go back one more time before they tore it all up. The funny thing is I went back once a month with my kite, when it was not raining, and they never did, but the same guy whom always looked pissed did. He never spoke but I did. I told him the old mans words once more and what I personally learned as I applied them.

One day with my kite in hand I got off at my stop and saw that the whole building was gone. I’m going to miss that building and the manicured, man made, open area park. I’ll even miss the angry guy, but truth be told now that the building is gone it all really felt like de ja vu at times. Then again one of the things the old man said to me is that nothing at all is new under the sun, not even life its self so maybe I’ve done it all before and just don’t remember. Whatever the case may be I hope that angry man gets happy one day.

©Christopher F. Brown 2009

A Single Kiss

Embracing, caressing, stopping time, stopping motion.

A cold overcast sky is their backdrop so they emit their own sun. They generate their own heat.

Standing at the end of the dock they hold the other. Their lips mingle in their pursuit. Hands traveling from the back of the head to the checks, the neck, racing down to the small of the back; resting, abiding.

Ignoring the world with complete and total disregard they feast on the soul.

Embracing, caressing, stopping time, stopping motion.

They share such a simple small thing. They experience a moment, a single moment in the not so endless, not so infinite construct we call time. They give willingly to each other their most precious, their most sacred gift. They share their life; they share their souls in a simple kiss. They become a singularity.

Stopping time, stopping motion, while embracing, while caressing,

©Christopher F. Brown 2009

Nature of Things

Forever changing, forever in motion we try to fight our nature and be still. Constant is the sound of the soul yet we seek silence.

Why?

If the natural order of the universe is motion why fight to be still?

If the natural order of all things is change why fight to remain the same?

If the natural or is to be then why fight to not?

©Christopher F. Brown 2009

Balloons

Three pigtails enclosed by three pink barrettes shined along side her finely brushed hair, same as the color of a moonless midnight sky. Not at the age of self-consciousness she smiles her snaggeled tooth smile in an attempt to rival the sun. The oshbgosh overalls matched her three pink barrettes exactly. Her shiny white Mary Jane’s complemented her undershirt with the ruffled sleeves.

She had been a good girl and had kept herself nice and clean all day, even with the chocolate ice cream.

She laughed and smiled all day, sometimes sticking her tongue out part way.

Skipping down the street with father in one hand and her bright red balloon in the other.

Her teeth disappeared and her laugh turned to tears as the balloon escaped her hand, slipping her grasp. Gently it climbed higher and higher as she looked on begging father to make it come down.

Father bent down kissing her forehead and whipping her tears he said,

“My sweet baby girl everything goes away one day.”

©Christopher F. Brown 2009

seeds

I had a dream about this old man. He had a seed in his hand; it couldn’t have been bigger than a poppy seed. I got so scared I ran. I ran so hard and fast but I could not get away. His hand just stretched out and grabbed my shoulder bringing me down to the ground. He held me down with his pinky finger while he put the seed in his mouth. He said something, kissed my ear and vanished.

I woke up got dressed and sat at the bus stop waiting for it to come like I always do. I looked up in the sky and watched the clouds pass by on their blue road and a lady bug landed on my shoulder.

 

Just then I remembered what the old man had said to me.

I got up and went back home. It was Sunday, my day off.

 

©Christopher F. Brown 2009