Ok, so I'm thinking randomly

Think about a granule of sugar, then think about how BIG you are compared to that granule. From your perspective you're pretty big right? Look around at the world and how small you are compared to it, and how small it is compared to the universe.

Pretty small right?

Now, take that granule of sugar and drop it on the ground. The granule of sugar represents the entire world you live on. You live as an individual on that tiny granule of sugar, which represents this world.


We're really small. No, I'll take that one back. It's almost as if we don't even exist when we're viewed from the granule of sugars perspective, which we live on. It's a massive universe compared to the granule of sugar, and even more so when compared to us. What if there are an infinite number of granules of sugar with an infinite number of living creatures like us who live on them?

Just to put a few things in perspective from the perspective of the all encompassing All. Honestly, I feel like a particle of a fraction of a fraction of a particle that's a fraction of a fraction of a particle so small it hasn't even been discovered by our kind yet.

Here's why I chose the illustration: We haven't even begun to become what we're destined to become in terms of infinity. Greatness awaits us all in places we can't even imagine existing yet.

That's life … and if I had to guess, I'd say the universe is chock full of life and without end.

I like the thought of thinking randomly, but with aim to do so --------------------> (x)(x)

Do those look like pasties to you?

 

Infinity ...

It's like birth and life and the many stages of, re-birth after rebirth after rebirth, a continual continuation of life, like a snake eating its tail - continual. An ouroboros, like a belt, like a record and turn table, like an rca cable, a figure 8 and a o… The Garden of life, Eden, and where Eve had her fill of the fruit made available through the channel of the serpent, which was said to be made to crawl on its own belly, so to speak, and consume the dust of the ground, from where we all came, on this earth where food from the ground is fairly plentiful. It's poetic

The ebb and flow of life, the swing from one side to the other aspect of life, the sun and the moon, the entirety of all it has ever been, and all it will ever be - from this point to the next point, to the next … rinse repeat without end, infinitely. That's life and that's the universe.

The ouroboros ...

An exodus to life from life, orchestrated by an "understanding" of life, in life, and for the life of all. We're already here, so why not make it into something monumentally beautiful and pleasurable and rewarding for all also?

 

Except for the posts above … Those weren't random even a little bit. Ok … maybe a little bit random but that's it!

(x)(x)

(. Y .)

How's that one Yeaahhh!!!

 

Yes... Yes you are.

 

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

 

Ahh, but the stage continues on
with joyful cheers and a many song
and from the mountain peak is heard
in the valley below carried by a bird

of another feather his voice is heard
as if from the clouds upon this earth
like thunder and lightning and terrible clatter
awesome is she the voice he blathers

A chariot, a sun, a moon, and thee
to us still here let the hearken be
and in the final stage I see
everlasting happiness, joy, and glee

 

dream green trains in infinite forrest
by cave's blue glow
let key-tops dance
to modem's chorus.

beauty here, and through out space
a high estate for the earth born race
all moving at a gentle pace.

well of course, once upon a time,
key-tops and modems were as much fantasy as elves and unicorns,

but to imagine the quiet, before television or that motorcar
but why no a quite day, once both have been long forgotten.

ecpocalypse will be a terrible time, of disease and famine,
and one that is completely avoidable,
but imaging the centuries after that,
when the disseas have themselves died off,
and the pointy eared fluffy tailed meek have inherited the earth,
when the rivers run clean and the world is green

when not all the curiosities in ancient photos of our own time,
have not been entirely forgotten nor universally shunned.

too few to extract oil or coal,
but not too few to rig up an old solar electric panel and some batteries salvaged from the ruins.

the pavement reclaimed by first the frost heaves making cracks, and the grass growing up between them,
then the grass becomes trees and the old roads, no longer drivable, if there were still anything to drive on them,
now no more then an historical curiosity.

oh the relay satilites are still orbiting in space,
radio still works, but powered by inserting spikes of dissimilar metals into citrus fruit.

trains no bigger then something to sit on, powered by those batteries and solar panels,
their tracks no wider then your own foot, winding among the trees and tiny houses,
just big enough to keep your treasures dry, and none of the entirely rectangular,
nor built by contractors, nor regulated by codes there is no one to enforce,
unless they're in a village, and that by its local consensus only.

no human owns the land, nor tears down what someone else has built.
no one owns the ruins either.

all the idiots with guns were the first to destroy themselves and each other,
not that they weren't all sick and dying anyway.

no one making anything like a gun, the skill and the tools and the interest in doing so,
like that of extracting oil and coal, no longer there, nor necessary.

but you might find some nicely crafted cross bows,
not that they'd be for sale or trade,
but maybe you could find someone to teach you how to make your own.

that way with most things.

the little trains though, where they exist, have kind of their own tribe that make and build them,
connecting tiny villages who want to be with them.

a tiny life form eats its way through the inner bark of a tree,
their paths they have thus carved on its inner surface,
discovered when a chunk of it has fallen or broken loose,
perhaps broken off by a deer shedding the velvet from his antlers,

and i happen by and pick it up, and find the squiggles form letters i can read,
though their message may be meaningless and barely coherent.

the sun is warm and breeze is cool and the only scent is that of pine needles,
and the occasional dead skunk.

but no dense clouds of tobacco smoke, that grows somewhere else,
nor the smoke from oil or coal, which long ago ran out,
though the old books say its still there in the ground.

but people have better things to do, growing something to eat,
even building little houses and solar trains,
then to try digging for them.

 

Ashes of firebirds and many a tree
when the lightning strikes and the journey be
like jewels of cloth and handle held
another world to be we meld

From one to another a mother a brother
a son, and a daughter to be
we're not undercover we honor our mother
and all who have eyes to see

and if the blind should see again
on the trails of deer or misty sea
let them here the trumpets sound
upon the earth and the mound

and when we come to rise again
let this much be known
it's not the life we give away
but the life that was sown

 

you speak of life as if it contained all else,
and the folly of trumpets which cause the ears to bleed to little comfort, imagination nor gain.

i'll take the warble of a bird, or the hum of a wire.
rise from a grain of sand, in sea of sable where in numbers too large to count, do softly glow.

give me the shade of the endless diversity of a forest,
keep your mansions and gold streets,
their predictable rectangularity brings little pleasure nor gratification to the soul.

give me strangeness and wonder, not robbed by the tunnel vision of merely human eyes.
conquest only destroys, be it in any name.

 

Love from above
as above so below
what we sow
is what we grow

from womb to womb
even from tomb to tomb
from the whippoorwill
to the laughing loon

and as we venture on this path
some do fear while others laugh
some sing, other write,
and others just fall into the night

Here and there and everywhere
no matter where we roam
life is life, a wife a wife
and a husband coming home

and as we sail the earthly seas
fly high above the tree's
and as we gaze up to the moon
flowers await yet to bloom

a seed to plant or to sow
another soul to show
it's our way we show today
to show you all a better way

so in the morning when you wake
and if you decide a cake to bake
have a cookie or maybe 10
the way we create never ends

so if it's cold then bundle up
or find other ways to warm up
life is life and it's warmer when
two together can again begin

 

An orchestra such a lovely call
from birds to bees above it all
butterfly kisses with gentle touch
harshness doesn't profit us much

still her music are like strings of gold
as the angel strums her harp
joined by beating drum I hold
the beating of my heart

A baby cries a wildcat howls
and the mooing of sacred cows
A shrill of a predator kill
this is our mother will

so with her music let us know
to not be so quick to judge
a soothing sound of her crown
the beauty of her wedding gown

the instruments playing in the band
the moans of a woman with her man
the sound of a cricket or a hog in stall
She the one who created it all

 

love is fine, but without consideration, heaven is just another name for hell.
and there is no love in conquest.

we may love a sweet melody and that is a fine thing,
but there is no sweetness when imagination is narrowed by the dictes of aggressiveness which is tyranny.

humans are too narrow, whether 'buff' or 'fluffy'
the universe is wider then that,
and i dare say, in its innocence, a good deal more happy.

and i don't mean the elation of a moment,
but the quite calm kind of happiness that indures.

if that kind of happiness has an alchemic element,
it is not the flame, but the earth.

it is the solid foundation upon which real freedom may walk and live and build.
respect the rocks, respect the trees, and the unseen will befriend or not as it sees fit.

 

Before I was born I could not see
but after which I came to be
I came to see but in a different way
and then I learned to play

With scuffed knees from crawling
after which, I learned to walk a bit
and when I fell down I got back up
learned to run, quicker, quicker I went

And since it seemed that time flies
with no more soothing lullabies
no more sounds of a babies cries
after another grows up and the goodbyes

I started thinking about the music played
and how it couldn't have happened without
one angel two angel three angel four
onward cupid and blizen and many more

and if it's Christmas time you seek
and for your innocence to keep
if growing older seems a bore
just remember we've all been here before

and just like that there will come a day
another amazing to be born again day
just like the first and onward still live and love
have your fill, and when the music settles in

when it settles down and when
you can catch your breath and settle in
then you'll know once again
why we choose to begin again

Well, as for me, I'm older than eternity
yet while in a man through whom I see
I see beauty, love, and many things to be
Life, dancing, music and art, even being free

 

Legends of the Fall


Each lifetime past a sacrifice
Fully known is the sting of pain
Both eyes see the lion of Judah
Both eyes know the eternal flame.

His heart fuels her kindled fire.
Her flames fuel a fire in his own.
A furnace reveals the beauty inside
and their beauty calls them home.

Decreed in heaven he is the son.
She the daughter wrought in hell.
Together they ruled all of heaven,
until choosing the tainted well.

A single sip and she had fallen.
He took another to let her know.
He'd never let Her lose in hell,
the amazing beauty of her soul.

He craves her like an addiction.
She him like flowers need rain.
Hand in hand they chose to fall,
thus the legend of the falls became.

Alpha and Omega's amazing Grace,
destined together to end all woe.
Her amazing beauty lights His fire.
His fire refines her amazing soul.

Together they are the living Christ.
Morning star their given name.
Upon this earth they shine a light,
as two souls but one the same.

Rolling stones and empty graves,
Emmaus and introductions to see.
A journey of heart and life in love.
These so fallen are you and me.

Adam and Eve cast from Eden.
Lucifer and Emanuel cast to hell.
The tree of life the LOVE between
all who embrace this epic tale.



Copyright © James P. Belt

 

Children of Life

(A call to freedom)

Falling faster and further
From eden's graces
The division of cultures
And the war of races ...

Intolerant minds
With hateful tone
Foster the damage
Thrust on our home

From mountainous peaks
And deep vastness of seas
A child's prayer was heard
and heartfelt pleas.

with birthing pangs
and groanings deep
"Set me free" she prays
As she bitterly weeps.

Empty and barren
her deep sorrowful cries
Mother nature awakens
with new hope inside.

Greatness awaits her
To sons of men she calls
Hear my voice oh men
Rise from your fall.


But her hope deferred,
With sickness of heart
Longing for freedom
She does her part

Her love and wisdom
Guides a new birth
In clouds we gather
Upon this earth.

But greed and corruption
Kill and destroy
They steal our freedoms
And rob us of joy.

But fulfilled desire
Has gifts to impart
The tree of life revealed
In the depths of heart

Those who can hear
And believe in his name
Forbid not the least of these
From becoming the same.

From excellence of character
To lifting veils and peace
A white horse named spirit
And the wedding feast.

 

Is the leopard def? Rock of Ages: As above so below