shawnallen50

my words

Month: June, 2014

God’s Fingerprints

We are God experiencing Creation.

When we breathe, we are God breathing.

When we speak, we write our Gospels.

The songs we sing are our Hymns.

When we lift up another, we are God’s Grace.

When we lift ourselves, it is Rapture.

Our forgiveness is divine Mercy.

In gratitude, we are in Worship.

Living our unflinching Truth makes us Prophets.

In our dreams is found Revelation.

Whatever we create is the Kingdom of Heaven.

We leave God’s fingerprints on everything we touch.

 

(c) 06-18-2014

Shawn D. Allen.

Listening to his Heart

He lay in bed and listened to his heart racing, trying to tear itself apart. Like the hooves of some mad beast, it clattered and pounded on the walls of his chest, seeking escape. Oddly, there was no pain; merely a dull ache.

He felt detached from it; an observer. He noticed the twitching of his foot, which could not keep up the frantic pace. He felt his breath go in and out, in and out without concern.

Faces, regrets and desires floated up from somewhere, then receded. These, too, had no real attachment.

A thought – perhaps he should go to hospital? – intruded, only to become lost in the staccato roar in his ears.

He knew it was nothing doctors could fix.

He felt balanced on the sharp point where worlds are created and destroyed. It felt to good somehow to sit on that cusp, to experience that pure love of the creative instant: that moment like death, or orgasm.

The mind and the soul waged their war, and he watched, unsure and uncaring which side would win. Like a historian, he was there only to record the bloody battle waged. The victor would decide whether to go ahead and risk pain and glory, or to move deep inside and hide.

The mind screamed, “This can never be.”

The soul replying, “…and it already is.”

So he simply lay there listening to the insane rhythm of muscle and blood as his heart sought to tear itself, and his worlds, to shreds.

Incident from a Bridge

The river claims its own and the fisherman

Has caught nothing but a stone, dragging him downriver.

Down and breaking the surface,

Fighting for precious air

For a while, at least.

Then surrender to the flow.

From the recesses of memory

A simple lullaby his mother used to play;

The slightly out-of-tune piano sound

Drowns the sound of the rushing water.

Underwater, there are no tears,

There will be time for crying, later, later;

But not for him.

His feels himself rush down the river

The heaviness of body detached

From that lighter essence which floats ahead;

Back to the deep blue, to the ocean…

A lonely osprey,

A shimmering fish caught in its talons

Vanishes into the sunrise.

 

(c) 06-17-2014

Shawn D. Allen.

In our lives full of pages and posts, text messages and tweets – this culture where sound bites – we have forgotten our stories.

Some tell you, “you are not your story,” and they are wrong. Each of us at every moment of our lives is our own unique story. You are not your past, that book is forever closed. You are not your tomorrows for those words don’t exist yet.

Each step you take be it walking, running, or dancing, is your story. The way your move your hands, the tilt of your head when you kiss, the small sounds you make when you are making love; the angry times and the raptures, the times when you defeat yourself; the look in your eyes when you realize your dream, create something beautiful or recognize yourself in a stranger; the sound of your laughter or joyous, off-key singing – all these are your life, your story in this very, and in every, moment.

We are our stories, our myths and legends and fairy tales and nursery rhymes. We are the heroes and champions,the kings and queens, gods and goddesses. We are also the villains and monsters, the tyrants and devils. We are all these and every other player in the story.

We must remember this and relearn how to make passionate, mad, ecstatic love to our lives again with the words only we can speak, the chapters we are writing, with the great and small stories we create each moment we are alive.

We must reclaim our gift and legacy as storytellers…

This is Life, Too

This is life, too,
This bit of bottle glass tumbled
In the water until the edges
Are round and cannot cut
Anymore.

(c) 05-08-2014
Shawn D. Allen.

Breaking Hearts

Sometimes I think too much
About all the wrong things.
Some days I sleep too much
When I should be singing.
Sometimes I give too much
Say too much
Feel too much
See to much
And I’m setting myself up
For the big fall,
The big fall.

And I’ve come this far already,
Can I go all the way?
Can I give you everything in me
When I know what will happen, already?
If I tear out my beating heart
And hand it to you
You’ll only give it back
Missing a piece,
Breaking my own heart.
Is it worth it, in the end?
I believe,
I believe it is.

Sometimes I want too much
Of all the wrong things…

(c) 06-08-2014
Shawn D. Allen.

The Fool

Journeys end and begin again
Remembering and creation
The never-ending spiral
Dancing outward, onward
From now.
Stepping from the unseen edge
Of the knowing world,
Waiting for wings.
Oh, divine fool,
Holy madman,
Child of possibility –
Adventure is yours!

(c) 6-7-2014
Shawn D. Allen