The Original Poem can be found https://medium.com/literally-literary/the-scrying-bowl-9838d48ce950. Please clap for both if you can.
When peering through the silvered surface of the sea,
is what lies beneath reality?
Or like through bowls of old in prophecy,
are we envisioning eternity?
Those rivers of satin, smoothed by wind,
do they guide us to some unknown end?
Those rippled tears of diamond rain,
do they echo some future pain?
Glimpsing at the vastness of the valiant blue,
I tender to my satiation, my need for you, your warmth,
slight salty air infiltrating crevices under the sun,
sliding through delicate fingers, finely attuned to its glow,
it’s silt, it is clay for play with castles,
expansive, gold, eternal, love that curdles back and forth
until you see no more light; simply, eternal.
On wings of hope, seabirds dance across the planes of glass,
swallowed by the light, spiraling ever higher.
What inner fire guides them there?
Intuition tugs at me, absorbs me into those ever-shifting shades of blue,
and carries me on to verdant valleys, etched into frozen granite peaks
which speak to me of ages past and futures yet unknown.
Am I being shown a hint of truth?
A soothsayer’s tale?
Nature continually sparks a divinity, landscapes
behold the everlasting peak or valley, belonging with
ancient trees whose roots shake the underground;
feel the pulse of the earth as it bows to our presence,
in hope of waking us up to adhere to our surroundings.
Leaves, foliage, cuddling my left shoulder, aching from frustration,
a fight with the intellect of technology,
I feel it, deep within, creation points and caverns,
these trees behold the deep unknown,
roots give way but hold back ancient stories,
privy only to the Oak tree, the willow, chestnut; grasses too.
For here, in this realm, under is over, and backwards is through.
The path is hewn from tendrils of the past and whispers of the future.
Connectivity warps and weaves through ancient druids and
fallen leaves of ages yet to come.
Leaves leave their structure and befall upon us,
at specific hours, specific days, pinpoint the place of color,
leaving us with grace, deep satisfaction and a sense of renewal.
The valley, the point of eternity, never leaves,
the sight is centennial, secrets reside here, otherwise,
“wow” would never cleave to our mouths; spectacle not only
for its deep Celtic nature, but ancient growth that speaks
to us in a manner that the heart only, knows.
Sacred waterfalls continue to run their course, deep connection
with the greenery that befalls its structure, holy nature,
what is one to do but inhale the fresh scent and acclaim its splash
on our grimmer face?
Perhaps, the feathers of a winged bird shall reveal deep mysteries,
age-old philosophies, counting down to A.D or B.C~Christ revealed,
this mystery is not for sophomores nor soft mores, rather,
innovative genius’ who sit in their laboratory, spending days and nights
close to lighting bolts and communication with the third kind.
Feathered friend, fiend, extraction of gamma waves,
is it possible that you can shelter humanity from itself,
when the time of reckoning requires it so?
You are touched, my winged guide, by man’s betrayal,
and yet you abide in our realm,
waiting, anticipating what is yet to come.
Feathered friends, together in flocks,
situate their stature amidst the emerald green,
pondering philosophies that mankind hath touched,
but not actually ever seen,
because they haven’t truly looked, peered into that scrying bowl.
Shouldn’t we have learned by now from mistakes of old?
Man is blind, and often unkind to the tender earth
which birthed us.
But time will tell.
Nature may fell us in our tracks,
unless we learn from looking back.
Fraying friend, lotus emerges from sacred soil to reveal it’s stature,
stunning essence, leaf after leaf, it spreads words of its history,
mature and never ceasing, accompaniment, is the third eye of
the sacred Universe; sees all, knows all, no imagination without lotus,
no imagination without lotus.
For lotuses spring from the mud and the muck and the despair of the earth.
They thrive in the dearth of purity. They filter out humanity’s worst transgressions, and sprout forth the truest expression of beauty.
Can we be like the lotus and clean the earth? Erase the mess
we’ve left behind?
Or is mankind cursed to look away? Blind to the lessons in the bowl,
bound to repeat mistakes?
Only time will tell.
Until such time,
wings of wild butterflies point towards the future;
what course of action we take is up to us,
whether we follow the delicate dusting of its wings,
or the delicate dusting of preclusion.
There is no judgement here,