Author: Tom (Page 11 of 71)

Tom is a stroke survivor, a seeker, a meditator, a veteran firefighter and rescue tech, a motivational speaker, a poet, and a blogger (new site) & author. He is also the father of three and as their student and teacher, has found applying spiritual practices to all aspects of life provides a vast amount of possibility and abundance. Tom has discovered that true forgiveness is the key to a pure heart, and a pure heart can lead us to wondrous experiences.

You can also connect with tom on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Tomgwriter55/".

The Wave

April 17, 2019 / Tom

The sigh. The sigh that seems to involuntarily fall from your lips with the breath that once seemed trapped in your soul. It’s almost as if you can feel the tsunami of challenge building, and you feel as though you are standing alone facing the impending wall of water.

What once released you from bondage now feels like shackles pinning you to the wide open sands. The ocean builds its torrent before you, and though you stand in the open space there is nowhere that you can really go. You can move and bless yourself with the illusion of control, but the wave will still be before you. Its shadow will chase you from one jetty to the next, and you are no safer on one end of the beach than the other.

The sigh. That utterance of resignation signaling a surrender to a reality not entirely your own making. You have fallen in your weakness, leaving bits of your tired and worn flesh on the sand. You rise, the wave is still coming. You run some more, falling, bleeding, rising, still as unsafe as you were standing on the waterline. Perhaps now is a time to pray, as long as it doesn’t mean falling on your bloody knees again to do it.

Sometimes in our lives the wave is forgotten in a supposed distraction. The sun rises beautifully, the birds sing, a kiss sends shivers down your spine. You draw letters in the sand, write love notes through the ether to a soul that reminds you of higher ground. Smaller waves come and wash some of the letters away. Ink runs as the waves soak the parchment they were written on. Clouds hide the sun and oceans separate souls. The wave still remains.

I often wonder what the real distraction is. Is it the kiss or the wave? Is it the sunrise or the shadow of life’s tides cutting you off from the light? Is it the chains that I hear rattling as I run or the fact that I realize, somewhere, that I’m the one who put them on? Is it the way I feel when she holds me hand or the way I feel in her absence? Do they all lead to the very same thing?

The quandary of my existence seems to lay in the fact that in order for my heart to beat it must first stop. Little bits of me must die in order for me to live. I must climb in order to love the valley viewed below. I must face the wave if I am ever going to be free from the effect it has on my soul, my heart, and the way I walk the path to my own happiness.

For now I will wallow in the bit of uncertainty that is shaking my space. It seems that is all I can do in the moment. Pray I may, run I will, fight I must. It’s all I know to do.

What Life and Love Are All About (A Poem)

April 11, 2019 / Tom

I can trust,
That as my truth rises from the abyss,
The light does not frighten you,
And that you can hold the hand of such a resurrection.

I can hope,
That as the power of my heart shakes the fallen ash,
and turns to embers the unholy bonds of fear,
That you walk with me through the quaking.

For what is this life about,
If not the quakes and shakes of transformation,
In the bleeding wounds of warriors left to die?
Reborn,
Seeking pleasure in their honor,
Finding desire in their truth,
Knowing love in the scars the demons have left on mystic flesh,
Like hieroglyphics,
Scribbled in the sand.

I can pray,
That as my wings sprout in the gashes left upon me,
That you will hold my hand to fly by my side,
And not to hold me to the ground.

I can wish,
That as you see the views of love from lofty heights,
That you will kiss me even as the lightning strikes,
Knowing I will burn before you will ever feel the heat
Come scorching through your shell.

For what is this love about,
If not the growth of heaven's wings,
And the flight of Angels who have fallen so in love?
Soaring,
Peeking from the other side of stars,
Laughing as clouds of truth cleanse their surrendered hearts,
Tears of joy,
Falling like rain.

Do not seek to find me in the grave,
For I will not exist in that eternal prison,
I am born within your heart,
And I live within your sacred graces,
Close your eyes and find me there - your truth resounds,
I speak your name in reverence of all I was born to do.

Let others be mystified in their fear,
But walk with me in matrimony of truth and love,
Let courage be our name.
Seek not diamonds, for they are falsehoods of the highest order,
But find my bond in my footsteps,
In my tears,
In the very breath that flows across the back of your neck.

But know the symbol of my humanity is real,
Like a ring placed in a sacred oath scoured into the rock-face of my life,
Too deep to be weathered by the winds,
Or washed away by the floods of demons sure to pass.

We, you and I,
Will walk among the redwoods,
Kiss the sea with our bonded hearts,
Taste the mountain air with lips made ready in the morning,
Raising the soul of the Earth simply in our embrace,
With our hands held firm,
We kiss, and the heavens explode in what should be. 

For isn't that what life and love are all about?

Always Will

April 10, 2019 / Tom

You are my dream, sweet love,
The music that soothes the savage beast,
I hear you,
In every trickle that springs from my soul,
In every whisper that seeps from my heart,
In every rustle that sweeps through the willow’s leaves.

Walking through this life,
Leaving footprints in the sand,
I feel you,
As I have since the dawning of my first day,
You, the light shining in my soul,
The fire burning lighting the path ahead.

Though it took some time,
I’ve been lost, hopelessly at times,
We’ve finally met as promised,
Your hand in mine I feel life raise me from a slumber,
Your lips, guiding me to that sacred promised land.
We are home.

Don’t let me end this day
Without reminding you of what has always been a truth,
Even before we could spell the words,
We’ve written in each other’s book of life.
Because, I love you,
Always have, always will.

Unedited and Unrestrained

April 10, 2019 / Tom

Started with one true sentence. What followed just flowed, and decided not to get in the way. I have not edited this, nor have I changed a thing about it. This is spirit flowing uninhibited…

Suddenly, we are here, in the now, playing with something we call the present moment, living and dying in heaps of clotted fur we call life. Awakened, or so we think, scribbling letters on parchment about dreams and whimsical rhymes that somehow make sense to the world even if they don’t quite make sense to us. Inspired as we are, we are nothing compared to that which inspires us, for we have limited ourselves beyond measure while spirit itself is only limited by those boundaries we, ourselves, have set.

We often have clouded spirit in veils of rights and wrongs we’ve created to keep ourselves safe. We plod along on our dusty trails, keeping time with a drumbeat that comes from places we never dare to visit. Though we see ourselves as brave souls trudging along though a life created to test us, we are often cowards hiding behind a thin fabric mommy created for us, or a rusted shield given to us by our fathers. We’ve yet to forge a sword of our own and, as a result, wield nothing meant to fit in our soul’s sweet hand.

We have moments of great courage, and in those moments often believe ourselves cowards. That’s the enormity of our discourse, we believe the dreamscapes and forgo the realities just to fit into a story we’ve both created and had created for us. We are, after all, what we say we are even when we are nothing of the sort, and we live and die according to words that we’ve scribbled in our books both by our own hand and by the hand of those we think we owe a debt to.

I’m not sure which I fall into today. A lion in me roars his truth in a wide desert while the mouse in me squeaks helplessly along in the underbrush. I inspire no one to courage because I can’t find it within me. I inspire no one to greatness because I can see none of it in my own eyes. I just meander along, sometimes roaring and sometimes squeaking in unintelligible dialect while the world ignores me completely.

I’ve convinced myself that I need none of them. Not their attention and not their protection. That’s the shield I’ve hewn from the shelters and the bridges that have imploded before me. I’m not sure if it is my truth because I am so convinced, but something within me seems to whisper that no, I want your love. Mostly, I want to give you mine.

For so long it’s been a path built on solitude, trusting no one for my sanctuary and owing no one my heart. I’ve left the companionship of people behind more often than my memory permits me to realize, forsaking embraces for handshakes and warmth for passing glances. My truth, I’ve believed, was always out there. Somewhere, out there, would be a story that matched my own, a heart that fit perfectly into the empty spaces carved into mine, a soul that knew mine from an eternity of waking me the fuck up. I tried to settle for seawater only to nearly die of thirst. I’ve tried to settle for a warm body in the cold space only to nearly freeze to death.

So I decided on the path of solitude until that heartspace was filled with divine perfection, where I could drink from an unending sea of possibility, and find warmth next to a fire of pure love. It would be that way, even if it meant dying alone in this lifetime to find her in the next. I committed to that path.

Love came, for sure, and along with the divinity of that wonder came the humanness for which we all limit ourselves. We peer around corners hoping what’s around the bend cannot see us in our hiding. We walk slowly on the newest trails as if the newness is a threat despite never finding what we’ve sought on more familiar climbs. We tread lightly even when the ground seems steady for fear that the security we’ve found was nothing but a dream, just like the dreams we’ve had before. Nothing seems to hurt more than a nightmare born from a beautiful dream, and thus we fail to put all of our hearts into the dream for fear of the beasts eating it in one large gulp. Or, worse yet, devouring it in tiny, painful bites.

That’s the mouse squeaking as the lion roars. I want my fucking truth, but fear to both announce it and make it happen. Rejection of a truth is like being slapped in the face with your own hand. It’s then we realize that our truths are not always shared. In fact, they seldom are.

That’s when the mouse speaks up. Soon, we tire of our squeaks and begin to fight for what we feel. Soon, we tire of walking paved roads and begin to seek the muddy entrails of nature. Soon, we grip our swords, drop our shields, and make the leap into a truth unshrouded, daring those who love us to follow. It’s often a lonely trail, but one filled with mystery and wonder.

That’s the lion roaring.

Then the aloneness of the trail wears out its welcome in our human home, and we begin to whittle away parts of our truth to satisfy our fear. Suddenly, we become more likable to the (m)asses, more palatable to the tastes of those who barely know us. We create a belief that suggests all is fine, to be known a little by many seems better than being known completely by a few. That’s when we become liars not only to the world, but to our selves.

The mouse squeaks again, and cycle continues. What a wheel we run on…

Patience (A Poem)

April 9, 2019 / Tom

When does the waiting end, my Willow?
As the breeze blows gently through the tides of time,
As the Sun rises dutifully beyond the plains,
I wait, patiently, for that day to unfold.

There are those moments,
Intense longing through the rhythm of love,
The stoic stone harbored deep within my soul,
Cracks…
Dusty refuse falls, lost in the abyss.

One day, if I am lucky,
I will look at my wrinkled hands,
And wonder where the time has gone,
Seeking just a minute more with you,
My heart not wanting our moment to reach its end.

And I will look back upon the Spring breezes,
Spent alone, talking to the trees,
Time well spent,
But not with the tree I love the most,
Perhaps then I shall curse the solitude.

Then a memory of the Summer dreams,
Left unanswered as I beat the drum alone,
Dusted chills running down my aching flesh,
As the rain washed the sweat from my brow,
I hum a song meant for your ear alone.

The Autumn comes,
And the rusty leaves scatter in the chilling wind,
Squirrels gathering hope for their winter stores,
I seek the warmth of a fire lit by your eyes,
But, alas, I find the embers of hopes yet to be realized.

And then, the winter returns,
A single set of footprints in the snow,
A heart drawn with purpose on a settled stone,
A lone finger etching truth upon her flesh,
Repeating the mantra as though it was his own…

…Patience.

Truth that Whispers

April 8, 2019 / Tom

Said the heart’s silence to the beat that gave it life,
“I fear dying before I have my full take of you,
of being lost before I’ve found life in your eyes.
I fear the awakening without you near to kiss,
and I fear sleep without having felt you stir
swaddled in this love.”

Said the heart’s beat to the silence that gave it cause,
“I fear being silenced before we’ve climbed to sultry places,
of being quiet before the ending to our song.
I fear my final sunrise without seeing its warm glow
Light up your face in ecstasy,
Having known the truth of our existence.”

Says the Soul to both as they measure dreams against reality,
“I have given you such an opportunity,
Thrown signs at your feet, spelled works in the numbness of your brain,
Life is gift because it does not last forever,
The scent of mortality should give lovers a reason not to pause.
I have shared with you such tales that the two of you have scrawled,
Colored your blood with the crimson ink that drives your blessings,
Filled your veins with truth and passion,
And yet…
You treat fear as if it is some sculpture,
Let love too slowly whittle away its imitation marble,
One day,
If not beaten by the silence of that beating heart,
You will see that fear you paid such homage to,
Was nothing more than rotting shale,
Unworthy of your honor,
Your attention,
And the time that you wasted bending knee at its feet.”

And the heart said nothing,
It was helpless in repose,
Lost to the sounds of a distant-sounding drum,
It’s rhythmic beat lost to the silence it so loved,
The Soul shrugged and dropped another sign at her feet,
Poked him again at the back of his head somewhere,
Hoping they could finally embrace the truth.

I Woke Up

April 8, 2019 / Tom

Last night I had a dream. A horrible dream that exposed a sore and pulsing wound, telling me that I am not good enough, and that I will die alone.

I woke up shaken. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a dream like that, one that reminds me of my child self sitting in a room questioning everything and the silent tears of a young man helplessly lost in his own despair.

I woke up sensitive to everything, especially those things that confirmed what those voices were saying. They say to me that I am not important, that I am not worthy, that I am not considered. I hear the voices of my parents in that chorus, as I am forced to sit in my room forgotten, waiting for those footsteps, afraid of every sound the old house settling would tease me with. I endured so much pain as a child and I try as a man to weather the storms that gather in my sleep.

I woke up wondering if dreams are really just fantasy or if they are a realm all of their own. How can such a fine mist tear at the granite of my will with such a ferocity? What ghosts see this man and believe they can tear at his soul without some recompense? What memories, instilled since I left the womb, can rip apart the beauty of what is?

I’m sure the demons wish to see this warrior laying surrendered to them, sobbing in the midst of despair, wondering about my will to live. Surely they have tried before, finding both success and failure in the undertaking. They know, after decades of both victory and defeat, which areas to probe to find the former. Yet I know their games too, and I know that sometimes the weakness they expose is the area I need to focus on the most. That’s the thing about demons, though masters at the attack, they are rarely well-schooled at deception. They attack straightaway, where the weakness is, never feigning to outflank the strongest parts of my will.

So I woke up, sword in hand, quivering in the attack yet strong in the counter. Throw a weak jab and I will hit you with a strong hook. Plunder weakly into range and find a barrage awaiting. Attack me if you must, but find the teeth bared of a mighty lion who has little desire to soften his bite.

That is what such dreams do. They first expose that pulsing wound and then the warrior who is expert at protecting it. I will not succumb to the gnashing teeth that lives in the hellfire of these memories. I will stand, and I will fight, with unmatched ferocity. Then, when I’ve beaten the demons and the battle is over, I will love them and forgive them as the wounds of battle heal and the blood washes from my soul.

Perhaps that is the great lesson of my life. The demons are strong but no match for a will tempered by their fire. Perhaps it is time they learned that lesson, too.

My Son (A Poem)

April 5, 2019 / Tom

I watch him walk away,
That son of mine,
A piece of me much younger,
Now getting older,
Causing me to count my remaining years.

Memories of your first breaths,
Arms and legs flailing in disarray,
A mind and heart born so innocent,
Life poured out of me as you held me by my finger,
It filled your hand back then.

Recalling your first steps,
That smile, that laugh,
Some things that have never changed,
My boy, how fast the time flew by,
In an instant life has changed direction.

And your first words,
Your personality flowing joy and laughter,
You made me laugh right from the beginning,
So much of me there is to see in you,
I struggle to keep you from repeating the mistakes of your father.

The swish of a diaper
Now replaced by the sounds of sneakers on the floor,
The sweet sounds of baby talk,
Now conversations of a young man speaking his truth
To the older version of himself.

The once-soft skin laden with baby jiggles,
Now becoming strong in the burden of a larger frame,
Context notwithstanding, what a powerful soul you are,
You want to grow up so fast,
I beg you to please slow yourself down.

For one day you may be me,
Watching the best part of you walking away,
Heading towards his own destiny,
And you will hope,
That he takes the best parts with him.

For now, I will watch you head in your own direction,
A tear flowing down my face
Toward my heart, a heart filled with love,
For you are, and always will be, my son,
And I am, and always will be, your dad.

To Find You (A Poem)

April 4, 2019 / Tom

The fish has never said to the sea,
“How is it that I exist with you?
How have we found ourselves together,
You within me, me within you?”

The cardinal has never said to the sky,
“How is it that I embrace you?
How have we found ourselves together,
You surrounding me, me inhaling you?”

Like this, my soul has never said to you,
“How is it that I have found you?
How have we found ourselves together,
You loving me, me loving you?”

We know the answer, you and I,
We wrote it on our page long ago,
Before the first breaths of our infancy,
In a journal left for us at Heaven’s door.

We used to meander about some desert plains,
The salty taste of a kiss an oasis unto itself,
We used to gather wildflowers at the base of a great mountain,
Dancing in the fragrance until the Moon touched our skin.

We used to gaze from the seat of a high summit,
Dreaming of the sea,
We used to bathe in the depths of love’s great ocean,
Talking about one day climbing that mountain over there.

Things we’ve done before this lifetime,
And things we’ve seen since the day we first drew breath,
Have carved steps in the stone to take us to those great heights,
And have taught us to swim in the pool of life, where we have found each other again.

May I never again question the beauty of what we are,
And may you soon not fear the handholds and footholds
In the rockface that gets you to me,
For we were born to know the truth, to live the truth, to be the truth.

For I know now what I knew way back then,
That should I not awaken to kiss your lips again,
I have lived, and will live again,
To find you.

The Window

April 2, 2019 / Tom

There is a window that exists between my dreamscapes and the perceived realities of my mind. Here, the vivid tales of wonder that exist mesh with the certainty of the way things are and I experience both the delight of flight and the disappointment of being stuck on the ground. The transition needs to be complete, and I often find myself wishing to remain kissing the clouds instead of rolling off my bed on to the floor beside me.

On one side of the window, I can hear you tapping on the glass, your voice melodically calling for me. As I sleep I can feel you near, and I move to touch you. The sun within me burns in its brightest hue as I search for your flesh, but on the other side of the window I realize that space is empty. I call out your name, and on one side of the window I can hear your reply while on the other I can only hear the echo of my own pleading. On one side of the window I see the awe in your eyes as the mountains illuminate in an early morning lavender, while on the other I watch the gift alone. On one side of the window I can feel your grip tighten on my hand and your head fall to my shoulder in delight, on the other side my hand remains empty and I can only feel your presence in my heart.

If given a choice between which side of the window to remain I would always choose the side that you are on. I would break the glass and tear away the walls that surround it just to get to you. I would ask the gods to banish any wall between us. I would see the fear of truth turned to dust before our eyes, and watch as the divine winds of love swept our landscape clean.

For now, I have little choice. Soon, your tapping will silenced and your voice will fade. My feet will hit the floor and my day of reality will begin. As the darkness in my space gives way to the morning sun I will again whisper your name, awaiting the certain silence that will follow. It is the way of a warrior accustomed to his solitude who is also seeking its end. I will surrender to the moments when I am on this side of the window while hoping for those moments when I can peer through the window and feel your hand again.

Forlorn can be the mind who finds such great love in dreams that he wishes for them in his waking moments. Weakened can be the heart beating to find slumber as its way of dancing in the light of love. Yet strong is the warrior who can live his life to see his dreams born on the other side of the window, who can strive for summits that exist on the other side of the wall. Her voice is so worth it. The promise of his touch will see him through. The desire of a soul reborn to find its other half will not allow obstacles of the mind to stand in its way. He sees that now, and hope she sees it too.