Author: Tom (Page 33 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 Pond

March 29, 2017 / Tom

I have a dream…

There is a forest, planted long ago. There life has flourished, and nestled in the soft, plush meadows amidst the beautiful songs that echo through the Universe, springs a pond. A pond so beautiful that words cannot give her justice. You simply need to experience her to understand.

The pond is graced by a waterfall that feeds her indescribability. One can hear the roar of power in the rush of water pouring into her. She is connected to something there in the falls, and I can see a multitude of rainbows dancing about within its mist, and there are always a variety of butterflies playing dangerously close. They seem to know how close they can get without being swept away forever. They may touch the edge, but will not survive the power of this flow. They know, so they only touch her surface, and she is saddened that such beauty will not bathe within her, but she also knows that such beauty must survive to be appreciated.

I look at the beautiful scene in front of me, overwhelmed by its magnificence, but drawn in by her essence. It’s clear to me that the pond is certainly the waterfall, and the waterfall is certainly the pond. Neither can exist as they are without the other. We, those who experience such a place, can appreciate it because we’ve also nearly died in the desert. Our paths are littered with the skeletons of those who were not strong enough to make it, their fortunes left to the harshness of totality. The fortunate ones arrive here to marvel, to bend their knee to drink, and to bathe in her beauty.

I take her in, and want to be taken in by her. I want to swirl in the clear, cool waters and swim to where the falls meet her surface. I want to dive down into her and feel the chaos there, at a depth of some discomfort. I want to be tossed around a bit, have my soul thrashed until I understand her better, and then make my way back to the places where she finds her serenity. I will find nature there, that certain place where she gives to the Universe, and the Universe gives right back.

To a man who has not felt such serenity, the feeling cascades over me like the touch of her essence. My mind drifts off to what may happen if I never leave, and she accepts me as I am. Yet, I know that my skin may wrinkle and my body soften in the safe non-resistance of her, and I pray the shore may be enough to save me. I need to feel the dirt and the stones, the sting of bees looking for food, and the fear of sleeping alone in a forest so full of danger.

Danger. He laughs at it. What could happen to him that hasn’t happened already? There is no death that he fears, there is the lack of living that scares him. A renewed vow wells up inside him. He will live fully until he dies, and he will smile at the wounds, regardless if they came from the ass of a bee, or the claws of a bear.

The laughter mixes with the sound of the water embracing him. He’ll stay here for a little while, and then he will enjoy the shore until, finally, he ventures off to seek the living he so desires. She will always be here, and he wonders if one day he will call her home.

The Boxer

March 28, 2017 / Tom

A warning. For those used to my typical prose, this story will be dark and harsh, raw and blackened. It’s a catharsis for me, a truthful metaphor reliving a past life. If this type of writing bothers you, please go no further, and accept my thanks for being a faithful reader.

He sat alone, as he had so many times before, looking across the canvas at the demon. He was born to look helplessly at the distance between them, but lived for utter devastation when the gap had gotten much too close to bear.

He could hear the Minions behind him, shouting their meaningless encouragements. If he won, they’d be his best friends, if he lost he’d be where he always was. Alone.

He could feel the sting of the cut carved just above his left eye. He would not publicly flinch in the sight of such pain, nor would he bleed. They would not see him hurt. He had been cut so many times before that the pain was like a familiar friend, one he sought to avoid yet embraced when they met. Pain was his ally, for at least he was alive in its embrace.

The cut was not some masterful stroke by his opponent. The Boxer has seen the hook coming, but rather than duck he leaned into it. As it landed, he smiled, and as he felt his flesh tear and the pain come, he finally felt at home. This was what he was used to, this is what he had come for.

He trained to torture himself, purposely inflicting pain worse than any other could inflict. Soon, his hands become like stone, his body taut with the remnants of a religious insistence on being hurt, his mind impervious to the games they would play. They may have taught him such displeasure, but soon it became his own. It was the single thing he could count on.

His body tensed, naturally anticipating the bell ringing. He marveled at the rhythm of this game. Most of it, three minutes to be exact, would be a fight where little bits of him would die. Then would come one minute of glorious respite, where he almost believed that life could be different. At the end of each round the Boxer would almost find truth in the cheers of those Minions and the accolades of those in his corner.

He could almost trust the judges, believing they would see what he saw. He had survived the round, given better than he had taken, and shown what he was capable of doing. Surely they would have to give him the points. Surely he had won. Surely he could count on them…

Invariably, he knew better. He could trust none of it save his own solitude, and his own sense of direction. In the familiar rhythm of his life, aloneness became his companion. Before the respite was over, he would look once again at the Minions with disdain, his opponent with disgust, and the arena with little feeling at all.

Such vicious training you couldn’t afford to buy, but they gave it to him for free. When he would look at her, he only wished it could be different. Yet, he knew better. He always knew better. There would never be a shining star in the crowd, and he must be free from her in order to give her freedom from him.

Normally, when the Boxer grew tired of the game he would spring from his stool and end the dance. It didn’t take much, for his training had strengthened his body and turned his hands to stone. He would rush out with a smile, and the obstacle in front of him would fall. Then would come the hollow cheers, the fictitious pats on the back. Soon, when the party was over, he would return to the aloneness he neither craved nor wanted.

Tonight, it would be different. He had grown tired of the fight, of the bullshit. He had grown tired of the one way street, of the road work , of the endless repetition. As the bell rang, he knew what he would have to do.

When his body hit the canvas, it was over. He cried real tears, alone as usual, finding relief in the end. He could see tiny drops of his blood in the fabric, and already see the backs of his once admirers as they turned and walked away. He had done his best, but he was done with this game, this time. The end had finally come.

The Things She Does Not Know

March 28, 2017 / Tom

Originally written on August 8, 2016.

There is a woman. A strong, beautiful woman who knows so many things.

She knows the passion of her heart. She offers it in her words and shares it in her eyes. She stands tall against the tide of time, softly protesting the sincerity of her truth while gently holding onto the sanctity of her innocence. What a marvel she is, a candle held against the new-moon sky, a note written on a sheet of paper that completes a maestro’s symphony.

She knows the strength of her weathered mind. No force of nature bends her knee, no ill-intentioned heart corrupts her sweet intentions. She’s ridden the mighty waves of the past, and has yet to surrender to the shore. A humbled man cannot know such things as she, he can only try fathom this wonder that stands before him.

Yet, for all the things she knows, there are many things she doesn’t.

She doesn’t know I sit in wondrous silence, basking in her light. She doesn’t know I see her nestled perfectly on a distant horizon, rising gently with the songbirds, reminding so many a new day has dawned. She doesn’t know that I exist, for I am but a star on the other side of her own rising sun, unseen in the light, anonymous in the blue-and-orange hued morning sky.

She’ll doesn’t know how the wonders of the world are lost to me when she stands before them. She doesn’t know how all else is forgotten when she smiles, and how I’ll never be able to explain the reasons why.

She doesn’t know how hard it is for me to catch a breath when she shares herself, or how I force myself to forget her in the placeholders that I find. She doesn’t know so many things, but I know one. She exists. That hope, that wonderful feeling discovered in what seems like an insane notion of my mind, may be the only gift she ever gives me.

A gift she has no idea she’s given. A light she has no idea she’s shared. These things she may never know, but she doesn’t have to. Sometimes that is just the way things are meant to be.

There Are Many Mysteries

March 27, 2017 / Tom

Sit across the way with me, and hear this truth.

There are many things for which I have no answers. How I got here, across from you, in this moment in time. How I became so blessed to see your smile as my heart melts all over me. How I get to hear your laugh echo in the silence of the dark. How I knew you before I saw you, and why our wide and winding paths have brought us to this wonderful field.

There are many mysteries throughout our lives. Those unexplainable flowers standing indignantly in the concrete. Those wonderful blades of soft grass found suddenly on rocky soil at the very time we need to rest. Those springs of clear water appearing suddenly in a sheer rock’s face in the moment we thirst the most. You. Me. Here. Now.

Universes born within the promise of possibility, we are. Colliding stars that give rise to the enormous promise of answered dreams, we remain. There are no answers as to what brought the Sun and Earth together, just the results etched in the stone of one potential reality. There is you, and there is me, both smiling at each other as we hold the reins of something we cannot control, the possibility of diving deep into the certain unknown without a lifeline to the surface.

There are many questions that we can’t answer, but there are many answers that have been laid out before us. I have vivid memories walking against to tornadic wind, my skin pierced by tiny shards of ice, those wounds left stinging by the pelting drops of rain. I remember the silence of the pain, the lonely sobs of a heart being challenged, the testament of a scream in the night as all I knew was being destroyed by petulant winds.

What I know is the sunshine when I see it, and lovely pastures unlittered by the debris of my mind. I value the safety of walking barefoot in the fields where no nail can pierce my skin, where no splintered shard of wood can leave me bleeding in the grass. What I know is the feeling of your voice, the essence of your laugh, the beauty in a face I’d love to see each and every one of my remaining days. While the why may be a mystery, the truth remains nothing of the sort.

A man who has taken his lashes to experience his freedom values both the lash and the freedom. A man who has the scars of battles wages holds firm to the peace he has attained. A man who has lost everything stands firm in the fields where all he is have been planted. The birth of that field remains a mystery, but the truth of where he stands is nothing of the sort.

I remain the man, bare naked and vulnerable in front of you, demanding nothing but stating the simple truths for which he lives; knowing completely the promise of the gift he sees in your eyes. A man like that cannot take that promise for granted, for simple is he who wants to own nothing but the truth. The winds have brought this ship to your shore for a purpose that will, one day, cease to be a mystery.

Then, you may see the Universe extended you a hand, and it may look just like mine. The Universe offered you support, and it took form as my waiting arms. The Universe offered you the love you were seeking, and it looked just like me.

Know this truth, that eternal spring of nourishment which we both have sought, that binds us here and now to the ripples we shall send. Know the smiles of an old man to the love of his life and an embrace of a once empty cup to the water it was made to hold. Know the certainty and safety of a warrior who has found a home within your heart, who does not want to leave, but would rather build a village where you stand.

And there, the mystery ends and the greatest story ever told remains. That is, but once, where the mist takes shape and the mystery comes alive.

And there, it all makes sense even to the sanest ones we know.

A Goodnight Wish

March 24, 2017 / Tom

I want to say goodnight to you in the way my heart prescribes. The way I always should. The way I always will.

Look at me, my love. Hold my hand. Kiss me in the way you want, demand from me all that you may need. Do not hesitate to issue such commands, and never forget the moments I could only pray for this kiss, and all those times I stared at my empty hand, wishing yours was there.

Let me love you back, in the way my heart demands of me. Let me hold you tightly in the flickering flame of our candle, following the music of our souls while reminding you that once you needed me and did not know it, and once you called for me and did not know my name.

Put your head on my shoulder, the shoulder that would carry you through hell if need be. Fall into my arms, the arms that were made strong to hold you steady when your knees buckle in the night. Taste my lips, the once uncertain lips which have now met their destiny.

Hear my words, words seldom issued in this man’s life, oaths uttered to you as a vehicle of truth, and nothing more. Hear my silence, the subtle gaps left between the gasps of our ecstasy. Lend your ear to my chest, place your hand over my heart, to feel the strength of all I am, and all I am willing to give to you.

Each night I close my eyes knowing their opening is not guaranteed. Each night my final words will be those promises once made to you in my solitary darkness, and they will be whispered in your ear before we sleep. Should these be my final words, I will have lived my life to the summit, and will have departed knowing I have fulfilled my greatest dream.

Now, I will find my night’s cocoon, climb into it…and say you name one last time today. It will be my goodnight wish that I have a chance to say it again tomorrow.

Goodnight, sweet love…

When There Is Nothing I Can Do

March 22, 2017 / Tom

We all know the feeling. We see her, our knees crumble. We hear her voice, our hearts begin to race. She fills our minds with her thoughts, her fears, and her dreams. She occupies our thoughts, inspires our intentions, and raises our frequency to levels we rarely see.

We all know her. She is beautiful, and her eyes make us swoon even as we try to keep our composure. Her mouth makes just the right curves when she smiles, and her image sends us flying into the outer edges of our Universe. She sets the bar, and we will always seek to meet it.

I know her well. I’ve talked to her countless times about many things, some meaningful and some benign. She’s inspired words I’ve etched words into the fabric of my day, and give life to inspiration that have brought many to tears of joy. My god, there is so much life to knowing her, and so much a truth to the utter sense of all she is.

Yet, there is nothing I can do.

Sure, I could be the bad ass in the room and feign indignation. I could act like I don’t care, that the moments we share have only the slightest meeting. I could tune down my intensity, resist my own desire, and pretend that her wine has a bitter taste, and her words a shallow impression.

That’s silly. There’s nothing I can do.

I could be “the man”, and act like she doesn’t matter the way she does. I could hold back on the strings of truth I send in her direction, the pearls of wisdom I give her as a gift when we converse. I could do so many things…

…and then I realize, there is nothing I can do.

I can’t make her run to my open arms no matter what my version of truth may be. I can’t make her call me in the middle of the night just tell me all her pains. I can’t force her to do a fucking thing, and for that I am grateful.

You see, there is nothing I can do.

That is the way it should be. I should adore her where she is, regardless of the tears that well up within me at our distance. I should honor the spaces where she struggles, despite my want to carry her through the smoke. I should smile as I always have when she finds her loves, be there when she has her pains, and let her know that there will always be someone there when all else fails.

Wait, perhaps there is something I can do after all.

Despite my story wishing things were different, that for once a heart was in tune with mine, and that the timing was perfect for a resurrection of my hope, there is always something I can do. I can accept the pangs of hurt, of remembrance, that whittle their way through my flesh and change my point of view. My truth is not a universal one, and there is no one who need ever hold my hand.

In the meadow where I go, in the brook that bubbles by my ears as my eyes shut to see the Universe, I realize a certain truth. I am a lover. A hard-scrabbled, complex, rough around the edges lover. All that I can do has already been done, and now all I can do is, well, nothing. Except that something.

Peace.

Another Letter to Her

March 21, 2017 / Tom

I’ve written to you a million times. Some words have made it onto stone, while others have been left in the ether, I hope blowing in the winds heading in your direction. I do not control the currents, yet the bottles I have cast into this Sea are meant for you, for the hopeful union of our time, our space, and our journeys.

Through the moments I have cared for you, my heart has been its purest. Though my secrets live and die with you, my intentions once hidden now exposed, the purity remains. Though my own insecurities echo in the chambers of my mind, my heart remains steadfast in a certainty of its own. My soul knows, and I feel no compulsion to disagree.

I can see the crumbled mountainsides of my past, the debris of time strewn all about the roads I once traveled. I can see the smoldering ruins of bridges I have burned, and of the remnants of the places I once played destroyed by the sacred winds. What I once saw as destruction I now know as rebirth. What I once thought was disastrous I now know feels beautiful. What was once death is now alive, and life itself has taken on a meaning all its own.

I tell you things I used to whisper, and I whisper things I used to keep deep within my soul. I’ve watched you through the peephole and stared at you in the sky. I’m not sure where I am going, yet I know every step along the way has led me here. I’m not sure where you are heading, but if I but have a moment’s breath to smell your fragrance, I will have lived my life for real. I will sit in that space with you, inhale your scent, and live with the memory forever.

There is a depth between us, and a depth that surrounds us. I can feel its eternal bottom, and I know the truth of this reality. What seems crazy to the mind rings true to the heart, and the chills felt and the sighs heaved speak a language of their own. I’ve heard them, I trust them, and though my mind sounds bells of insanity, my heart beats remarkable oaths to the promise of this moment.

What am I to do but share with you this truth? Who am I to turn to when the pulsing of my heart calls your name? To which voice am I to obey, the one within my mind or the one within my heart? I want to carry you through the smoke, drive a hundred miles to change your tire, hold the space and time you need while never letting you forget the depths to which I’ve risen just to see you smile.

One day, as my hopes and dreams are played where I sit, words will be used but be unnecessary. You will feel my fingertips raise bumps upon your back, and you will know. You will feel the power of your hand in mine, and you will find the truth. You will falter and I will carry you. You will call for me and I will come. All that you have sought, that’s been seeking you, will be found in me, and I will be found within your arms.

Hopes. Dreams. The sanctuary of fools, the monument of the insane. Let me be a fool. I have nothing worth being sane for. I would rather wake to you, get your coffee, hold your face in my hands, and kiss you with the rising Sun. Sanity seems a darkness in which I’ve lived too long. I wish to walk in the light of craziness!

Yet, the reality. I sit and breath in the realm of the conscious. Yes, I will wait as I have. Yes, I will be here when your cracks are whole. You are not alone as you face those beasts, and if my blood is spilled upon the soil where we stand, a beautiful garden will be born. If the wind is taken from my sails, I will build my home upon the sea.

Goodnight, my dear. I will write to you again. I promise.

No quit

March 21, 2017 / Tom

Diving in the stillness,
Sitting, breathing, feeling,
A distant song, a revelry 
Renewed the purpose of eternity.

Beaten, robbed, by those he loved,
Passion gone, returned as anger born,
The minion forgotten in tribute to the Master,
A sullen boy lost, forsaken still.

No unleavened bread,
No manna from the sky revealed,
A desert devoid of hope,
Burning sand springs eternal from their lash.

There is no quit...
There is no surrender...
The white flag to this forgotten boy,
Means certain death, left forgotten on a road.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained,
Or so a manboy's told...
"Fuck you all," is his reply,
Words can sting more than a sharpened knife.

The Sun rises as it always does,
Darkness reigns in a young man's eyes.
The heat of rage denies his heart,
And the wound left in his side.

There can be no quit...
No defeat in the final bell tolled,
He cannot stop, for the will's defeat,
Is the ending breath for the unloved soul.

A boy, now man,
Struggling for his identity,
Tears with the newborn he holds,
Love, discovered in her cry.

A boy, now man,
Torn and tortured in the juxtaposition,
They, those out there, cannot be trusted,
Yet, with her, his determined hand rises above the embers.

There is no quit in this man...
For he feels a renewed destiny.
The Sun has risen with such complexity,
The Moon still beckons and teases his insanity.

A certain ending, beholden to no one,
A mission lurking just beneath his surface,
To love...again or for the very first time,
The Wind, it knows what it is doing.

Some things lost, and some things gained,
The process pushing him along,
It throws him into the darkness of his mind,
He is forced to face the demons that roared within his soul.

He is just no quit in this man....
The longing in his soul awakens him,
The sadness in his heart inspires him,
The entirety of his purpose test at the end of a rope.

He's alive, awakened to the journey at hand,
Each step a realization of survival, 
Of purpose, of arriving at love's great doorstep.
Of knocking on her door.

He knows, not from some crazy notion of insecurity,
But from his place of sculpted certainty,
He's arrive, yet the journey not completed,
He knocks, but will she let him in?

There is no quit in his heart,
She will be loved, for each scar on him a lesson told,
Each footfall a song unto its own,
Each note a tribute to who she is.

Alas, the door opens, and there she stands.
He has finally found his home.
The journey still not completed,
Yet, finally, he finally feels its purpose.

The Truths That Remain Unsaid

March 17, 2017 / Tom

Sometimes rain falls from a cloudless sky. Sometimes you can hear the rustle of leaves on a barren plain. Sometimes, you can find water in a stone.

I’ve sat alone on many nights, thinking about you. I’ve imagined your fears spilling out upon my skin, your dreams echoing in our chamber. Unexplained waves of something have poured over me in sight of you, uncertain power has wrapped around me as if your arms have been born from the darkness, embracing even the most fragile parts of me.

So many nights I’ve bathed in the truths that have remain unsaid. So many days I’ve smiled in your joy, silently basking in your glow. So many hours have flown by in the dreams of hearing your voice, of feeling your hand, of kissing you in ways that demand you surrender to your heart. So many minutes have escaped me hoping for that moment when I could love you in the way you have always wanted. So many seconds. So many…

A sigh from my own parted lips. I profess my truth in dribbles and drabs, hoping to comfort your insecurity. I offer you a small piece of the truth, yet there is no doubt within me. In every second since our meeting, in every minute since our words first spread across the Universe, I have known this truth within me. I have felt you there since the dawning of that day.

My heart does not demand your reply, or seek your surrender. My heart has held you dear, beat with your name in a rhythm all its own, without uttering a single word. I have known you in my being, held you in my soul, and I have never asked a thing from you. Now, the wine flows and the heart sings in those little dribbles and drabs, speaking honestly, while leaving some truths to remain unsaid.

Such beauty you are, a wonderful mix of things I’ve asked for and things I’ve only dreamt about. Such beauty you are, a loving mix of iron and the softest stone around. Such beauty you are, how dare I utter a single word lest the dream dissolve and the mist be blown away. The idea of you excites me, the thought of scaring you sends me into chaotic disarray.

For now on know, I do not scare so easily. If you call, I will come. If you speak my name, I will answer in loving repose. If you need, I will reply. If you want, I will give. If you have a question, I will answer you with unbridled truth.

Those truths that remain unsaid are but a poison, slowly killing the things that ought to be. Mysteries will confound us, but we will survive. Waves of doubt with assail us, but stand strongly in the sand we shall. Winds of change will blow our minds into the sea, but dance in the mist we shall. You will never doubt your space with me, for I will never let you down.

I cannot hope but test the future, and sleep sullenly in the past. I will utter your name in prayers of tomorrow without expecting a reply. Just know these things are true, even if you never hear of them. Just feel these things surround you, even in the most open of spaces. They will be with you, even when you think you are alone.

Therein lies the truth that will never be unsaid.

The Sun Does Rise (A Poem)

March 16, 2017 / Tom

In the soft breezes of a spring day,
In the sweet melody of love's sweet song,
There you were.

I found you in the Sunrise,
In the orange hues of a brand new day,
That promise renewed.

I saw you in the morning fog,
Dancing in such brilliance,
And extraordinary wonder.

I heard you in the songbird's lust,
Cracking silence with such resilience,
Making stillness such a wonderful emotion.

I felt you in that morning stretch,
Releasing, refreshing in a prayerful yawn,
Come, let us feast on our desire.

My dear Emptiness, my sweet perfume,
That scent that awakens my soul,
The fragrance of my own sacred self.

Come, for now I wither into the day,
Forgotten by most, hindered by my own insanity,
Lost in my own misdirection.

Leave, for now I want her in her chaos,
Found in her own disarray,
I thirst, and she is the drink.

In her, that island oasis in a sea of sand,
My extraordinary finding her ordinary,
Like a magic tale of a man not living on bread alone.

By her, a road full of bumps and bruises and shallow scars,
Turns East, toward an orange sky,
A day renewed, the Sun does rise.