what are they doing . . . here ?

what are they doing . . . here ?

the children are dancing

in bliss

with their ignorance of their day

and their hearts are Hop Scotching

in innocence

across the shadows on the pavement

sharing

taking turns

casting smiles back to the Sun

beaming as one

in accord with the joy

the moment

that has no design

or motive

but what they are doing

here ?

yes,

what are they doing her

frolicking

in the gardens

of no expectations

playing in the loft

with their dreams

hearts singing

in 4/4

unfettered

fulfilled

for where they are

is enough

yes

what are they doing

here ?

have they come

to paint our prisons walls

with envy

as our pains of denial

collect in the our cups of anguish

and overflow ?

upon the ground

they seek to pool

puddle in abundance

to become the streams

and run into our Children’s future

to give them too

a reason to sustain

this false penance we pay

each day

that in the night

the beds of our guilt

with our soggy pillows

drenched with our Soul’s tears

may become deludedly comfortable

what are they doing . . .

here

their pristine inner beauty

is blinding

and like the sightless men we are

we trip across our understandings

and divinity

because we recognize it not

even our senses have been indoctrinated

to embrace this painful vibration

as an ultimate truth

as we move through eternity

pedaling with conviction

on Wisdom’s Tricycle

that has but 1 wheel

and no handlebars

what are they doing . . .

here ?

did they come with purpose

deliberately reminding us

of the sacrifice we make

as Pilgrims in this dense Hell ?

are they the Missionaries

who have come to torture us

with their innocence\

because we have forgotten

how to listen

to the sounds of creation

that sound of congruous love

that attunes all things to source ?

i secretly spit upon their potential

to become like me

what are they doing . . .

here?

did not anyone tell them

of the dangers

the risk

of getting stuck

in this jungle’s quicksand

and that Tarzan is a Myth

that the only Vines one can swing from

requires you to hold on tightly

and they grow from the Tree of Life here in 3D

and it’s fruits are Despair and Hope

a concoction of confusion

for that which is Divine

that which is Holy

or used to be

can they not see

what are they doing . . .

here ?

i must warn them

not scorn them

and display the absence of my forlorn-ment

and let my adornment

be the memory of the light

i have long ago out in the closet

and closed the door

i must remove the barriers of my own first

and set an example

by allowing my quixotic child

out to play

this day

in the gardens

where the fragrant principles of bliss

skips and reflects

 across the absence of shadows

as the limbs on the Tree of Life

sway with the breeze

of Freedom

Love

Smiles and Laughter

forever after

and i asked again

what are they doing . . .

here ?

and now i understand

in the absence of demand

they have come for me

and you

that we may be liberated

from the bondage

we acquiesce to

give our lives to

each day

what are they doing here ?

Love them

smile with them

play with them

embrace them

for they have come for you

© 30 March 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.