Help

Too afraid to need people, too afraid to love
Too afraid to need people, too afraid to hug
Too afraid to be the one on receiving end
Too afraid to be the one, truly a friend

So, we disguise how we need people
With clever little games
Do this and do that for me now
Confusing all the names

Who is it that is owed, if everything is one
Who made the palms of hands
Perhaps that which made the drums
You are harmony made of rhythm
Pretending you don’t need music
So, alone in silence you sit and sulk
Just about to lose it

Blaming all the world
For every problem you face
Still, my compassion remains infinite
A divine gift of grace
I didn’t come to harm you
I only came to care
Now you send those broken wounds
Launched through silent air

How is it that you think
The energy was missed
I know you need me too
For you, a silent  kiss
Blown from hand
In the realm of thought
where all things begin
The reason why you lose
Too focused on the win
The sideways secret game
To get more than you give
Taking food from another
Expecting them to live

You don’t see the pain you cause
Only what’s done to you
How can you let anyone in
With a barbed wire point of view

Too afraid to need people, too afraid to love
Too afraid to need people, too afraid to hug
Too afraid to be the one on receiving end
Too afraid to be the one, truly a friend

Kevon Simpson 2015 ©

Morning Meditation Message 16

We’ve forgotten how to be on top of one another, which was once an integral part of our survival as a species. We migrated with little room for sleep, everything we owned on our backs, and now we can’t even sit on the crowded train together. We have lost our way, traveled miles away from the truth. What is the truth? The fact that we need each other. The fact that you choose lonely and really want love is masochistic. Stop killing yourself. Love calls all the missing pieces, reminding each that it is important. The language is love, light, and sound. It is what you feel, what you see, and what you hear. A little noise is not going to hurt you, and a little touch is not going to hurt you. When was the last time you abruptly bumped into yourself and wanted to be with you – that sweet frightening beauty that you are? It is time to remember that you are one with it all. Stop being annoyed by the small things in the mess you have created of your own life. It is okay, we have all made a mess of our lives, and the planet. Together we remember, together we take action. Step one is to remember by waking up, step two is to clean, step three is to ask for help. Change the order if you must. The formula is non-linear. This is all happening too fast to cry. Too fast to cry. Too fast to cry.

Morning Meditation Message 7

Concentration is a gift you give to yourself. The ability to focus intently upon one thing with sincerity of heart, brings it closer to you. Sometimes it is not about distance or time, and more about vibration. Literally, how you feel in your heart, radiates out to all the world. On the truest level of being, there are no secrets, that which is in all, knows all, speaks to all. So, if what is in the silent spaces of your heart, is frustration, rage, anger, envy and so on, why think that smiling on the face will disguise this? You are always seen, not as a fear based threat or punishment – you are always seen, because you are always loved, and always have been. Watching, being aware, is a kind of love that none of us had to earn. This was a natural part of us before taking this physical body, and is a part of us even now. What am I trying to say this morning? What you seek is also seeking you, and so to honor that, you must let go of what is letting go of you. Clinging, even to the idea of how justified your frustration, rage, and anger may be, does noting for your health or the pursuit of your goals. It literally makes your immune system weaker, and keeps your dreams and goals away from you, which then makes you more upset and bitter, which then lowers your immune system some more, and on and on the cycle goes until you end up in the hospital blaming the world for it all. Forgive and let go. You are the landlord of your own mind. What kind of tenants have you moved in? Catch yourself today, in that moment of the knee-jerk response to whatever it is that bothers you, change the thought. Take a deep breath, and change the thought, this is likened to changing the keys. Are you following the metaphor? Stop painting the house to fix a leak in the basement, the work is internal. Be patient with yourself as you would be with a small child, and in time you will build a wellspring of resilience, the focus needed, to truly reach your goal. We are all children on the inside, the tantrums however, can be a little bit more complex. Stop. Enjoy this lovely day, it is a gift, and so is the life in you.

Morning Meditation Message 3

Water and stone. Imagine that your soul and all its wisdom is like liquid light. From this metaphoric perspective, imagine also that the thoughts in your mind are like thousands of stones gathered and tightly packed, so that even though an ocean may be above them, all that trickles through are tiny drops every few years. A few hundred stones are labeled guilt, another hundred – shame, another hundred – resentment, and so on. Imagine still, that underneath this gathering of rocks, is you with the dream in your heart. The light of the soul is the infinite organizer that shows the way to the dream in the heart, as it is your direct connection to the higher power. Though you can never be separate from it, when too many stones gather, it becomes easier to forget. Then we think the sky is falling, and tell everybody, but it is only the rocks of our own minds. When we sit in meditation, what we are doing is creating space between the rocks, removing some as well, so that your liquid soul light can flow through and nourish the seed of the dream within you. What happens next, is inevitable growth. When you run away from yourself by refusing to go within, you become stagnant, and all that you wish to change in the world becomes stagnant too, because your influence is blocked. Your influence is blocked because people can sense the lack of soul light flowing from you, for it is an invisible language of vibration. Your influence is blocked because not even you, is paying attention to you. There is no faking its awakening, no garment that can give its shine, you must become it to set yourself free, and to inspire others to do the same. Water and stone. Enjoy this beautiful day!

Morning Meditation Message 2

Return to the dance. You look up at the sky and you say “stars,” “moon,” “sun,” but do you ever say choreography? Dance is all around you, as is the music, that plays in the heart when you see something beautiful. Indeed, you too, are as beautiful as the mystery you observe. Each country, group of people, or tribe, has its dance. Perhaps you have forgotten some of yours by coming to america, or by being so many generations removed for a reason it hurts to talk about. Let go of the reason, and rekindle that part of you. We live in an age of profound connection, an electrical wireless group mind. To say it simply, do a search on youtube, and find your culture’s dance. Play the music, feel the forgotten part of your genetics stir with rhythmic remembrance of your people from long ago. Feel the remembrance of the power of dance, and how it carries the soul through difficult passages, and even calls down the rain. Don’t worry about getting the steps wrong, or feeling silly, close that door, and dance. The drum beat is in your blood. When you return to the dance of you, you return to the dance of all that is. Enjoy this beautiful day, it was made for you.

Merkabah Flakes

Just like that the moments gone,
continues melody of subtle song,
infinite orchestra falling from sky,
awe profound no room for lie,
as cold and wind together start,
beauty within thy snowflake’s heart.

Was there warmth to make your edge,
tip of sky, perhaps fearless ledge,
origin of air no need to leap,
nor net to catch thy wind of sleep,
perfect individual gone so soon,
shovel, salt, sand and moon.

Know I something of this bright,
endless shining in darkest night,
genuflect thy magic much,
bitter broken by sweetest touch,
such simple beauty dare I say,
feign I knowing mystery’s way.

by Kevon Simpson © 2015

Traveling Light

But please, let me not die with longing in my heart
wishing to walk the leaf’s edge in a fresh cup of tea
from a foreign land steaming behind glass that sits
in the souvenir shop of my imagination’s dream

Let me leave with the memory of flavor
a sweet seasoned last breath of spices
sold at the market of my turbaned heart
wrapping experience as a sparkling jewel

I desire to depart with less woe
not a single too-late left to bare
the strength to finish everything
moistened finger tip and crumbs

Empty backpack postcards sent
train, plane, horse, and camel
dunes, secret rituals, and brews
the shoulder of another language

souvenir shop of my imagination’s dream
wrapping experience as a sparkling jewel
moistened finger tips and crumbs
even the shoulder of another language
‘twixt I leave this journey of my soul

by Kevon Simpson © 2015

Write Your Soul Free coming in February!

They Said He Doesn’t Know

Could one remind you of your beauty knowing not his own,
wouldn’t experience’s lack flash be swiftly shown,
if he knew not what he was doing, how is it that you see,
the love in all the faces, flowing heals so effortlessly,
are you waiting for him to brag, or shout it loud and proud,
but what would that make him, but a gimmick behind a shroud,
should he sit and count the souls that he has helped to mend,
could he be so egotistical and still allow blessings to bend,
from the tip of astral possibility suddenly becoming mold,
like ancient clay you’ve heard them say “his spirit is so old,”
perhaps you think his purpose just came in on a whim,
maybe it’s not he who sees himself not, are you sure that you see him

There there in skinny arms, your tears have come to be bared,
do you find him novice in that moment or even half-way scared,
of the tireless mission moving mountains to free of night and mare,
do you think his need for solitude and silence means he doesn’t care,
perhaps you think he calls your soul, to validate bruised broken self,
but see how long he plays alone, old book upon a shelf,
-is all he needs for hours on end to simply pass the time,
wasn’t he the graceful dancer melting all your rime,
how it collected on that tired heart so weary from winter walk,
wasn’t he protective as an owl while he listened to you talk
so how is it that you think, he really doesn’t know,
the secret you say he unlocked in you, also helps him glow.

But here is the mystery, some healers won’t dare to say,
it is none of us that gives anything, but light that gives the day.

by Kevon Simpson © 2015

Workshop: Write Your Soul Free coming in February!
Photo Credit: Cameron Gray

 

Again

Sometimes I feel like tiny man with only almost dreams,
like tea kettle on low, with only half the steam.
Where is the air, to make sharp calling sound of whistle?
Dreams once made of marble, now come cracked and brittle.
What say I to all the friends who believed so dear,
that my feet would walk the water top without a single fear?
While drowning, how can I tell them I’ve fallen far beneath,
the treasure I was hunting for and never got to meet?
How do I find the courage to face them once again,
as cemetery bones cry earth to mock, break, and bend,
everything I thought I knew about my tired self;
see them collecting dust now, those dreams upon the shelf?
Quivering hand and bedside lamp, reaching careful touch,
perhaps I’ll pull them closer now, I’ve missed them oh so much.

by Kevon Simpson © 2014

Golden

I know where to go,
how to compound words so tightly,
they squeeze moisture out of the air,
but only in the shape of golden tears.
Treasure, at the end of rainbows.

Set it on a mark to go!
Your flow can set a hand free.
Heart can be your new start,
free fly and find tomorrow’s glee.

I have a chest made of map;
know thyself is written across the top,
where myself remains smitten sapped,
I go sweetly within my souls glowing pot.

It sings like. . .

mysterious melodious magic music,
that moves it past the point of pain;
like cranes that fly to lift
heavy things that no longer sing
to deeply planted grain.

Grow to the heights of tallest tree!

Set your heart free!
Like mysterious melodious magic music.
Eye on the goal, walking rubble road,
sure to touch it, even after fork-split.

Our souls are made of bliss!

I know where to go,
how to compound words so tightly,
they squeeze moisture out of the air,
but only in the shape of golden tears,
that later become rainbow treasure,
that frees us from our fears.

by Kevon Simpson © 2014