Art, change, Connection, life, musings, Poetry, Source

OIL OF SAND – LAND.

The sky as waves in the sea.
Foaming, formed.
A cool crisp, peace.
Birds fly above.
Angel dove.
For where have you been.
Lost? My love.
An Earth.
A canoe.
A silence.
A scope.
I went to a place.
I lost all hope.
It’s drawn the future.
To sky’s of gold.
Not someone else’s.
Not something old.
A glittering, shimmering oil of sand.
This our hope.
We now, can land.

Bec Hart.

Art, ascension, change, Community, Connection, Death, God, Intuitive, life, lyrics, Messages, MOVEMENT, musings, Mystic, One, philosophy, Poetry, rebirth, relationships, Revolution, Source, Spirit, spirituality

ARE WE ALIVE OR IS IT THE BREEZE THAT BREATHES THROUGH WE.

ARE WE ALIVE OR IS IT THE BREEZE THAT BREATHES THROUGH WE.

Does it bare life.
Does it stand strong.
Does the wind fling it around.
Singing the winds song.
Is it dead, stood still.
Rigid.
Rigamortis.
Yet the air breathes through its vessel.
Perceiving life’s liveliest wishes.
An instrument with no player.
A silent sound – minus the mute.
A foot of the climber adorned with no boot.
A dragon – no wings.
How does one fly?
The day – no night.
A lid – minus eye.
The arc minus rainbow.
Hologram in a bin.
Cherry pie in the sky.
The portal within.

Poetry Bec Hart.

Art, ascension, change, Community, Connection, God, Intuitive, life, lyrics, Messages, MOVEMENT, musings, Mystic, One, philosophy, Poetry, relationships, Revolution, Source, Spirit, spirituality

THE TIDE, THE TURN.

THE TIDE, THE TURN.

The wind it moves,
A sacred dance.
A loose structure,
Pure cleansing, trance.
The wind holds eyes,
In ancient skies.
Orange, red.
A holy bed.
A resting wake.
A longing tooth.
From foot, to eye.
From brick, to roof.
Upon ancient winds.
The tide shall turn.
Some will win.
Some shall learn.
In both, a winner.
No loser, in-sight.
The Earth.
The wind.
Blows wolf – away.
Angelic might.
Prophetic delight.

Art and poetry created Feb 2020 – Bec Hart.

change, Community, Connection, fun, life, musings, One, philosophy

JUST LIKE YOU.

Why would we want everybody to be just like us. For some reason we can possibly drive for this; old beliefs playing in the background… not good enough, to good, something right, something wrong.
Striving for people to agree or see things our way.
Oh a dream….What if.
What if this event, leads to this. Where we can all be the same and skip in harmony.
Where there’s no confrontation, no conversation, no motivation nor inspiration.
What if in a lower state of awareness this same pattern is one where we all desire to look a particular way.
What if.
Perceptions.
Patterns.
Still wild, loud and present.
Morphing into another form.
Is one truly awake or going round in different coloured circles. Yet this pattern just as sacred as the rest.
There’s beauty in the eye of another.
The curiosity of what they see, feel, taste, touch.
Of this, we can never truly know.
How interesting is it to hear another’s experience without wanting to change it’s intelligent form….
Without seeing ourselves and the versions we may or may not accept just yet.
What if we lay down these old patterns of psychoanalysis. Coming from a place of acceptance where there are no labels. Lay our selves in awareness and love and accept one another in our now form, regardless of what this is.
Different flavours, textures, tastes.
Journeys of wilderness through ancient skies.
Sensory explosions of creation.
Coloured creations – unique delights.
Highs, lows, who knows where or why one moment leads to the next. There’s something deeply sacred in this unfoldment, pure divine intelligence breathing life in each cells call.
Do we want to live a life where we all turn into bread.
Bread to read, bread to eat, bread to breathe.
Or is the world just perfect as it is.
Imperfection our past creating dread.
Many different coloured threads.
Weaving life.
The weave, the weft.