The Magic Hand

Poems can never make adequate explanations
for man and his many hesitations
and his constant deviation
from what is real.
They love me through wooden eyes
The tree of love in one heart lies.
The bough brushes gently along the ground
For waiting souls long to touch it.
Its mystical and deep
and sorely needing
and cautious and slow to constant heeding
and has been eternally bleeding.
It lies in deserts
and in the sand
In mountains one can sense the hand
The Hand that molded shelf by shelf
the lower and the higher self.
It placed Man somewhere
in between
what is
and what seems to have been
The spark of all
and the machine.
It asks him only to obey
The heart within
The only way.
From ancient histories of the past
through destruction’s terrorism
and nuclear blast
The only breath that one sees last
is the breath of love.
Through its nostril’s clean it breathe pure air
until man put hate and impurities there
pervading the atmosphere released by thought
separating each from the eternal ought
not ought to be
or ought to do
but the ought of spirit
Which told the secret
There is no woman
no man
no sex
no creed
no race
but only spirit
on a constant chase
towards itself
shelf by shelf
building growing
and forever flowing.
The hour is approaching
the animal is dying
the soul is moving upward
and forever trying.
Dissolving all that came before
the new man speaks as one who knows
Not with words of Brass
Or steel edged lies
or pleading groan or cries
he speaks of all
that there can be
in the life of eternity
which does not begin
for visitors of the earth
but those that live
in the here and now.
The dead are walking
down the street
Look at them.
Each others eyes
constantly meet
and they know in their heart
that death is necessary for one to grow
they must die to old thoughts
Old habits
and live what is new
and that is man who is a heart
that flows into all hearts.
That lifts up
and laughs
and purifies.
On the other side of death
is life
and life is loving
and Zombies who gather together
in Congregations mass strangulation’s
feel the bubble is bursting
because their soul is thirsting
Thirsting for a touch of the hand
the Magic hand
that with fingers
finer than pure gold
fingers not made
if flesh or bone
fingers that are all things
This Magic hand
echoes as as symbol
in every land
that itself
it is a part of every woman
every child
and every man.

 

© Stephen John Kalinich
All Rights Reserved

 

             

 

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