Stand amongst the angels this day,
touch their soul, feel your way.
Ask them to grant you a wish, maybe two,
how else shall they know, begin... voice your view.
Not by chance a breeze blows a sign,
prods your shoulder, goosebumps, divine.
Now they know what stirs by your call,
omnipresent amongst souls rising tall.
Touched by the magic, enriched by the feel,
deeper and deeper each journey becons real.
Garnished by healing, a timeless display,
wave after wave, they show you the way.
Maybe you start to appreciate why,
visits and structures are dealt from up high.
Swirling around like the white foams on surf,
equal for all and here from your birth.
Why be in the shadows when light guides the path,
follow fluorescence at sea, make your raft,
then sail out with nothing but love pulsing strong,
calling each angel with manifesting song.
Soon you feel the difference inside,
reaching your passion to be on this ride.
No destination or last stop cafe,
just beautiful kindness, with love every day.
Note from the author to explain how I know,
I laid here this night head on pillow aglow.
Then rhythm in rhyme starts to chirp in my dream,
line after line, repeating and keen.
Tapping my skull with gentlest touch,
nurturing conscious to create, I wake up.
And soon to recognise signal is strong,
writing this verse that flowed on and on.
Copyright Emrys Skye 2020
My gong hanging from ye old oak tree,
respecting its soul from a past memory,
much shining light so angelic and warm,
once washed away the coven of scorn.
With a passing Hare as quick as you like,
stopping to share fine tales of delight.
Is this the start of a gathering wood,
does the man in Green show up. Perhaps he should.
Softly bark from behind much shade,
does turn about, all chilled on parade,
just as I thought a deer looks across,
Quan Yin I am, from a voice gentle like floss.
Now numbers swell as tweet not human,
flies in low, all dark like a Raven.
Perhaps I'll begin and see what comes,
no shouts Merlin transforming feathers to thumbs,
Ooh, is this the command from a toiling soul,
don't be daft, snorts Ashtar the Mole.
I'm the closest it gets to nibbling your jam,
Yet you see me not as you walk this fine land.
Ascended or not you are welcome all here,
from the smallest of creature and greatest so dear.
Yes, your presence a glory as I gong for you all,
this fine summer day under oak tree not small.
© Emrys Skye 2020