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by

Quietude 

by Liam

A handshake…

 this simple moment of presence.

Your child’s laughter, sudden and bright,

like a bird startled into song.

The August rain,

softening the grass under my feet,

and the patient rhythm of the sea ….

eternal, like my first deep breath in the morning.

A glass of wine with dad,

that silent enjoyment of time passing gently.

The grace of easing someone’s pain…

as if your hands remembered

they were created for this.

And love…

not hurried, but intense and slow,

together under the watchful shade of the moon.

Our souls meeting again,

stronger for the intimacy  we enjoy.

Life, quietly , remains

the most astonishing gift.

It is from here…

this place of sacred normality…

that we learn to stop,

Allowing the small things to speak.

These, they are the truest.

They fade not.

They dwell inside us like embers,

warming us when we feel cold.

And this is why we go on …

because even in the quietude,

we are being told who we truly are.

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Music

By Liam

Dance, spin, and soar,

not as an escape, but as a return.

This rhythm is older than breath,

deeper than quietude.

It’s as we began.

A pulse in the dark,

a whisper blowing between stars.

The music waits,

not here in the noise of the world

but in the hush beneath it’s appearance.

When the body loosens its grip

and the soul steps forward,

bare and trembling,

then the ringing begins

pure and vast,

the long, clear tones

of the cosmos remembering itself.

O how the energy moves in me,

not frantic, but free.

The spheres humming in holy accord,

lifting us again and again

like breeze whirling over open fields,

like joy spilling out from love.

To be lost in flow

is to be found by grace.

To move without need

is to be moved by something

wider than will.

There, in motion

unbound and unburdened,

I felt at last…

not the music I sought,

but the music I’ve become.

by

The Brushstroke 

by Liam

There is an artist,

Not apart from you, but pulsing in your very breath.

There was an artist,

Creating long before the cry of your first light.

There shall always be an artist,

Alive in the quiet flame of your becoming.

You are the brushstroke of the Eternal,

Painting the canvas of each day with your presence.

Each morning you waken the dawn,

Summoning gold from the hush of shadow.

From the invisible, you call forth wonder,

Shaping creation from the silence of soul.

A star has kindled deep within your being,

Its radiance not seen by the Sun,

But known in the marrow of your being.

It outshines the wild surge of the sea,

Moves beyond the mighty pulse of the surf.

Let this fire infuse your moment,

Let your hands create with sensations of longing,

Until the world feels the love of your light.

Becoming the art you were born to reveal.

Becoming the blessing you already are.

by

Climb

by Liam

When your soul searches for answers,

Go deep—scale the vast immensity, climb!

The cliffs, the cracks, the sacred crevices

Of your own magnificence.

Embrace it all—fully, without fear,

For your thirst will only be quenched 

From the fountainhead of self.

“Where?” the traveler whispered.

“Here,” the echo replied,

“Where insight meets recognition.”

This knowing lives within you—always has.

Let greatness be your mountain.

We all must climb with humble steps,

Toward the truth:

For you are, and always have been, whole.

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by

All You See in Me

by liam

I want to become 

what you see in me~

not the worn style 

of my own hesitation,

but the quickening grace

awakened by your gaze.

Your seeing transforms me

as if already whole~

as if cracks were not flaws,

but openings for light.

In your presence,

my innermost peace rises,

Absent of fear,

patient as rock.

You do not name me

by my inadequacies ~

you name me

by my transcendence. 

How is it

you recognize the path

before my own feet

have walked it?

I carry so many shadows,

yet you speak

as if I were made from the rays of dawn.

And so I stand

at the threshold

of your sight~

not to perform,

not to prove anything,

but to simply unfold.

Allow me to transmigrate

into that vision,

let me shed

the husks of my doubt,

and wear instead

the fashion,

your love remembers.

For perhaps……

what you recognize in me

is not a dream,

but this very soul

I have yet to welcome

home.

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by

the Soul

by Liam

Remember my beloved,

not as an act of memory 

but as an insight~

a soft turning toward

the beginning of your beginning still breathes.

For within the archives of your memory

there waits a threshold,

a gate not made by hands

Yet which opens by the ache of love.

You stood there once~

before your naming, before the remembrance 

and the insight that met you then

And has never ceased to seek you since.

Here,

you will not become more,

nor less~

but completely and wholly

what you have always been:

a flame within the great fire,

a note in the eternal sound,

a soul returning to source.

In this sanctuary,

at the very center of your heart,

there is a joy beyond song,

not even happiness, but belonging;

not escape, but homecoming.

To become everything

is to become nothing~

and in this disappearance 

you again become one.

Not as before,

but as forever.

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The Beginning

by Liam

To the music!

Dance, spin, and fly~

not to escape the world,

but to discover it again,

more whole.

It’s in the music

we first open our awareness.

We are shaped, at first,

by its breath.

And here,

in this still moment,

we remember:

we are not only flesh,

but more~

Specifically like music.

In the release from the body,

we are caught by something greater:

the ringing of the cosmos,

a choir of light

moving through the air.

The energy of the spheres,

older than time,

whispers us upward,

lifts us~

like wind whirling

across open fields,

like breath streaming

through a vibrating flute.

In the blur of movement,

I dissolve.

And in that vibration ,

I find what endures~

not an answer,

but a harmony:

a quiet belonging

to all this life.

by

Her Light

Liam

She moves through her day

like a hush between

the catechism and confession.

Quiet, unassuming, introverted,

yet charged with a grace

that makes dust motes

seem like angels in the light

each dancing to be noticed.

Her presence, too, always gathers vibrancy,

as if she creates

sparks of lightning with her gaze.

People often ask where she comes from.

Strange—

as if the sacred has to carry

an identity document.

True:

she shines like a diamond

at a garage sale—brilliantly,

but gets mistaken for costume jewelry,

and sold to someone

who became nothing more than a paperweight.

Yet even then,

she did not dim.

For the heavenly never complains

about being misnamed

or being mistreated.

She simply waits,

waits to be recognized—

like eternity

wearing time as the disguise.

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Words in Spring

by Liam

In springtime, my words too will blossom

not perfectly in a slick dialogue,

but in the humble whisper

of something just born.

Long dormant beneath the syllables of silence,

nestled in the earth of what I did not yet know how to express.

Yes, the spring comes quickly.

Light illuminates the soil of the spirit,

and what once was buried

germinates with understanding.

These words are not summoned, but consciously arrive

as petals burst open toward a seeking sun,

drinking from the mystery that makes all things grow.

This harvest is not to explain,

but to reveal.

Not to answer,

but to bless.

May words find you too,

the way wildflowers find cracks on the pilgrim’s path,

unexpected, tender, and beautiful.

Not forged in certainty, but in wonder,

lingering like dew along the edge of your morning sojourn.

by

The Altar of Now

by Liam

Let this day not pass

as a mere rhythm of tasks,

but as the quiet thrum

of my inner joy.

Let your words be shaped

by the hush of gratitude,

spoken not to fill the air

but to consecrate it.

This my moment is not

subservient to past or future.

It is the altar of now,

where life enacts with you too.

So greet each cloud

as if it carries a message.

Stretch your arms wide to the fields

they remember where you belong.

Fly with the starlings,

which have never forgotten to sing.

Kneel often,

for each breath we take

is a borrowed grace.

Be authentic to your becoming.

Reveal your love

not as a performance,

but as the soul’s spoken tongue,

singing sweet lullabies to your awakening.

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