peace – Festival King

I LOVE Coffee… Drink with me.

Generation “Crimson”

Consider I not the sweet but sour
 my teeth do gnash this late night hour

Sorrow makes the news... a constant reality
 as Love gains distance from humanity

A crimson generation we've become
 No fire works, we prefer guns and exploding bombs

And to what end is all the killing- what creed?
 lives-limbs lost, fulfilling what need?!

She could have been our mother,
 They could have been your kin

... They were!

They are!

I am!

We are!
So whats with all the blood spilling?

...O Love be our volition to find!
 That this generation may regain its title-
 "Man-KIND"

(Googled picture)

This is my simple religion. There is no need for temples; no need for complicated philosophy. Our own brain, our own heart is our temple; the philosophy is KINDNESS- Dalai Lama

The Artist called “War”

The ageless artist.
Vicious portrayals he reveals,
made with constantly evolving brushes
from stone, to steel, then fire;
Novel models now made nuclear.

Strokes of the brush hints the gush of red,
While the steadfast patron, his ecstasy’s fed,
A hate inspired vision created,
The canvas drenched in gory shade.

Mangled figures, a lifeless display
Unseen souls violently snatched away,
The Benefactor,
His fill he takes with each image portrayed.

In time we see the board wiped clean,
yet moved by hatred the artist births new scene
A mural of blood, flesh, sweat and tears
a horrid vision, the gods to bare.

The artist, unwavering and dissatisfied
Conjured by the darkness of human pride
Peace and love, his art deprive.
While hatred, in each heart reside.

His Masterpiece, yet unborn!
A display to end all earth spawn,
Thus these words I write to warn
“Keep far the novel brush
lest he paint the mushroom cloud across our horizon”