Christina Helena

Old Man at Café du Monde

2010-06-13T15:47:00.000-04:00

Notebooks with writing,
Sitting in corners reciting.

His eyes connected,
When he least expected.

Behind the ancient white door,
He sat with his cup on the floor.

The rhythm of tourists passing,
Frantically he kept on writing.

Visually they feared his essence,
Judgment folded his luminescence.

Assumption based upon his hobo look,
While brilliance lied within that book.

He held it with guard,
Probably creating his own bard.

Obsession spurred from his vibe,
With a voice potent enough to build a tribe.

Café du Monde seemed to be his home,
For creative inspiration while he sat alone.

This old man was far from a lie,
His pain enough to make you cry.

Tomorrow another new day,
While he listens to people order a beignet.

He’ll continue to grow gray,
As another day goes away.

Ojai you make me cry

2010-06-11T17:47:00.000-04:00

This isn’t a phase,
Or place to raise,
Commotion and praise.

A home for believers,
To support grievers,
Surrounded by healers.

Nothing more beautiful,
The light so hopeful,
And people respectful.

Dressed in white,
You know from the initial sight,
Their light is bright.

Holding space,
From a Brazilian base,
Helps slow down the race.

The pyramid facing towards the ceiling,
Answering our prayers for healing,
When the entity knows what we’re feeling.

Sitting in silence,
Brings us to balance,
As we walk though the entrance.

Hours pass by,
Some cry,
Others find out why.

Incense burns,
Crystal energy yearns,
Healings eliminate concerns.

Today is Full of Blessings

2010-06-05T02:22:00.000-04:00

Life is just such an out of body experience when you are completely on path and it continues to pour validations all over your life with purposefully coincidences.

They want you to stop drinking

2010-06-03T16:45:00.000-04:00

Before you know it, there you are trapped in its false euphoric state of psychedelic utopia, where your bipolar self indulges into your personal human devil. You push and you blow, you try and you glow but the darkness chases you step by step waiting for you to trip into a hole. Sadly your biological statue ruined a little slow, as the viewers of your channel crumple into a self removed misunderstood feeling of the plot surrounding their feared dream. Words destroy momentary joys into scars, possibilities of life turned into angels sing along your side of destruction, as beggars of recovered spirits cheer for you to win a crown of personal split personality demolition. Pouf, the moment disappeared as the quickness of the life you took. Where now red, glass and noise blend into a breaking piece of news shaming communal recognition. Achievements of a workaholic evaporate into train carts riding south with three boxes of confused disappointment, as metallic divisions separate your regret with your loss.

...

2010-06-02T03:32:00.000-04:00

I is Truth

2010-06-01T17:15:00.000-04:00

I. Have a voice. A loud voice. I. Am stubborn. I... am a type of stubborn, so stubborn. Unbearably stubborn. Because I know the truth. I feel it in my bones. I feel the rhythm of my blood splashing like the waters of white water rafting ricocheting against my soul in a circular motion around the map of my body. I trust in my body. My body is a cancer survivor. A survivor of a close call. A call that dragged a knife south against my skin. A call that took days. Months. Years to hang up with. I am grateful. Grateful that the sun today will shine. Shine upon blessings of love. Today I have the choice to love. To love you. To love me. To love the traffic keeping me still on the highway of hope. Because hope is keeping me alive. The energy vibrates so high. It separates my body from my existence into a transcendental moment of truth. And I yearn this addictive moment to caress my hair as I lay to sleep. To protect me from thoughts that sneak into beautiful perception. But I can only be I. As long as I is truth.

God. Prayer... Where?

2010-05-30T22:24:00.000-04:00

Entering homes of worship differ in such color that the confused shape of energy could stir war into peaceful destruction. An argumentative consciousness becoming immune to a surrounding growing community of hard core believers. Their inner devil pushes against their satin skins as they revengefully attend numerical must dos abided by persuasive leaders. Loss of challenge drained with all their oxygenated breathe to speak, so they sit and quietly pursue to their inner for belief, because actions of challenge loss muscle. This air of god lies among us, does it not? We lay our eyes upon a picturesque moment and match our verbal lips to expression of such, but find player to the creator full of laws. Does the home of such a similar man matter in that much distance that we have re-constructed his dream creation into ashes? Peace finds innovative souls sitting quietly in back corners of pews, under colorful artistic mosaic stories lying on painted glass, where they personally decide to shut sound entering their body in linear motion. Allow their skin to raise the softly brushed hair upon their being into becoming a welcoming center of blessing and intuitive initiation surrendering their own accumulated wrongful ideologies and trusting universal energies into proper direction. God lies within our consciousness; he makes no mistakes in his personal recipe of life. Answers are coded within individuals who chose to live among others releasing slowly, purple droplets of clues as sincere smiles paint the world happy. Like a drug, a euphoric substance we are made of, where all we need for peace is our love, quiet intuitive answers and to re-fuel all thoughts back into perspective in any corner of life, by just looking straight ahead into existence.

Oh Shit

2010-05-30T01:38:00.000-04:00

Oh Shit,
the moment when
your pathos drops
your warrior stance
to your knees.

The moment when
you have done
something bad and
your glow can't hide
it's joy for freedom.

Oh Shit,
the moment the
gentle touch of
your lips are yearned
with a guilty desire
of need.

The moment when
your universal
peripheral knowing
bleeds into resurrection.

Troublemakers

2010-05-29T01:24:00.000-04:00

History was never created by well behaved humans, as those who care to create trouble change the world from a toxic base to a colorful paragon. A scattered group of believers in peace all journey through skies attempting to wash the corrupt energy attached upon normal ideologies. Those souls release a touch of ulterior energy which equally feared by some, others fall into a deep addiction for healing within it. Simple laughing moments of existence release a touch of hope for global euphoria, but without revolutionaries of peace such lacks the speed needed. Soldiers of the world paint vibrations through their pursuit of inner treasure. Boldness has genius attached upon it's force where the leader of that magical motion can dream into unfathomable truth. Fear not the ones brave for trouble, fear those cowardly sitting without voice.

Welcome!

2010-05-29T01:06:00.000-04:00

You might enjoy, inspire, evoke an emotion as energy forces your visit back to an explosive inspiration.

Peace and love to all who ignite this interest in my poetry - I hope inspiration, smiles, thought and light finds you along the way while reading with my stream of conciousness. Many thanks!!!

Love & light, Christina~