peaceful revelations

Cloistered for warmth in this area between.
I’ve learned its scenery, lattice worked into my eyes.
Slowly turning toward a greener path, pausing at this door,
portal to awe of wisdom, pure radiant bliss.
Knots of pain and betrayal unwind.
Wheeling psyche casts stellar brand.
Archetype of mystic revelations carried
through the world of Man – I behold this promised land,
potent stream of prophecy.
Commanded, I lay down my burden, weight against my back
of gathered assets I was certain to require.
Freed to meet my mission, to accept desire,
immortal pleasure, the opportunity to sketch,
to draw out beauty, to paint leisurely upon prism glass.
Have I reached the bridge upon the crossroads, the glimmering?
Led to primordial sea which I devoutly travel, native soul
returned.  Having earned passage, my long journeyman’s
wage; peered, stared into age, a deep reflective well.
A wild road calls, beyond this threshold, sculpted by
oceanic power, tectonic rifts, feral air.  I feel self-created destiny
shudder slowly, seismically
incite as I prepare
 *
Wildflowers stain floating air,
exquisite arousal.
Lithe lizards bare to radiant heat.
Warm, smooth stone,
home to softly green moss, invites ease.
Busy buzzing beings, gossamer wings
exult, hum in fair breeze.
Minds extend, reach, touch, grasp every moment.
Taste!
puissant nectar,
sweet sustenance.
Taste!
Abundant sensation.
*
Communal flame, convivial mentation;
nascent scent giggles revelations.
Kite tail of brilliant rainbow
diffuses wavelengths,
gifts rosy hue to twilight.
 *
*
perceptual shift
 *
Ecstatic movement past revelation
from which there  is no return
to what you used to see
who you used to be
That ultimate step to transcend
eternity’s threshold,
magic’s trick of the eye
Mind when it moves
so easily
shining newly emitted
light that belies
primeval storm,
primal fear, attacks
unclear of meaning
Reset
Dance reveals new landscape
Eyes, now excited, aware
ready to venture forward
Intuition follows
this blazing trail
 *
 *
Bliss Consciousness
 *
People seem to be threatened by the idea of bliss, trying to corral the ineffable with definitions.
How can I put words around without restricting open-ended bliss?
Have they no faith in their loving Creator?
Have I no faith in my co-creating higher Muse?
The suffering, disappointments, traumas, desolation — these are not the gifts of deities
demanding or displeased.  These are natural consequences of forces set in motion
impervious to prayer, blind to persons, unaware of our individual sad stories.
Meaningless happenstance we give greater power by attributions of guilt, blame,
bitter condemnation.
Take a little turn, I tell me, into a new truer dimension to perception.
Bliss is the source condition that surrounds us, is the essence of,
all that space in, around, between.
This is the Creator’s plan, Eden’s blueprint, paradise here and hereafter.
This is Christ’s salvation, Buddha’s enlightenment, Mohammed’s dream,
Zarathustra’s revelation.  This is the holy secret Great Goddess whispers
in her cradling lullaby.
All of consciousness, all that life can give, is an option to open eternally
into completion as full awareness of bliss.  Breathe in the healing.
Breathe out the stale pain.
Laugh in the chilling rain, yes, even as the tsunami hits, the Earth quakes,
erupting ash burns, take my hand, my word, my promise.
A universe of bliss is yours for the accepting.  It costs nothing but your sins,
your misconceptions, your resistance to true unfettered life, your immortal soul.
 *
 *
collective consciousness released to dance in expanding space
 *
 *
Zest for jest unbound
Majesty lovingly reconfigures silence
doom, gloom
consecrate violence
Sorcery She exhumes
with such vigor
to trigger excruciating revelation
The pinnacle falls
all those stationary stones
of faith
deconstruct
What luck!
No burden left to tether
to weigh down
Insubstantial ground
demands no obeisance
 *
Escape
biology’s tedious dependence
materiality’s limits
boundaries of this physical plane
Leap
beyond explanation
to imagining
wild
free
beyond capacity
of dream
 *
 *
 *
 
Revelation
 *
 *
 
Weave into the fabric of a tribe of artistic dancers.
 
Fall under the spell of pure magic.
 
Silent night, peace and cold
 
Imbue me with music
 
In ecstasy, I dance to the stars.

Easter

*
 *
Easter
 *
Gentle rosy raindrops of a mellow dawning.
Children make the day – it’s Spring.
I thought of Christ in Church this morning,
borne on His cross in long ago Jerusalem.
Jesus, before His Destiny
removed Him from common ribaldry,
shoving banter that scores for a man
his jesting place among fellow men,
Jesus loved the little children even then.
He dared to proclaim a gentle faith, free
from bullies’ shaming, from easy blaming,
from traumatic scars of social war.
He believed in kind justice, respect for
human kin above judgmental sin.
Fatherly humor, the way fathers love
their children, with the pride of
ownership and the slave master’s
secret fear,
God disciplines His Heir.
 **
Arising to new warmth, the earth’s reawakening.
It’s a time for children and games of childhood,
a time for flirting with romance,
secret smiles and daisy chains.
Restorative season, simple, soft, natural,
for anointing damaged souls in peace
after lacerative ravages of winter.
Time for gentle things
like newborn kittens
and flowerbuds after beckon of rain.
I am slowly relearning the healing strength of love,
gladly relearning easy pleasures of humanity.
Life is tender, poignant,
a drifting melody.
 *
 *
 *

SHELL GAME

A mess, better left unbroken;
walk softly, whisper, agree
to be agreeable.
Breakfasting on soggy cereal or
just a cuppa.
Smiling lamely through the
livelong day.
“Please don’t let me be a burden.
Please, allow me, walk upon my
crooked spinal stairway while
I carry your petty parcels
in my cracked, bleeding teeth.”
Eggshells break monthly
inside my womb.
But we don’t speak of that.
Not polite.  Not politic.
Like religion and horse races,
consuming addictions.
‘Cause we’re alright, ya know.
We’ve nothing to complain of.
Got our daily cakes and tea,
obeisance to some faith based Queen,
jolly good, jelly roll.
On Easter, in the blessing of Spring,
we paint sweet pastels
gently upon hard-boiled shells,
promise to be good little lambs.
The crust of the Earth
protects primeval fire and
gemstones.
Seed of the Sun
bears a glorious array of
multi-hued fruits
upon which we feast
for energy.
Part of this complete breakfast
rounded with an omelet
for growth and repair.
 *
 *
 *

SUNDAY PSALM

Am I meant to be
a sacrificial lamb
as the Universe goes about its merry way?
Is this why we pray?
 *
If it’s only me —
the great and wise I AM
engaging in some self-negating play,
what the hey?
Life is whatever you make it.
So go out there and take it.
Never, ever fake it
and you’ll be ok.
Or so they say…
 *
Just a philosopher-poet,
suffered to ply my trade.
Brilliant skies hover nigh;
but, below, fading sight denies
acclaim.
 *
Somnolent glide, sinuous, silvery stair.
Burnt eyes still, closed to the world.
What glimpse might I witness
if only I dare?
Is there purpose to wandering Earth?
Should I care?
But what if I’m missing the thrill?
What would carry me there?
 *
Over the boundaries; into the wild.
Not a safe task to commit to a child.
A quest full of questions.
A fool’s ‘oliday.
And, have I mentioned,
no promise of pay.
Just a born again supplicant
reshaping the code,
creating the tale I’ll tell
when I’m old.
 *
“Jesus wept and died”
I always wondered what that meant.
An admonition to us to do the same?
Like, “Life sucks, and then you end”?
Or, if Jesus died for our sins,
did he first weep for our souls —
a holy pity party enfolding us all?
So, our sins have been wept for, died for;
we carry the blood of the Lamb, like disease.
Perhaps His sacrifice would be better released as
happy laughter; hugged forgiving;
genuine indulgence in feast of experience,
balance to weeping and dying.
For revelry balances grief;
ecstasy balances defeat;
and love, of course,
is the only balance to love.
Spitting on divine art.
Anger overtaking heart.
Ripping the world wheel apart,
invested in childish rage.
“Am I good now, Daddy?”
Purging my animal nature.
Ripping out the devils
under every bed.
I tell them, I tell them
what you said
about Fires of Hell awaiting
devotion to unsanctified ways.
Daddy, will you love me,
keep me safe?
My life, all lives, for You!
I humbly sacrifice
all life to You.
‘Cause you’re my Man, my Holy
Truth and Power.
Elevate my cause; it is your own.
 *
 *
 *

ARIA FROM THE CHRIST

Solstice Globes

*
The stars
The dark
The trees
The wind
On the street where I live.
On this night while I write.
Happening here and now.
Luxuriant melody.
Who can hear with me?
Share this moment in all of eternity?
Breathe in time to deeply vibrating tune.
What is Truth?
What is true?
Feet above ground.
Ambient air permeates –
celestial entities,
transient identities,
ambiguous destinies,
exquisite sentience.
Here and now.
*
Estrellita holiday arrayed, dazzling gauze, adoring gaze, impeccable focus.
Delicate paper sculpture forest of splendor, tin foil twinkle Moonglow spell.
Gifts for me misters and mistresses, ladies and gents, those who pass through and take a glitter-stamped chance.
Open adventure, taste inhaled atoms from unfathomed distance.
In this small crystal, starlight smiles.
Solar rays slowly kiss strength and warmth.
Beauty answers, in her aspect of eternity.
*
Beaches at sunset, quiet waves, sparkling reflection;
sand like dulcet bedding, gently shaded serene meditation.
*
Mountain ponds grounded by pastel flowers;
bright feathered geese flitter on high in scant array;
fairy light just enough to wander beyond glare or haze.
*
Clear long straight road into fantasy landscape, then curving
through hills, farms, forests, lit by wide blue breeze,
water-painted sky, scent of perfumed trees.
*
Winter magic freshly frosted, swirled, made new and brilliant.
Smell delicious promise, evoking caress of awe.
Call to seekers, distant melody sweet, calm, effulgent.
Birds in homeward flight, toward early sunset.
Full of good harvest, ready to roost through darkness.
Is this blessed omen of peaceful plenty to rejoice?
Or mere preparation for harsh Winter tempests to come?
Huddling against terrible storms, well placed, safe, together.
Strangers nested, perfumed, rarified.
Waiting for Lightbringer, morning star.
We celebrate through rugged weather warm welcoming peace.
*
Petite performance, illumined revelry – light we carry, share, renew.
If we might Believe, just enough to stare hard into flowing crystal.
See, fragile and fleeting, glass slowly melting, gently emitting.
Still peace, mindful passion, portentous glow, every facet effervescent.
Improvisation respects panoramic view.
Tell me a story of shining strength and brilliant strategies.
Thrilling escapes. Clever soliloquies.
Blessing of forgetting real dangers and their fears.
Heroes – people so publicly good they inspire us to be better.
To wander clothed for travel, no map, destination.
Direction, decision, matters of whim or instant’s serendipity.
*
Soft blue cloud mist, interrupting constellations.
Look! A gathering of space astronauts happy to save us because we’re all brethren as living universe.
Wiser big siblings, protective, sharing what longer experience has taught.
Sparkly lights over our Wintering fields, meteorites to wish upon.
I wish for miracles that outdo, overwhelm biblical prophecy.
Let them fight, outside our Earth borders, those archetypes of Lucifer and Christ.
Let them whip up fierce, boisterous conflagration – epiphanies of rage against love.
Hell, take bets, cheer and get high on the action. Up there, in that realm made of digitized dreams.
Here, right here and now and always from here on, let it go.
Let the movie skip, dynamic pixelate, on that distant screen while we
enjoy festivities, sparkling lights and generosity, best humanity can offer
— spirit of liberation immersed in joyous celebration.
*
Iridescent, day-glo globes, fairy dust in billow flight.
*
The angel loved this child.
It’s not that all angels love their charges.
Mostly it’s just a job, though a job, of course, they perform joyfully.
It is not usually so personal, so human.
The angel watched over the child with poignant care.
It was not in angelic power to keep the child untouched by the myriad harms,
disappointments, longing pain, hapless tragedies of mortal consequence.
Yes, the angel was assigned as Guardian, but only insofar as to protect this life, keep intact the necessary attributes to fulfill this promised role in the great production, attributes brought to fruition through exercise in lesser roles over maturation, incremental expression of range.
So the angel watched this child grow, awkwardly, teased and tortured into position within a cultural tradition designed to control, keep order for elite convenience.
The devoted angel whispered kind encouragement, kept vigil lest this unique imagination be paralyzed, destroyed.
The angel loved so intensely as to be able to manifest in dreams, mind wanderings, delicate places inviolate by what our world expects and enforces.
Even when it seemed all seethed with horror, relentless sorrow, madness beyond comprehension, stench of mundane rot, the angel’s adoring presence gave a supportive touchstone of calm.
Always, look without the deceptive bias of eyes, listen without prejudice of language, feel soothed, understood.
The angel holds ethereal essence gently, passionately, in boundless generosity.
They are bonded twins, each more profoundly blessed in affinity.
*
What is the word for beyond words —
beauty simple, profound.
Stars, sunrays, miracles ablaze.
Loved and protected by gods, smitten with ecstasy.
Fortune favors elegance, grace of presence,
true nobility beyond codes of legend.
*
Long-toothed grey-white horse munches, trots,
watches occasional cars go by the road along this corral.
Drowsing afternoons remembers flying, wide white wings.
She has horse sense, wild strong senses, instinctual balance.
She eyes those passing passengers without comment.
If she needed, she could fly out of range, disappear from men’s
landscape. Not resigned, nor precisely happy – comfortable,
content, completely free.
*

make Peace The issue

August 15 ‘A Spontaneous Day of Peace’  – Social Media & The Blogosphere

Risen
 *
Sky born, lifted above
Water, Earth, primordial mud.
Bare breath and lilting light waft up, carry ephemeral
tongues, frenzied yet exquisite. Exaltation, daring
to swoop, touch, climb, pirouette.
Path briefly complete in hover, amazed, over
flowering waves.
 *
Vision trails, engulfed in smoke of smelting flame,
gasping, tropically turning, blind, yet
beyond mistrust.  A world drifts.  Black night backlit in
pinpricks.  Atmosphere of bioluminescence,
symphonic, symbiotic.  Listen as rippling elements
grow words, symbolic histories, into a Summer game.
Out here, sparkling rain weaves rainbows.  Reverence
casts reflection as shimmer and shadow play.
Up here, beyond boundaries of ordinary days,
the only Commandment to penetrate —
Be Peace
 *
 *
 *
Lighting Candles
 *
I wish you peace.
I wish you love.
I wish you time to
explore your essence.
I wish you safety.
I wish you patience.
I wish you visions,
sweet dreams and
sweeter days.
I wish the world
a sweeter disposition.
I wish for peace,
for love,
for better times.
I wish we all get
the wishes we yearn for.
I thrice charge these wishes
and send them to you.
 *
 *
 *
Body Language
 *
 *
Teach Peace
Dancing in the classroom
Body wisdom
reaches through neural pathways,
regenerates whole to whole,
soul to soul
touching seam
exactly
I feel you in my mind, my spine.
Feel me dancing,
elongating muscles,
extending connections.
 *
 *
 *
Logic of Evolution
 *
Successful progenitors
survive to sow seed
by force or persuasion
or hiding off screen
or banding together
that more may succeed,
and upgrade conditions,
enhance the breed.
But, for such teams to work well
we must
learn to respect, honor, and trust;
expect to contribute, receive and share,
accept the caring for and care.
In community varied seeds are sown.
Thus is a thriving future grown.
Or, sibling rankling infests, turns
on neighbors as scorn.
Barriers proliferate,
preparations for war.
Who is emboldened by
destruction and blood,
blasting civilizations
back into mud?
Are these principled people
filled with kindness and joy?
Those who can create, build;
the lacking destroy.
Guns, bombs, cruel words,
contempt, angry sneers,
promotion of pain,
preying on fears,
paying us naught but
unneeded tears
and advancement of certain
unsavory careers.
We can reject violent lies,
realize the prize.
Here! before our eyes.
Simple. Easy. Free.
Expect, accept, embrace
the abundance
of Peace.
 *
 *
 *
Earth Songs
 *
Aching times.
Ghost singers on the prairie.
Snug little home, hearthfire familial peace
against rage and winds. Stone and sacrifice.
Dust storms erode,
leave wastrel sentinels.
 *
Far, in green glade mists
where ancient hymns are born,
chthonic wilds, primordial rune castings.
Building over eternity, silent, archetype of will, ponders.
Intrinsic senses, despair, bottomless sorrow, loss of intent.
At the root of desire, truest wish to be fashioned,
sold at price of who you were made against your nature.
*
Wooden ships sail eternal sea.
Journey ages within these circles, free.
Easy found trades, winds selling seeds.
Back to the gardens of pagan lore —
earth, air, sun, and transforming water.
We wander days of potent destiny,
telling the tale, deep mystical incantation,
of a possible age in birth.
Love song ‘tween man
and Earth.
we are not our ancestors
we are not religions
we are not lines on a map demarcated by war
we are earth made vital
we are seeking minds inviting partners
we are seed and core as skin sheds and grows anew
we are me and you and all we become, alone and together
we are as we agree, composed of dissonance and harmony
thriving lives matter
Peace matters
 *
 *
 *
Clean Up
 *
 *
I dislike the implied mess of violence.
Peace is more tidy,
clean and inviting.
Why waste precious metal
in deadly intent
when a kickass party
can pay the rent —
a rant and rave relaxing
pent up pain.
Where’s the percentage of gain?
The perception that rage requires
release within this people cage,
to ease torment of feeling less
accepted,
Reflex flight or fight? Psychobabble hype?
Nobody  needs to violently die today.
 *
 *
Luminescent Choir
 *
 *
Singers in the fog.
Outlying voices thin, yet growing;
accruing sound, like liquid, flowing.
Emoting tales of woe, resistance.
Shouted sighs of denied existence.
Insightful chants insist persistence.
We never died.  We’re knitting strong.
Born into a world-wide village.
Only from ourselves to pillage.
Hear our song.
Some bright good morning of
fish and loaves, cake and wine,
capacious tribes adjoin in movement.
Shining line of peace.
Terror’s fear released.
Music, celebration in the streets.
Flower scented candles,
vigil against shame.
Blazing through miasmic mist,
Apollonian flame torches banners of
hostilities falsely triggered
in our name.
Come harmonize, aloud:
We’re alive and proud
to descant, dispel dank chill.
Sing to vanquish fog.
 *
 *
 *
This is our greatest duty
Live in peace,
believe in joy —
For as joy fills our hearts, we leave no room for
  doom/destruction
As joy fills our lives, we learn to live
in
Outreaching love
Deep healing warmth
Safe harbor home
Benevolence assured
Fulfilling Hope
Affirming Joy
Abiding Peace
 *
*Make Peace The Issue

cross quarters

Stars’ Crossing
 *
Crossed roads, slowly swaying
entrance beads from day to night.
Slip in between to become
for that instant of eternity
dancing gypsy calling to
Moon, to storytelling stars.
Embrace that mystery, train tracking
adventure.  Breathe forgotten fields,
lush or shriveled, dependent on water
and feed.  Let go of all but one brave
hand solidly grasped to the doorway.
Let go; let fingers fall reaching.
 *
 *
*
Second Star to the Right
 *
 *
Traveling beyond Persephone’s garden
on the etheric threshold
‘tween mortality and death.
Taking an oblique path at the crossroads
onto an accessway
along the axis of bliss.
It’s not a road on which
the dramas fade.
It’s not about a numbing block
to pain.
Drama unfolds —
my chemistry responds exquisitely.
Touch is just touch;
sensation translates information.
All the appointed tasks,
routine errands of the everyday,
little pauses along the bliss path,
allow me to breathe the scent
of endless possibilities,
as path and consciousness expand
blissfully aware.
 *
 *
 *
 *
Liminal Spaces
 *
 *
Twilight, the wee hours,
the dark of the moon,
liminal spaces,
places where magic dwells,
crossroads, crises, cusps.
There is static on the radio.
A song
my voice was singing,
rhythm of sound
takes flight to surround me,
a comforter of down
to ease my soul.
I’ve been trying to define a taste,
a sense of bittersweet and salt.
I’ve been trying to find a trace
a footprint in the desert,
a sight, a scent,
a memory.
I’ve been trying to discern a trace of me,
a piece to fit the puzzle,
my contribution to the grand design.
Seeking in shadows,
the space between
myth and matter,
those places words
cannot define.
On those insubstantial plains
of myst and awe,
the stuff of dreams,
threshold of wonder,
creation is spawned.
 *
 *
 *
 *
Crossing the Threshold
 *
At the crossroads at midnight
My lady did swear
That she must be alone
To face up to her demons
“Please understand that I must
be aware of just who I am
and where I’ve come from.”
I sat by the bridge
as she set forth her tools,
her sorcerer lore, her alchemic runes
So she’d know who to honor, to break
and to blame
What she’d been made for,
her journey, her truth.
 *
At the crossroads, past midnight,
just before dawn
My lady thrice nodded and
stamped out her flames.
She beckoned I join her out on the meadow
to kiss and rejoice
and reveal our true names.
 *
 *
 *
 *
Cross Purpose
 *
 *
At hours’ crossroads, Reason drowns
in rage, scathe,
irradiated rain, treasonous air.
Weary of care, of punishing,
bottomless anger, of sobbing men
robbed of their right to give birth.
Wrested from Mama’s warmth, from
the cave, to play brave.
And it’s ladies’ choice as you squirm
in fool’s corner.
Such a chore — kissing at this
and that for a chance to score
the shame, the blame from stuck-out
tongues, the bloody laughter.
“I could bite off that little thing — make
you squat to pee.”
Wired to fight, at any cost,
because, of course, the Cross proclaims
“We’re right.  They are inherently wrong.”
“Those below must be taught to obey
our superior tools, to be broken,
that we may ride.”
Against our better fate, sad race divides
along strict lines, by difference
nature devised to spawn us strong.
 *
 *
 *
 *
Alchemy
 *
Simple acceptance.
The dancer with the dance
entering pre-dawn mystery.
Quiet interval, enchanting music.
Undulating reverie.
Alone in Hekate’s garden,
breathing in memory
of jasmine and spice.
Weary roads traveled
crossroad to crossroad;
the journey continues.
Weary days have found sustenance
in secreted hovels, dimestore romance.
Convoluted talk, empty gestures,
soul-less ritual
take up the stitches of time.
Some brave midnight,
if I learn my lessons well,
I will eat the fruits of Hekate’s garden,
dancing in piquant reverie,
leaving my tears and anguish
along the windswept trail.
Ebullient music
dances me
as the Goddess kisses
my tearstains into
gold.
 *
 *
 *
 *
Green Magic
 *
 *
Ancient prototypes etched into collective retina.
Vast vegetation, expansive cure for distressed
neural cells.
Casting outward.  Hope for connection
to sacred ground, profoundly real.
Reborn to forest,
nurtured in nativity.
Green, deep healing green.
 *
Fear is a thrill.
Rush anticipation of danger.
Piquant romance with what might kill or maim
or carry dread.
Warnings fill imploding head; adrenalin syncopates heart.
Fear, a crossroad to start from,
then taunting groves to hide behind.
Fear can dazzle, delay, explain years of wasted time.
 *
Any sufficiently
advanced efficiency of
chemistry, natural
technology, exchange of toxic breath for
benign symbiotic ecology.
(No college degree could assure
so lush a life.)
So sad that we only see what we expect.
Trained to tragedy, to forget the best
that could be manifest.
Sagacious find a quiet relaxed pace.
Days drift and wander.
Daring to explore pleasure, infinite awareness.
Leisurely share what feels genial, good, light.
Engage.
 *
 *
 *
Make Peace The Issue

Earth sings

In the garden
()
()
In the garden
rags and broken bits,
trailing paper ribbons,
shards and excrement,
weave a picture, a scene
a thumb reel of protected vision.
The garden grows
though abandoned by light
and conscious thought.
Tangles give way to magical gates.
Imaginary flowers bloom,
twist absurd
mangling shapes,
evoke scents
unknowable in common categories.
Once the garden was ripe and lush,
fed legions,
earned prizes in the canons
of great literature.
If other gardens vied in performance,
it was for the grander glory of gardenhood.
Abundance
Lovers trysting
Children’s play
Old philosophers walking,
speaking deliberately, deeply,
breathing in heaven.
A garden of substance,
tradition and grace
where sore of heart might
find tender comfort, growing wild
in sweet evening breeze,
a calming call to prayer,
mending meditation
on the ways of Earth and sky and rain.
Walking the garden,
old, papery, withered of breath,
dreaming yesterdays, tomorrows,
screaming silently
a hope too desperate to speak
for vibrant new seeds
to take root.
()
()
()
()
()(
Back to Basics
()
()
Walking backwards, over the cracks, the broken glass, the crying shame.
Looking in and out.  All the hostile visions I never want to see
damning me.
They say to give is blessed, when in doubt give it all away.
I say
we are each a universe, so many worlds, so many stars
we lose track
we look back
whoosh into the vastness of possible trajectories.
Without crossroads, without stones of demarcation,
we would fall upwards eternally.
()
()
I am digging a well,
a holding place for tears.
When the hole is of the right proportions
I will fashion a tight container of stone and clay.
The excavation uncovers rotten cadavers, old bones
twisted from unhealed violations, bits of broken treasures,
shattered expectations,
here and there
pieces of nursery toys no longer loved.
I crawl through the earth, exulting in sensuous pleasure.
Moving like a snake at home in the elements,
shedding my skin, becoming silky sinuous sense cells.
It is so beautiful here, under it all.
Fertile soil, made of the cast off, the ruined, the dead.
Seeds try again to perfect the expression of dna.
It would all fall together naturally.
()
()
But nature did not make me.
It was self-flagellating nurturance of worlds and stars
trying to cast off their earthly heritage.
()
()
()
()
Sacred Geology
()
()
Rich earth.
Consecrated life.
Imbued myriad layers
nourish omniscient spirit.
Starvations, immolations, decay
scarred into the land
making it holy.
Bounty of beauty
irrigated by tears
and less voluntary bodily fluids.
Teeming loam. Revitalizing
luscious fruits
giving forward.
Partaking of the feast
we are blessed,
renewed in empyreal essence.
Each at our pace,
nature’s cycle reclaims
all that we are
that we may become
yet more abundantly, complexly ()
layered.
()
()
()
()
Eclipse Dream
()
()
Jump!  Jittery.  Nauseous claustrophobia . . .
l e t t i n g  g o  s  l  o  o  o  w
Whoosh leap faster than my breath can catch me.
Dizzily, half-blinded, out of focus,
slant view along tree-strewn path.
Enchanted forest?
Smoke curling upward.
Gingerbread cottage in the woods.
Do I rest here, recoup my losses?
Savory soup simmers over tender hearth fire.
Shadow gloom occludes unswept corners.
Yet the center of the room
is surprisingly clean, radiant.
I sit, mantra embraced.
Nestled by magestic silk wings.
Outside winter is falling.
When I awaken from my trance
planting season will begin.
()
()
The wild rains of spring
have caught me napping.
They catch me up in torrents,
swing me along,
a cradle in the sea.
I descry mazes,
wondrous pageantry
woven into  stellar stories.
Celestial spray anoints me.
I commence secret ceremony,
believing the Earth to be my home.
()
()
()
()
Earth Angels
()
()
Speciesism.
That boorish arrogance.
Deaf to wisdom, portrayed in
ominous myth, faery lore.
Slay the goose;
destroy the whales.
Uproot untold trees
bearing fruits that may have
saved us staggering pain.
Crucial for well-being
microbes, photosynthesis,
symbiotic
processes ignored, misunderstood.
Focus expended on ephemeral
opinion, petty greeds and rivalries,
diatribes on evil and good.
Realities we have yet to account to,
acknowledge,
fall, collateral damage
to insolent bravado.
When will we ever let go,
rethink this mad master plan,
relinquish need to command?
()
()
()
()
Risen
()
()
Sky born, lifted above
Water, Earth, primordial mud.
Bare breath and lilting light waft up, carry ephemeral
tongues, frenzied yet exquisite. Exaltation, daring
to swoop, touch, climb, pirouette.
Path briefly complete in hover, amazed over
flowering waves.
Winter Gods freeze-glaze mountain peaks,
rocky rivers, mother’s eyes.
She gives suck embalmed in vision trails,
engulfed in smoke of smelting flame,
gasping, tropically turning, blind, yet
beyond mistrust.  She regurgitates paste of
air, dust, instinct, steeped with spit
and love.  Taste her sacrifice.
A world drifts.  Black night backlit in
pinpricks.  Atmosphere composed like bioluminescence,
symphonic, symbiotic.  Listen as rippling elements
grow words, symbolic histories, into a Summer game.
Out here, sparkling rain weaves rainbows.  Reverence
casts poetry as shimmer and shadow play.
Up here, beyond boundaries of ordinary days,
the only Commandment to penetrate —
Be Peace
()
()
 
()
()
Eco-Location
()
()
It’s not the landscape, but the ambiance.
Emanant surroundings suggest fantasy motif.
Just that evocative forest green, desert rose.
Waft of lilac, vibrations of tidal reveries,
cast off, buried.  Reclaimed, exposed.
()
Gracious glory.
Terra spins through stories.
Webs of sparkle and synapse
suspend on delicate balance.
Work and love,
expression and assimilation.
Venture in search of food, air, stimulation.
Ideation, imagination, mood impels
self-aware cells, each with place
and passion.
Busy interchange
at market and field
combines power to wield, grow
beyond personal boundaries
permeable to trade, exploration,
creative generation.
Each iteration fuels further spring to
essence.
()
Gaea’s laughing.
Silly scrapping scavengers
groomed in self-importance
rarely see the joke.
Long has her fete entertained.
Sol to Gaea, flirting seasons, night and day.
Eons slip through alignment.
Mud to worm
to facile mind
wondering at starlight
as constellations parade
in siren mystery.
Common wisdom, basic observation.
If river, then water and silt,
mud, clay, pottery, etched hieroglyphs,
television, robotics, space aeronautics.
Rippling along sinuous riverbed
()
I can smell the salty sands of yesteryear,
taste tears of copper, touch sparkling rain,
feel the lift of storms in formation
fill evening breeze with electric potential.
()
()
()
()

in the beginning

Pre-Genesis
 .
 .
Before the Beginning
Before imagination,
sound or fury,
in a wraithlike pocket
outside of time and space
none to command
none to hinder
how does the spark ignite?
Spontaneous combustion?
Multiplicities of zeroes
encircling void
before chicken or egg or seed.
Was there a silent prophecy?
If the system is closed,
nothing created or destroyed,
where does all come from?
How far can it expand?
If the system is open,
how far does it go?
If there is no system,
chaos endlessly realigning,
helpless to demand rule of law,
form but temporarily
delimiting substance,
no matter.
In our space and time
we play at definitions.
“In the Beginning . . ..”
Words upon a screen,
analyzed
over millennia.
 .
 .
 .
Genesis
 .
In the beginning
we fell apart,
thrust out, expanding,
becoming the heart
of time, space, and life.
The division of darkness and light
into binary code,
the linear sequence of time
growing older each moment.
Catalytic stimulation, element assimilation.
Systems and cycles ignite.
Wavicles swirl in excitement,
bumping and grinding unite,
build this grand reality,
seed ethereal possibility
long before divinity
could be defined.
 .
 .
Birth Day
 .
In the beginning,
before integral threads unfurled
for reassignment,
feral forces churned, thrashed in
throes of creation.
Telescoping backward,
witness chaotic magic
explode,
riotous storms,
vivid electricity,
eternity singing in words
unfathomable.
Over vast escapade,
threads weave into fabric.
Recognizable forms
coalesce into destinies.
This great projectile vitality,
infinitely recombining.
Locate pleasure in distinct moments
tied in gaily colored threads
for remembrance.
 .
 .
Be(gin)ing
 .
 .
Soft bliss of night.
Far drift of stars; open carless road.
Kicking up bits of stone and dust.
Saying:
I could be anyone.
I could start here.
What is beginning?
Aware of the first rays,
conscious aloneness.
Sunshine is harsh on
fragile skin, newly opened eyes.
 .
They catch on eager forays,
studies in elucidation;
simple truth hidden in rules,
squalid mine-like cages, punishing
rewards that bind and itch.
Beginnings are not the point.
They are portals, not the
mystic river,
the sand so burning insubstantial,
the forest enchanted in
eider and lace.
Beginnings never warn of battle
flame or drunken dares.
They only promise vague
adventure, valiant possibilities.
A brief eternity before dawn,
supplicating the night sky for
solace, this soft moment before 
an unmarked road.
 .
 .
 .
 .
 .
PROLOGUE
 .
 .
Sun and Moon embrace
as one
for brief eternity
all mystery reflects recursively within
 .
Black and White
create gradation
radiate kinetic energy
We can achieve,
believe,
begin, begin, begin
Gardeners, planting vibrant fields,
planting food,
planting future flowering in
nurturing soil
 .
Healers,
perceiving wounds
to be sewn,
relieving loneliness,
revealing pain denied,
held in; applying benevolent medicines
to salve twists of ardent toil
 .
Teachers,
adoring mentors of their wards
discover with them
questions, keys and doors;
realizing history is only destiny
when explorations cease;
invitations from ideation over time
come complete
with choices
 .
A choir of voices
from softest spark
to fervent blaze
Troops of effervescent players
Symphonies,
drums at dawn
Inspiration and instruction
carried forth through song, animated acts on stage,
multi-partnered murals, painting onward age to age
Taking up the challenge of the tale
that twists, turns, meanders,
provides kaleidoscopic opportunity
ever to begin again
 .
 .
 .
 .
 .
 .
 .
.
Make Peace The Issue

Fools Parade

It’s so cruel
all we learn in school
is mocking behavior
reciting some rule
not that life’s here to savor
for each free playful fool
)
)
Enter dear Fool upon the Precipice, prattling ditties of daily airwaves.
She is whirling blithely, eyes upon a distant rainbow, breathing in clouds.
Breathing out daisies and daffodils and a brilliance of pansies.
She is dancing to her own symphony, entranced in her deepest essence.
Without thought, without prayer, without a government authorized identity,
there are no guarantees, no happy ending.
)
)
Brief infusion
of giddy illusion
glows
just enough to guilefully entice.
Sparkling Neural net
smiles,
a secret
clue revealing
purpose, meaning;
engages
wild eternal child,
ages’ flamboyant fool,
Glorious
Muse
)
)
Here’s to the weary.
Here’s to the fun.
Here’s to the berry that makes us all young.
Here’s to the rulers.
Here’s to the fools.
Here’s to the toilers and tellers of truths.
Here’s to the end of another decline.
Here’s to the best of our time.
)
)
April’s Fool
A Fool I’ve been,
jogging behind visions,
cringing from derision,
seeking solace from a merry Moon
too soon gone old.
Peeping back on follies,
sticking pins in pain — jolly?
no, morose, cold …
Harridan crone.
Have my wanderings sown
no happy harvest, no cozy home?
Snuggling into punishing remorse
“You knew you should have run a better course!”
“You know you deserve to be alone.”
Is that true?  Am I the Fool careening
down the precipice,
broken, no meaning;
is this my hapless fate?
Daze of failure insists I mistake
castigation for a goal?
A Fool can be a cherished, merry soul,
lightly traipsing heroic mountain trails,
reveling in freezing rain and snow,
tasting bite of ice and flame without bitterness.
This I know.
)
)
Somnolent glide, sinuous, silvery stair.
Burnt eyes still, closed to the world.
What glimpse might I witness
if only I dare?
Is there purpose to wandering Earth?
Should I care?
But what if I’m missing the thrill?
What would carry me there?
*
Over the boundaries; into the wild.
Not a safe task to commit to a child.
A quest full of questions.
A fool’s ‘oliday.
And, have I mentioned,
no promise of pay.
Just a born again supplicant
reshaping the code,
creating the tale I’ll tell
when I’m old.
)
)
Mood’s choral turns to Spring.
That special lethargy that poets faux affect,
reflective as a silver pool.
We like the love that lets us play the fool,
exudes good humor, respite from
sober shame of longing heart.
That flame, that spark that arts
wish power to capture,
that rapture.
)
)
Let the goodtimes roll
down fresh verdant hillside,
winter’s sorrows
spilling out like seed.
Cleansed free.
Elegant foolery open to bountiful showers.
Flagrant flowers, emergent liberation.
Layered legend long ripens, tangled,
mired below in
torpid traipse through dust and gloom.
Swept into light as destiny,
revealed by labor of cultivation,
excavated, bestowed honoured place
in ritual chorus.
Celebrate
‘round hallow table, exultant vibration.
Energies blend, fuse.
Recombinant winds call timeless tunes.
Rhythmic movements re- and un- engage,
ever changing,
never wholly new.
)
)
Wrested from Mama’s warmth, from
the cave, to play brave.
And it’s ladies’ choice as you squirm
in fool’s corner.
Such a chore — kissing at this
and that for a chance to score
the shame, the blame from stuck-out
tongues, the bloody laughter.
)
)
Penny Fools
Pound Fools
run ruinous errands,
rush past threshold of Hell
in cheap reticules.
)
)
Cast into a class that laughs at rules,
what holds grimy chaos at bay?
(Fools at least are pure, are gay and
without malice.)
)
)
Smoke simmering black deliciously divides while cackling
into echoes far seeking.
But there’s that puppy-dog barking need for love, for
status, for a wise old fool to follow into certain death
and beyond.
Who believes these mutterings?
Who would want to?
)
)
I tell Your secrets
in riddles, rhythms
If those fools would but
smile and dance
the sands would fly into music
Play on
)
)
People I became over ages.
Foolish sages.
Slave to wages.
Humble servant to whomever
gave a glance.
Always ready for a game with chance,
burning bridges to
swim in fate’s brave waves.
)
)
What fool would risk stability,
shame, neighbor’s hostility,
to resist?  Stripped of private self-determination,
could such fools exist?
)
)
What can I say?
*
There’s valid point in
all this farce?
That the fool on the precipice
dances beautifully?
No matter
what the cost
there’s a prize worth the price
of steadfast duty?
There is bountiful advice
in the stars?
There’s a lucky star;
and it’s ours?
There is magick,
to believe in?
Requited hope, ecstatic grace?
There is more than we imagine?
There is gold in inner space?
There is danger; there are dragons?
There are knights and righteous cause?
There are chaos taming tactics  —
There are underlying laws
that we obey?
)
)

woman’s worlds

Your Philosophy
 .
movie plot as object lesson
boys find valuable object
boys lose valuable object
boys fight to get valuable object back
 .
I am woman born
no source of father’s pride
too early in my days, they
track my aroma
I know not to hide
use me in some back room
until my womb rises with a new slave
for their diversions
I am sacred mother
tit tied to feeding, always feeding
(agonized bleeding in secret shame)
No more than a tether, a trough, and
tantalizer of the profane. I am a wrecked
train, a vehicle left to rust, blamed for
slatternly stagnation,
never quite thrown away.
 .
Reject me; reject hard truths,
long trod on diamonds, golden geese brought
to slaughter.
Obscured like icebergs, amphibious myths
kept subdued, symbolic
work songs, prophetic exaltation,
labyrinthine gardens,
we who are only dreams in your philosophy.
You may well be better
stuck, your own
wheel of clay.
My lesson, when I am ready,
is to leave you to your way;
cleave to ecstasy
loose, fanciful, subjective,
heroic.
 .
 .
Athena’s Gift
 .
Athena fair
stalwart daughter of Zeus
graces her time and place
with divine knowledge.
Today unlined face,
silken hair,
robust yet fragile form
are proclaimed as the graces
of womanhood.
Athena, lost in the pantheon,
whispers to the nightears
of her faithful,
saying:  “True woman’s mind
inclines to wisdom.”
But Daddy’s girl
wants more recompense
for loneliness.
 .
 .
Here at the bar again
 .
Here at the bar again, bar nothing to me.
Deepest Scorpio, gusts tinged icy.
Onward toward Chumley’s  2 pm Village poetry reading.
Searching outside book stall for bargains,
found a Paul Goodman
with cat and dog and baby photographs
to give to Cindy
a gift of love for a fragile child
stranger/sister.
Still affright from last night’s heavy scene,
wherein the police took my man away again,
this time with my blessing and accomplicement.
. . . A man is a hard thing.
Also a drag on my developmental aspirations.
When all he does is loom and threaten
Big Brute Violence
to storm my sensibilities.
(What’s frustrating is he doesn’t hear me
plead for shelter.)
Laughing in the park we loved
Crying in the night we parted
Oh, beseech I, gods above:
Why must you leave me broken-hearted?
(and I know he’ll be returning with more disregards
and diatribes and possibly pistol drawn to fire)
So I sit here in the bar, again.
Drinking sweet Kahlua and awaiting the poetry.
Taking a respite, you see.
Oh, Goddess, for this while,
bar nothing to this troubled child
(for child I feel, though woman grown).
Let peace alone assail me.
 .
 .
 .
Pink and Blue
(and red all over)
 .
Fist shakes from rage
channeled, coursing,
flailing bloodlines.
Caught, snarled,
stagnant dying ocean
willing to be taken down
from fear to violence.
Call wild arms,
breast, sinew, shame.
Chemistry surges, overplays.
One mortal coup de grace
burst sword to heart
that never lived
beyond desire.
 .
If man is fire, dissolved
into greater waves,
why does Woman weep?
Why does not the flood
of pain absolve and
succor?  Why should fate
deny blessings of mortal
release in wash of blood
to lady fair,
snakes and thistles to braid her hair,
expose her tortured face?
Eyes that kill in silence,
stone lips, wrinkled nose,
washed out in times of
stoic denial.  Why must
she kneel, vile, victim
of violence, not its cause?
Who makes these laws of
natural selection?
Who takes the stone?
Who takes the stone’s projection?
 .
 .
 .
 .
cubicle woman
 .
 .
The moments slither by if you forget they’re there.
Sucking in sweetness,
hot sugared coffee, aroma of memory.
It might be a sluggish, clammy
descent of summer afternoon. Hints of autumn
like blackberry spicing the air.
The people here are decent.
They smile to make conversation a pleasant bit of business.
They want me to feel safe, subdued.
It doesn’t matter that we are never more than strangers,
passing faces, complaisant.
They bring me coffee with sugar and plastic sticks for stirring.
In this moment all of the world
turns so skillfully
I move along without pause for acknowledgement,
stealthily aware.

for Brigid

Bearing Water for Brigid
 *
 *
Sketches for a water vessel —
united, bottle and message elide on waves.
Voice of Brigid calls.
All who hear: Imagine.
Exposed to wind, to grit, to rain,
shifts of vibration,
rock faces erode.
 *
Vessel
Designated fixed space
Seaworthy container
Conveyor through fluid
separates
fluidity
Creates place, surface to paint
tableaux for amusement,
diffusion of emotion,
beatitude against foment of dueling farce.
 *
Harsh edges polished,
pure shades
blend in the dark.
Brief infusion
of giddy illusion
glows
just enough to guilefully entice.
Sparkling Neural net
smiles,
a secret
clue revealing
purpose, meaning;
engages
wild eternal child,
ages’ flamboyant fool,
Glorious
Muse
 *
(Voice pours from within)
 *
A wound is a sacred vessel.
Pain carves into flesh
sense memory;
carries the seed
of its own demise.
Sentience
engulfed in life
learns anew to be whole.
 *
Wounded with the potential for wisdom
when eyes are are pried
from seeping, sucking, suffering
aching to censure what future we admire.
Redefine the schizm.
This wound is our project.
To heal, discover the vision;
realign the seam to fit
self-framed landscape.
 *
Let loose that genie of desire.
Ride rushing blood streams.
Build a roaring pyre of grief,
insane belief in wrath-filled deities.
Revile that old refrain: “life is pain” or a game
to be lost.
No Faustian bargain.
Just a 
rambling adventure
daring
to explore
essence of ecstasy.
Don’t wait for the rest to see
and demur.
Stretch your sail.
Take sight of your guiding star.
The only failure is self-denial
in favor of the vile lie
that pain is destiny
instead of faithful friend
lending energy
for change.
Slice vivid memories.
Exult in the tastes, the textures.
Enliven your way.
In the end
the vessel breaks.
There the Goddess stirs.
 *
 *
Scrying on the Moon
 *
~twilight of the goddess, call to song aery dancing, lady fair your fiery trance rewinds our souls; enjoy these offerings of fancy: all art is yours ~
By sibylline light
images I recognize,
creviced captures of my life.
I know her judgment to be my own.
 *
“Nourished by Moon rivers
mythical cavern blooms
unseen by sunlight
glow green.” 
Thus she sets the scene;
becomes the prophecy.
“Purest white simplicity
curved to suggest fragility
faith fed maiden ready for
plucking,
given in bondage to womanly woes,
hard rows to hoe
for tight human hug through 
crying of night.
 *
Fate of mortal soldiers, sacrificed to lust.
Seeking relief, beg for the boon of drama
high adventure
sneaking into sad hotels
for a fix or a tumble.
Laughs,
deadly play,
danger, a real chance.
 *
Barefoot in the snow
icy roads
winds so strong
I could not make you hear.
I thought you were my destiny.
Crazy thoughts, far from clear;
but I believed
song lyrics from Saturnine deities
would not lie, leave me
dying, fading into winter’s grey
drifting clouds,
endless sorrow endured for naught.
Lost on this careless corner,
dreaming of oblivion, intent on visions
like rain
tapping against eternity’s
vast windowpane.
Scenic serenity.
Nature’s gradations of green
soothe tired eyes,
trembling nerves, throbbing  veins.
Slivers of moonlight reflect,
disperse through refrains, unearth secrets
embedded in song
effervescing through cool pure air
 *
cleansing the uprising nestling
set aflame
resurrected
tempered mettle,
pure, wise, tested
engorged with the will
to rise”
 *
 *
Goddess’s Way
 *
With passion!
Outpouring elixir fills our mythic spring.
Sparkling flame of peace abides within,
licks battle wounds.
Not ignorant fools;
no pleas for altruist beliefs.
Relief of hunger completes us.
No cunning deceivers could ignite malice,
steal our good.
Unbalanced need reaches to heal through
magical interchange.
Energies when well-purposed, understood,
replenish, undiminished.
Why meanly measure 
scores in morality play at “who deserves”?
Healthful work, flowing contribution, 
bestows focal point for cyclic rain’s reward.
Fortune’s gift, this benevolent wishers’ well,
replete Goddess blessing.
Sacred vessels,
dip in for contentment, good will, joyful
self-regard.
This is not belief or even knowing.
This is breath of awe in motion.
 *
 *
Bride’s
 *
 *
Novitiate strong and true, my Lord.
Trained to service as is due, my Lord.
Sweep snowy threshold; chop roots for stew,
my Lord.
Domicile clean, tidy, warm.
Hearth fire charmed; wicks ready to light at dark’s release.
Kitchen enchantment, smells that spell succulent sup.
Holiday breads, hunt’s victory,
fruit sweet and spiced, preserved against winter’s insurgency.
Stalwart, luscious vintage ever replenished to
toast-raising cups.
Fragrant pipe passed ‘round; copious wine.
Feast sumptuously satisfied.   Night of dance
with hallowed candles cast in magic.
Rhythms wax and wander, discover heroic tales, grand to recount.
Bawdy poetry regales, playful competition gains momentum.
Energy escalates, fans profound merriment.
Family, beyond embarrassment, drunk on high spirits and love.
Goddess blesses, gently kisses, wafts through
artful celebration.

comfort and joy

Comfort and Joy
*
*
Happy children
snug in our beds.
Visions of mistletoe above dream-filled heads.
Charmed slow motion sled glides hills
green and white.
Great blazing star overrides chill of night.
Smell, virgin snow, spice and roast,
pine laced fire.
Meet make-believe elves to tell
secret desires.
Delegation of peace, these moments
gifted with meaning,
lighthearted believing.
Merry ritual.
   *
    *
      *
 
Lighting Candles
*
    *
I wish you peace.
I wish you love.
I wish you freedom to
express your better nature.
I wish you replete in safeness.
I wish you patience.
I wish you restful evenings
and brilliant days.
I wish you dazzling visions.
I wish this maddening world
a gladder disposition.
I wish for amity,
shared exuberant view.
I wish we all get
limitless fulfillment.
I thrice charge these wishes
and gift them to you.
    *
      *
        *
 
Essence
*
   *
Essence, scent memory.
Cinnamon, baking feast, ambient family.
Wafting incense.
Fragrant air
redolent of antiquity’s.
          *
Aged path along magick’s mountain meadow.
Hard, sharp terrain, caves and crevices, mysteries.
Exquisitely strong, enduring.  Scarred,
calloused by tenacious stresses, storms, centuries.
Awed skin caresses manifest existence.
       *
Rippling bells, liquid voices pour
replenishing wine of merriment. Listen.
Reverberate back to diluvian tribal pool.
Irresistible drum beats, symphonic rushing rivers.
Rise and quaff libation of choir’s caroling.
               *
In ritual, visualize distant dawn.
Hearths of unseen worlds fade before Sol’s majesty.
Incandescent homunculus eyes lifting to flame,
krinkling sparks, jovian glow.
Powerful torches burn through dark imagery.
                    *
Revel in flavor, delicious piquancy.
Peppery heat, sour sorrows, exotic ebullient stew.
Wisps of buttery fantasy, savory bliss,
divine delicacies,
bittersweet ecstasy.
*
   *
      *
 
Saturnalia!
*
   *
    Hurrah the Saturnalia!
    Bacchus reigns on high
    And all the world’s a feast of fun
    So pass the pipe and pour the rum
    And flash a smile o’er everyone
        A twinkle of the eye.
                    *
        Hail the merry Season!
    A boost for love & joy
    When packages that yell “surprise!”
    May dance before excited eyes
    from “Santa Claus” that merry, wise
        & venerable old boy.
                    *
        Joy to all ye revelers!
    It’s time to join in play
    where roles are dropped and laughter raised
    We’re all buffoons, so clowns be praised
    It’s time to shout out loud, ablaze
        “Enjoy the best of days!”
              *
    A very merry holiday
        to each and all I say!
 
*
    *
       *
Holiday Giving
    *
        *
Recursive love.
Deep healing warmth.
Safe harbor home.
Benevolence assured.
Emboldened Hope.
Affirming Joy.
Abiding Peace.
Hugging’s good.
Laughs are fun.
Expanding love with every one —
Gifting Peace
Gifting Hope   
Gifting Joy!
Merry Christmas.
Happy Solstice.
Every claim for light and play.
Every spritely holiday.
Opening to heart.
Cherishing each part
of the living
of the giving.
Voices lilt in melody,
share in song I give to you:
Live in joy   Live in peace   Live in love
 
    *

thanks giving

At the Table
.
.
You want your fond place at the table
You want to be a fellow jolly good “so say we all.”
I tell you, the table is vastly laden with
layers of little memories, which
no two see the same.
We arrive at the feast
hungry for virtue, for love, for
forgiveness of our wanton ways;
willing to be merry, to partake of
ritual, merge through
transubstantiation.
Constellations, moving, shifting,
making waves in collective
consciousness, appear to reveal
sparkling impulses of truth.
On that star marked evening
taking in the sweet, evocative air,
embracing untranslated joy,
something catches in our throats.
The song we need so desperately
to share can only express in shards.
The pain, sucked in with our  breath,
becomes one with the bread and wine.
This is the blood, the body,
marinated in salty tears, preserving
what has not yet found
appropriate release.
.
Again, and yet again
meeting, to take sustenance.
Hungry battle wounds
courageously opening, 
to imbibe the healing
of grace.
.
.
.
.
music of the spheres
.
.
In quiet night sky
while starlight and peace prevail,
a haunting rhythm,
music of moving spheres,
slowly soars, entrances,
embraces fear,
kisses taunt of pain away.
Well into darkness, watching, 
hoping for a passing meteor
to swoop down and carry
far into greater space,
where kindly constellations
tell stories of joy and thanksgiving.
Celestial fusion crackles and strains
like an old jazz recording.
Melodies layered through ages;
written on mighty, sacred wind;
told like Homeric verse
by the wanderers —
heavenly nurturing guides
leading us home.
.
.
.
.
Thanks for sharing
.
.
Thanks for sharing
your intimate secrets,
guilty despair.
“How can  anything matter?
I am too damaged, dark,
no fun to pay admission.”
It is not a birthday without
cake and good wishes.
No cure can take hold without
a get well card,
gift of courage
from caring others.
No rhyme, no rhythm,
no choir – no welcoming
into soft healing warmth.
Toxic potions,
shocking wires,
disconnection from
harried continuity
cannot weave wholeness.
Kind reception, open
revel in shared humanity
etches a loving pattern
for integration,
faith to dare creative leap.
Re-merged, nourished with fuel for 
healthy fulfillment.
!
Multi-hued singing fountains
rejoice in new found company.
.
.
.
.
Not in Gratitude
.
.
Gratitude implies obligation.
Lilting beatitude, delight,
insightful embrace freely express.
Happy in my natural rhythm,
receptive to pleasure;
balm of luscious nectars,
warm melt of radiant bliss,
elation, charismatic exultation.
I am in awe, a true believer;
not on my knees in supplication.
Supine, welcoming grace.
.
.
.
.
Giving Thanks
.
.
Thank you all for being
— as another year unwinds
All the hearing, touching, seeing
Your shared caring and desires
All the fear, sickness and heartache
All the joy, infectious smiles
Arts in which you kindly partake
in all your various styles
Dear wishes for a future where
convivial peace abides
Thank you all for being
in my life.
.
.
.
.
Firelight Story
.
.
Oh my children,
not so very long ago,
probably in many places still,
we lived in communities
in which we had pride and dignity.
Small enough for everyone to
know your name.
Large enough to provide diverse
resource of skills
and personalities.
Caring, squabbling, challenging
as family.
Able to leap beyond petty animosities
and find a way when a way
must be found.
Entrenched in lessons of former days,
preparation for breaking future ground.
Not just a pretty myth
like heroic champions who protect,
subtract our sins.
Community, adaptive growth within
a solid sphere,
a social network of mutual support,
often said to be what we are here for.
(I hear you sneer; you who tear down magic,
hope, shared trust.)
It could be, community,
our prayed for cure (balancing salvation)
to the follies of humanity’s
deadly love
of war.
.
.
.
.
Soft sensuous clouds drift and blend
as crepuscular iridescent glow descends.
Below, welcoming evening lights,
drowsy trees, cozy homes, familiar rites.
Recall of feasts, merry meets, gift of returning friends
evokes deeply desired peace, belonging, generous amends.
*
Battle wary, ready for rest, to shelter.
Close this sorry chapter; relax, restore.
.
No space to listen, reflect,  learn how
we could peacefully heal.
Its all teeth and claws, everyday wars,
every night prayers of repent.  Every
penny spent to hold back the blame,
shame, certainty that all paths forward
lead to more of the same.
.
Earth spins; we want answers that
assure us yes, so wise, we are Messiah’s promised.
.
I give you a bubble of better days.
Ease of peace in contemplation, bliss of
transcendent imagery, artful conversation.
Breathe.
Feel complete
if only for this moment.

best witches

The room, low in lighting, spare in furnishing, enclosed by walls, floor and ceiling painted in cosmic fantasies, existing as a box within boxes, surrounded on all dimensions.  Not so much a door as a semi-permeable veil that could, with an intense act of will, be penetrated to take in vast kaleidoscopic tellings of tales, all sides and all seasons envisioned in an eternal play.
 
 
Officer Mirsky had a powerful hate on for them witchy folk.  “Always messing with my head, telling me to do things.  And not nice things, either.”  They weren’t telling him to find himself some sweet young thang, fuck her every which way to exhaustion, cutting her throat when he was ready, then chopping her body into handy sized bits for easy disposal.  They never told him how to get away with such wholesome activity neither.  They just wanted him to be happy to serve their fine selves.  “Grateful I should be that they keep commerce running ever so smoothly, plenty of profit for all so long as well all know our place.  Think they have a right to act all superior to normal folks who leave each other’s minds alone and get by on codes of unmentioned rules that everybody knows.  Keep yourself to yourself, fit in, join the crowd and take what you can when no one of any importance is looking.  If you’re really swift, become someone of importance by stealing big and making the right moves.  This forced cooperation is for migrating birds, not human beings, each man king of all he can compile.
* 
Don’t look at me like that, you witchy folk, all superior, knowing, like I don’t count ’cause you’re better than me.  You’re not better than anybody.  You’re certainly not better than everybody.  We can democratically eject you.  Once we get you out of our minds.”
 *
Tune in for more; tune out for internal reflection.
*
*
*
*
Today’s Jam
* 
 *
Marionette danse
Sad canyon howls
echo deadly sweet sister.
Chants ricochet with
infusion of stardust.
Spindly Purple Witch of wood
caresses soldier boy, cackles bony sorcery.
He grows in appreciation.
M’Dame, M’ Lady, blessing strokes,
charade of bonny play.
Look! Old potty rabbit hops
center stage.
Wary wilder symphony
choreo-fleet, chiaroscuro.
Gentle Pierrot laughter shrieks,
strings a-jerk, akimbo.
Thrush in plume ready to bloom.
Just before the denouement, the riddle.
How brash the Moon.
How cast away the Star.
How close the moment,
performance to applause.
Childish phase unveiled,
balanced on the head
of a pose.
 *
warm, resonant purr
catch my aha
my epiphany
my cultivated air of mystery
mist armors me
defense of camouflage
eye to beam
 *
caught up in adore, in lust
give up the circus to follow me hormones
semiotic gestalt
a holographic assault
we humans forget
’tis our nature to founder,
open wide to where we once belonged
* 
Bertolt and Muriel glance kiss aye to eyes.
Wood palm arabesques.
Zoom astray into caricature throng.
The very paean of life, a Holiday song.
Metaliminal passion play diversive actions.
Foggy notions, risqué crystal robes.
Limbic video bliss.
* 
love for your supper
love so you won’t be a whore
burn through sanity; clearly witness
mutually assured derision
 *
the antithesis of alien
ps and qs
pleasing cues
amusing pleasantries
* 
 *
 *
 *
Tick Tock
 *
 *
Another clock, another tower
sketched out in the sky.
Long-bearded sage bells epochal secrets
in cloud-talk as flocks wing by.
As clouds roll by in the wanton sky,
no matter, no mind, no derisive spirit,
no sense in these days of wicked ways,
of the wise
 *
’round midnight
witches wander.  Merry meet in
heathens’ woods.
“up to know god, I tell’s ya”
It’s all about how we arrange to appear.
Scraggly hobo, ascetic seer, abomination
(or a-bomb a nation).
Pitch a well-earned vacation
on points-of-view stocked in
mindbank.  Mind blank?
Enjoy the ride.
Twin jugglers set on stage.
Nature and nurture combined
through tidal trails inside
— a seamless tryst with fate.
Hear eldritch tale, my star lit dear
of how we now have wandered here.
Now’s waiting; don’t be late.
* 
 *
 *
*
bird songs
* 
 *
I’ve been through this before,
pre-dawn morning
birds chirping, infiltrate my airspace,
awake when I should be long oblivious.
Good girls dream of princes,
subliminal desire to be slain
by love piercing enshrined virtue.
Gold hued birds in crystal cages
incant witchery for food —
hair of newt, spleen of worm; smoky
syllables induce pleasure.
Warm hearts beat together, no bond
of pact
or sentiment.
Lore is explicit; no crime to commit.
Vexed, inconvenienced by the regular
comings and goings of
the natural world.
Birds of a feather exchange their
social pleasantries.
It is I who should be sleeping,
conjuring brave new worlds;
ambient noise translated into
neoteric lullabies.
 *
 *
 *
 *
Twilight of Goddess Revelation
 *
 *
What twisted so maliciously your mind?
Your God — Created that greedy leaders may more easily prevail?
Is it guilty shame, seeded by consistent training insisting that you fail?
Lost to balance, whole possibilities, unable to be free or sane.
Eternal life is yours, we scream, while you destroy our birthright
in service to conjuror’s dream of denial.
 *
but it’s just for a while, while we learn what we were from the start,
each creature alive to the beat of a self-reasoned heart
* 
II.
* 
Born other than imperial, torn into what we are told is real
without power to protect ourselves from venal brothers of the order
spreading hatred like any venereal disease.
We no longer need to meet you cowering on our knees.
Karma’s a hot potent bitch unschooled in mercy.
Witches reclaiming noble heritage, reframed herstories will prevail.
Though born, forced to service, in our master’s jail,
lost and lonely midst the masses, masked to fit expected forms.
* 
but it’s just for a while, while we learn what we were from the start,
each creature alive to the beat of a self-reasoned heart 
* 
III.
* 
Listen, little one, watching every moment for our chance,
we will break free to adventurers’ romance; dance away the chill of
foreign hills enrapt in leaves and grass. Hiding in primeval castles,
tightly aligned to a bright inner sphere, holding to hope of life to hold dear.
Learning to fly, ride to some unknown side, escape from the herd hate stone,
can’t be as hard as learning to stand alone.
 *
but it’s just for a while, while we learn what we were from the start
each creature alive to the beat of a self-reasoned heart
 *
 *
 *
 *
Enchanted Garden
 *
 *
Homespun among
cozy field of roses.
Gated inside lush technicolor paradise.
Who would think once?
None would think twice.
Overpowered by rose scent,
velvet elegance, dazzling sensation.
Safe from dangers outside
this cinematic fence.
Who would knock once?
Who would knock thrice,
open the spell?
Who would give wishes a
wishing well, instill water with
witch’s wiles under potent roses?
Remember the curse.
Remember fairies bedecked in roses.
Remember you begged for a chance,
a second of sight.
Then begged to forever forget.
Stoic soldiers,
wistful roses of forgetfulness.
* 
 *
 *
 *
Ever After
 *
 *
Pan, old ugly friend
screams “You’re alive!”
Respond?
Retreat into familiar fairytales.
Witch  Waif  Warrior
Who emerges from the
cold dark water?
Disgusting wounds ignite
in the presence
 *
Making every effort to appear
normal, sincere
(not veering on the edge)
(not dangerously explosive)
“Don’t mistake my weakness
for that loathsome foe
we daren’t name.”
Shame
overwhelming homeostasis.
Crawling, mewling on unswept floor.
Unable to gain equilibrium enough
to walk away.
Lock the door; hide behind barricades
made from
blood guts gore
human remains after they have
vermified, defiled.
My core cries
“One sweet kiss.  A taste,
sense memory
stasis of desire.”
I leap whole
into eternal fire
beyond pain; burning sensation.
Pan smiles.
 *

Persephone in Fall and Song

http://caelastory.blogspot.com/2009/08/persephone-in-fall.html

Pluto’s Wife/ Demeter’s Daughter
Persephone, your will is free
Even as your living is in bondage
to forces much older in their power
You are free to reconcile your fractured life
Daughter in Summer’s sun
smiling warmly, playing at innocence
with charms long practiced
Mother’s Fool
Mother’s Lamb
Saved from that horrible man —
Well, joint custody
Ever Her beloved child
While it is no secret
Down below you are honored Queen
among tortured souls ever needy of your
attentive care
Far from noblesse oblige, it is your
chosen career, though not chosen by you
Are you told enough:
“You do it proud.” or even acknowledged
for the prowess your will gives existence?
Free Will, not Free Choice
It is learning to make of the whole sad cacophony
discrete instruments of harmony, of divine symphony
to find, realize, act with
impeccable integrity
as child or Queen
or someone between
Persephone’s Worlds
I have wandered far from thoughtless girlhood,
am woman grown, a Queen
in my own right.
Yet I am treated with the expectations
of a mindless child
in my mother’s Summer home.
The Gods are all agog with Zeus,
fickle, abrasive, free to take full stance
above the laws he so imperiously commands.
My Dark King is so much more a man,
sincere, deeply feeling, committed to his realm,
compassionate, if not always kind.
Yet, this season I must obey the crowd,
display charm and grace
in haute couture, make small, insipid
conversation with useless socialites
decorating Zeus’ lawn parties.
Up here, life is meaningless,
All flash and doggerel
to amuse, O’, do entertain us.
So tiring to endure the ennui.
Those not privy to opulent entitlement,
relegated to the dregs of servitude, or less
endure for their time, brutal, painful, short,
for no good reason.
I hear their horrid tales,
back in my rightful place and purpose.
Shrunken souls, shriveled by life time hungers
still growling beyond the grave.
I am balm and wise mother.
At last they matter, their stories opening in me
a marvelous passageway through which they are
taken into paradise.
My life above, the petulant daughter,
the pampered goddess spawn,
I endure coldly.
Summer’s trivialities, properly obedient to
rituals of social condition,
know nothing of my true calling
under Winter’s glory.
Persephone’s Breakthrough
This is where the idea is born.
Soft green meadows gently transforming into fall
Sounds of dying, scent of woodfire and candlelight
No separation between what is becoming
Accept and be revealed
Summer’s wild adventures
Spring was a torrent of clarity, precious rain,
Earth coarse, ready for fecund pleasure
Queen of night in daylight’s realm
obsessed in flowering
roses and daffodils
valleys and nubile hills
all is vanity and laughing vice
“But, Mother, I’m not a nice girl.
I’m a creature of the breeze; secure in shadow;
alive on the cutting edge of the storm.”
Myth in revision
Standing at the back of the playground
learning theater, tucking metaphors
into interstices of sense and anticipation
In spring, kicking stones along sandy riverbeds
reading the classics
to savor practice: valor, glory, dramatic lines
Summer deceives
the stink of rot where flowers bloom
ancient feuds, retaliations, rage
tyrannosaurus feeding future waste,
absorbing a zeitgeist of want, of predation
Within greed-swollen seed infectious fear
makes merry with misery’s habit
Mythology frustrates, curls back on its own ash
Eyes burn with hazy summer wine and wilding
Feet connect dust to sky — but only in designated
spheres, with designated peers, self-selected inhibitions
Sweat out poison into the ground; now, eat the bounty
Midsummer farce, far from honor, far from sunrise,
counting out the chimes as if time were treasure
Silly summer madness as if what matters
is so circumscribed, so predictable
Early autumn firelight
reminiscent of witch hunts, ghosts of calvary,
dire warnings and endless hide and strike
The game, the funhouse, turns deadly
Sanctuary calls, demanding sacrifice
The noble phoenix fed on frankenseed
can not rise
Skies descend, dark mirroring
Smell the woodsmoke, intoxicating, soft and sweet,
masks the taste of bitter bile, secret vomiting,
starving despite harvest’s gay array of treats
Faded, nearly blind, falling in and out of
shamanic fever, primeval native callings beyond sight,
ripple of tribal beat at the periphery
ecstatic vision dark/light/agony and brilliant breaks
starbright constellations
Traversing worlds
seasons, years, moments of clarity
no need to navigate, to invent boundaries;
dance of the highlands warmth and sustenance
permeates
makes whole
Approaching Winter
Twinkling lights. I remember twinkling,
clouds resplendent awaiting snowfall.
It’s Persephone’s season below,
growing in power, regality.
Friend to post-living souls,
hearing their stories,
sharing her own,
from the above time.
Flitting about,
we hum comforting phrases,
sweat anxiously in crowded malls
over inner demands for a never
remembered perfection.
Children standing in awe below
magnificence of glowing giant trees.
Cities return to primal forest
for an imaginary interval.
We recount ourselves our stories,
pray Santa finds us worthy
of that shiny plaything that will
make us all right, make us happy.
Happy little children, so Mama
and Papa might be proud,
stop fighting,
sing us happy children holidays,
take us back to the Garden.
Deep below, Persephone combs
her loosened hair, long tangly
root
core
essence.
Magical petals of bliss, succulent aroma,
blow about within the Garden walls.
Perennial flowers sleep, blanketed in
millennial layers,
reverberations of legends,
plotlines thick with arboreal lore.
Snowflakes twinkle, lightly falling,
drape long-growing trees
peacefully awaiting their Queen.
My Pet Goddess
We ride creative waves.
Chaste Goddess child, frisky muse
picks daisies, pilfers beehives.
Sweet as to please
deities craving
for innocence.
Secret games whisk us
to deep intimacy.
Supernatural companion, she
comforts me, familiar with these
cycles of light and dark
responsibility —
cosmic irony.
Mother’s reward.
Father’s Hetaera.
Beloved of mordant Destiny.
Beguiling affection, she cuddles
into my simple, abyssal fears.
She licks the eyelids of my
inner vision, coaxes me open.
Together we transcend
hierarchy,
frolic
dimensions between.

imaginary workshop for re-creation

http://windsongmyths.wordpress.com/

myths new and revisioned

october 8

golden
 *
 *
I’ve been purified by fire;
washed and scoured by raging rain;
buffeted hither and yon by
winds of changing fortune.
Never safely planted to grow strong roots
that hold me close and whisper
soothing lullabies.
I have suffered all, not gladly,
but fortuitously.
I have survived, have imbibed
the luscious nectar of hard found
fruits, endured trials
testing every aspect of integrity,
grown in wisdom and honour
and lack of trust
for any who have never dwelled
in these wicked realms.
No one may know these travails but I and
the holy trio who
underwrite my progress.
No matter. 
We are, my traveling band:
inspiration, organization
and sacred core of self-empowerment
forge intimate family
I have always so desperately
craved.
I am blessed, blissed.
I am that I am and none
shall cast asunder.
 *
 *
 *
Expectation
 *
 *
Fall into whispered memory,
the best of scenes in dreams, in ether.
No time left for hope.
It’s do or die unsung.
One scene at a time.
 *
Busy weaving
click, click, click, click
Moving, breathing, in the rhythm,
straight ahead.
Never glancing past the engine
that entrains, chugging
brain engaged by current of song,
encouraging movement
on cue, on time, in serial rhyme.
This surreal fantasy
weaving, weaving…
 *
Always on the threshold.
Never really anywhere.
On the road from here to there.
Expecting.
Not accepting.
In motion, like a trance, without a goal.
Expecting what?  A fortune to be
told?  A jaunty rainbow?
The miracle of love?
 *
 *
 *
navigation
 *
Stalling at the crossroad,
on the threshold,
unsure of correct direction.
Whose reflection
calls to follow?
The Moon, she shines
brightly, suffuses sky,
so hard and cold and unaware.
Where is my soft strong melody?
Where is that voice, sonorous glee,
tug of eerily familiar tune?
Running through umbra of night,
hoping to surface, wild and free.
Yet, as Sunrise obscures
my vision,
sense recedes. Lost, treading 
miles of exhaust and grease.
Chain fast food, car shops and fuel, infest
this secondary road.
No wavery door marked by ornate
gargoyle knocker shows.
I reach for higher substance, better trance.
Mystic keys, clues to advance vast scavenger hunt,
peek discreetly along arid, apocalyptic trail.
When each clicks into place,
a lock will open.
If I am wise, I will arise,
walk the circle,
traverse the threshold,
up the stairway,
home at last.

20061013

#4 Scales, Veils & Tales* * * *October

Peaceful Co-Creating Emerging Visions #16 October

as september falls

imaginary workshop for re-creation

New project on WordPress

http://windsongmyths.wordpress.com/

myths new and revisioned

OPERATOR’S MANUAL

notes playing to a theme

libra’s child
What is this “love” that pulls me to you?
A gauze of hope, desire, imagination
woven with faery dust, tied by good strong cord.
Pulse arousing, clinging, anchoring and ringing,
those siren bells of joyous meeting.
I am beguiled by those bells, ringing in the clouds
while rain weeps down
gently on my fingertips.
You have kissed these hands, quickened by surprise.
Enchanted interludes, moments between time,
so that time drags now, drags me down
harshly weighted.
It was but theater of
aspired visions weaving.
Would that I could gaily entertain,
remain curious and blithely
naive child.
Would that it be enough
to trip veils’ ecstatic trance,
loving intricacies
of intimacy.
Fall from Innocence
You found out that things can’t always be
just neat and clean and bright.
You found out that sometimes right ain’t strong
and wrong is right.
You found out a lot that Ma and Pa’d 
never want you to know.
You’re found out in the streets in the snow 
    with nowhere to go.
Ain’t it a bitch, what you’ve found out.
Ain’t you a bitch when you’re found out.
You ain’t so sweet and true anymore
The world ain’t pink and blue anymore
And you’re living in a world that
wasn’t just made for you.

peace on Earth

Peace on Earth Montage
Banal terrors,
tortures entailed schoolyard to street.
Hostile besiegers leap out, shove face to ground,
strike with weaponized names,
galvanized noise, militant toys.
No space to listen, reflect,  learn how
we could peacefully heal.
Its all teeth and claws, everyday wars,
every night prayers of repent.  Every
penny spent to hold back the blame,
shame, certainty that all paths forward
lead to more of the same.
*
Battle wary, ready for rest, to shelter.
Close this sorry chapter; relax, restore.
Warm, reminiscent of
the peace we would gladly fight for.
May wise rapprochement emerge, endure.
*
Ease of peace in contemplation, bliss of
transcendent imagery, artful conversation.
Heart strings ring in symphonic actuation.
Bring forward radiant pools of welcoming
within cooperation, reflections change.
*
Energy dervishes, drunk from fruits of Earth, swirl
into ecstasy; face becoming.  Sun falls from Western skies.
Inner space aligns.
*
Soft sensuous clouds drift and blend
as crepuscular iridescent glow descends.
Below, welcoming evening lights,
drowsy trees, cozy homes, familiar rites.
Recall of feasts, merry meets, gift of returning friends
evokes deeply desired peace, belonging, generous amends.
*
Caught up in days’ parade; now take it in.
Peaceful moments safe with friends and kin.
Joys of open grace, sad tinge of loss.
Simple blessings, call of goals beyond.
Under dispersing clouds, upon solid ground,
jaunty walk intent on happy thoughts.
*
Joyful thoughts, peace, ease, mirth,
the elation of happy news lilting through the Earth.
I send you a bubble of better days.
Breathe.
Feel complete
if only for this moment.
*
Surprised by a cardinal —
Cadillac red against white blossoms.
Kind wind; lazy, cloud sheeted Sun.
Bliss, no distraction discerned.
Fresh semester blessings, seeds return.
Earth spins; we want answers that
assure us yes, so wise, we are the One
promised.  Cardinal bright, distinct,
against amorphous grays.  Fancy and free.
*
Celebrate Laziness!
Mentor of Invention,
this easy first cousin to Peace.
Proclaim, reclaim, claim
such lovely virtue,
calmly, with gentle elegance,
languid flourish, impish wink.
*
Wealth of starlight, bed of Earth
Every miracle seeking birth
Clouds arouse the care of air
Music flows through every where
Simple glass of lake serene
Holds my I to reflecting screen
Turn to turn, each glint a prize
This world revealed through peace cleansed eyes
*
Taste the bittersweet of long accumulated earth.
That metallic tang, carbon bonds long descended through time and dust.
Skeletons broken to rebuild from waste
carry potential energy into ancient deserts that tomorrow
we learn to bloom.

Harvest

Juicy round autumn
 
 
Juicy round autumn
burnished red and golden
mesmerizing quality of time today.
Hunger forgotten when life is a garden.
Sow and weep
while you sleep
a new day grows.
Getting our time together.
Getting in touch with weather again.
And there’s been so much to weather
again and again and again.
Sunrays are playing
warming the walkways
flashing out rainbows
in random puddles and streams.
Clear skies and starlight
awaken the night hours
expanding the time to harvest our dreams.
 
 
 
 
Persephone’s Breakthrough
 
 
This is where the idea is born.
 
Soft green meadows gently transforming into fall
Sounds of dying, scent of woodfire and candlelight
No separation between what is becoming
Accept and be revealed
 
Summer’s wild adventures
Spring was a torrent of clarity, precious rain,
Earth coarse, ready for fecund pleasure
Queen of night in daylight’s realm
obsessed in flowering
roses and daffodils
valleys and nubile hills
all is vanity and laughing vice
“But, Mother, I’m not a nice girl.
I’m a creature of the breeze; secure in shadow;
alive on the cutting edge of the storm.”
Myth in revision
Standing at the back of the playground
learning theater, tucking metaphors
into interstices of sense and anticipation
In spring, kicking stones along sandy riverbeds
reading the classics
to savor practice: valor, glory, dramatic lines
 
Summer deceives
the stink of rot where flowers bloom
ancient feuds, retaliations, rage
tyrannosaurus feeding future waste,
absorbing a zeitgeist of want, of predation
 
Within greed-swollen seed infectious fear
makes merry with misery’s habit
Mythology frustrates, curls back on its own ash
Eyes burn with hazy summer wine and wilding
Feet connect dust to sky — but only in designated
spheres, with designated peers, self-selected inhibitions
Sweat out poison into the ground; now, eat the bounty
Midsummer farce, far from honor, far from sunrise,
counting out the chimes as if time were treasure
Silly summer madness as if what matters
is so circumscribed, so predictable
 
Early autumn firelight
reminiscent of witch hunts, ghosts of calvary,
dire warnings and endless hide and strike
The game, the funhouse, turns deadly
Sanctuary calls, demanding sacrifice
The noble phoenix fed on frankenseed
can not rise
 
Skies descend, dark mirroring
Smell the woodsmoke, intoxicating, soft and sweet,
masks the taste of bitter bile, secret vomiting,
starving despite harvest’s gay array of treats
Faded, nearly blind, falling in and out of
shamanic fever, primeval native callings beyond sight,
ripple of tribal beat at the periphery
ecstatic vision dark/light/agony and brilliant breaks
starbright constellations
 
Traversing worlds
seasons, years, moments of clarity
no need to navigate, to invent boundaries;
dance of the highlands warmth and sustenance
permeates
makes whole
 
 
 
September reflection
 
 
Golden night.
High fields of food and seed
aglow for harvest.
Aching for thrill and release,
late summer serenades
romance
wraiths, spirits of Pan,
amorous nymphs a’hum in ripe foliage.
Crickets, nightwings,
mingled weeping and merry cries
slowly reveal
stragglers on night shores,
legends told in ghost voices, echoes
migrations.
 
 
 
Random Notes
 
 
Random notes
Spin and float
And echo through this day of harvest.
National news
And lines from blues songs
Hover ’round me as I work.
Love’s a word, a concept,
    I sometimes believe in.
But when tension holds me like a sieve,
    I can’t believe in anyone.
 
A child grows
And learns to know
The Norms and Bounds and Social Graces;
Learns to see a world that we
Have carefully wrought and framed.
We grow old
And feel we’ve sold
A hope, a dream, an inspiration
To more comfortably fit into
The slot above our name.
 
 
 
 
Obsequious in resentment
 
 
Heart-full caring loners
wring tattered woe, fling out
rope distilled from wellsprings,
private harvest. 
Cultivation rituals hung taut.
Shamanic curse
spun into fine golden fabric.
Gifts of remembrance.
Sunbeams sing along brilliant waterfalls.
Sparkling rivers feed turbulent melody.
Those who have found the key
play here.  Time loses consequence. 
Old wounds age,
grow into fascinating scars,
fireside stories
retold to bind kinship.
We become free explorers
frail and strong,
innocent and wise,
reticent and gaudy.
Obsequious in resentment,
angry actors diminish hope,
fart epithets,
express frigid gargoyle smiles
as badges
of superiority.
 
 
 
 
Indian Summer
 
 
In a time of awakening;
In a season of wild abandon;
In a moment of sensation –
In a flash
In a long and luscious indian summer of my life
Glorious dreams were made.
Sound doctrines magnified.
Quick impulses of insight found light and sparkled
long into the autumn night.
I will remember
the chill of golden woods
the fairytale rolling mountains
the days upon days of cool clean crispness
like the sweet/tart fruits of harvest.
In a clearing
Along a riverbed
Furry forest sounds and scent of moisture
Early morning dawn awakening
to a season of wild abandon
a golden moment of sensation
In a flash — alive to an open season
Alive to a new awakening
Alive
 
 
 
 
Ceres on the Cusp of Venus
 
 
Call in the harvest
My Lady awaits (impatient
is She, as all Immortals)
She sends cauldrons for filling
on chariots of the Moon —
brightly risqué
stars burn in celebration
 
We have given diligent care
and service, enchanted the
wealth of the surf and sun,
bound nature to noble
oblige.
Welcome Grand Goddess!
Enjoy the fruits and glories
our labour hath wrought
for your adoration.
Work and Love
These are the best,
the holiest,
of life’s offerings.
 
 
 
 
harvest (2008)
 
 
Mornings come later now
permeated with scent of harvest
green and red and the bright orange
of the Harvest Moon
Morning air, heavy with moisture
seeps through my pores
into my bones
I see ships sailing in rough sea
their fortune a deity’s toss of dice,
or whim
ships laden with treasure
and sailors desperately loved
On a placid pond three ships sail
a fine sunny regatta
The deep decay of harvest
carries me home
 
 
 
 
Harvesting Moonlight
 
 
Today the dark approaches, loosens veils of entropy.
Pixel colors whisper, soft hum of trails diminishing.
Lumbering, tales sweaty from slumber sweep
crumbling crusts, twigs and dust,
unencumber twinkling.
Luscious Moon, brilliant, rises
like a sacred flower unbinds, radiates,
smiles indulgence.
Celestial song, deep-breath effulgence,
lofty spirit.  All we who hear it open our wings.
This night we fly over poignant fields of work requited,
imbibe euphorious mystery of peace.  Labor’s release,
rewards of harvest, ritual feast of play.
Uproarious dance with moonlight; voice, arms, soar
in embrace so strong, complete.

8/8

8/8

 

find a quiet place
relax
let your mind drift and wander
fall into infinite awareness
take a leisurely stroll through
what feels good, right, beautiful
engage?

Who would you be, what would you do,
if time and space were infinite?
Beyond stratosphere,
infinite bliss,
the whole of the real.
Aching for stars, planets, infinite,
silent assent that means all is promise.
Daring to explore pleasure, infinite awareness.
Leisurely share what feels genial, good, light.
Infinite muse lit lanterns take wing,
illuminate eternity.
Cells disperse out from infinite regression,
demand expanding territory,
redefinition, delineation, demarcation.
All the places of possibility
open to my scrying eyes.
I am the universe of time and space
awaiting birth.
Your eyes draw me,
they fill in the lines
with infinite perspective.
Ripples quietly express
infinitely regressing
first cause
last effect.

Infinite, eternal, these are words,
maps to definitions, not what is.
Creation never ends, never begins
again, not repetition but reflection.
In the infinite recesses of a sigh
trembling hearts create a pact of solitude,
invent machinations of separation,
journey through despair.
Infinite regression,
significant omens,
legends and runes.
There is no guide, no authority,
none but me, infinitely mirrored.
What will become of all these “I”s
staring through, demanding
retribution, stark, cold justice?
We have created our own reality
in the laws and theories we make describe
the segment of the infinite realities
which we have found accessible to sense and reason.

august 6

August Atomic Attack Issue #3
 
 
emerging visions visionary art ‘zine
MOVING FROM THE VISIONARY’S IMAGINATION INTO VIEW THAT ALL OF US MAY LEARN TO SEE FURTHER
 
 
devotional haiku
 
 
happy day to die
amid man’s and planet’s ruins
reverberant Hell
 
starshine uncontained
potent messaging released
DNA cackles
 
Japanese songbirds
born to nuclear wasteland
shriek mass destruction 
 
 
 
 
Hiroshima
 
 
Peace
Fight for peace
Our sacred honor
Arrows fly
piercing armor
Pierce of amor, pride
outside all measure
Wrath, revenge as pleasure
Coiled paranoia
bayonet strong
Toddlers play,
armless, unwary
skeletally still
Bared secrets slip,
burn scars in time
Scorching, pinprick holes
in heaven’s fabric,
petrified souls thrust to
premature eviction
Hellfire ripped from metaphor
Immolation scream-echo palpable,  
texture ascends
Daring phantoms,
death’s brigade
wail “Peace!”
— unheeded command
because real glory
belongs to slaughter

poems of summers past

Welcome to Summer
Myth-laced lunar light,
infuse long summer days
with magic and romance
a’glee in joyous play.
Wild fantasy takes flight
above earth’s rule-bound maze.
Passionate heat-stirred night awaits.
            Waves of windblown flowers blooming
            Scent enlivens sense to peak
            Warm, warm breeze and rivers flowing
            Endless miles running free
            Let summer magick build up steam,
            simmer into thrills supreme
   
        ‘Tis season raised to rejuvenate
        So play on …
Be(gin)ing
Soft Summer night.
Far drift of stars; open car-barren road.
Kicking up bits of stone and dust.
Remarking:
I could be anyone.
I could start here.
What is beginning?
Aware of the first rays,
conscious aloneness.
Summer is harsh on
fragile skin, newly opened eyes.
They catch on eager forays,
studies in mimicry;
simple truth hidden in proverbs,
squalid temporal cages, punishing
rewards that bind and itch.
Beginnings are not the point.
They are portals, not the
mystic river,
the sand so burning insubstantial,
the forest enchanted in
eider and lace.
Beginnings never warn of battle
flame or drunken dares.
They only promise vague
adventure, valiant possibilities.
A brief eternity before dawn,
supplicating the night sky for
solace, this soft moment before, 
an unmarked road
to ride along home.
peaceful moment
Like a warm evening on the beach, all woozy from sunshine.
Tingle of sea breeze, that ocean scent of the wild.
As the sun recedes, cooling, refreshing, yet still a lazy summer eve.
Oh that luscious feeling, that overflow of quiet liberty.
In and out of drowsy reverie, so gently washing through pools, reservoirs
of elation.
Like languid balmy breath caressing.
We give what we can; we take what we need.
Marching, in orderly fashion.
Or beatifically skipping to a sacred beat.
The horizon shifts through daily duties, nightly prayers.
We take what we can. We give.
Without edict, without rational equation,
we give each outward breath, and take in what is given.
Like happy inspiration, song springs from memory to lip,
moves the fortunate mind into momentary ecstasy of music.
Moments meant to linger, to haunt as loving ghostly guardian.
Wrapped in ethereal glow of grace’s reward.
Summoning iridescent spirits to play joyfully,
ubiquitous harmonies.
Like the words we tell ourselves to bring us peace.
Joy to the Season
 
 
The Moon is adrift in the wind above
our sheltering craft in the sea
and all the world of Summer is ours
to ride the fire, toast to the stars
sway with warm desire, open our hearts
create a Summer of Love
 
Celebration waves the streets, with drums,
lucid bells, a call to play
Carnival cheer brings heat to flame
Chants blend to sing with drinks and games
Grand gestures expand, to applaud such a day
fueled by smiling Sun
Midsummer
Of course you come to listen.
Intoned to woo your fascination,
whispered primal code from lucid crystal climes.
Warmly floating on cool jazz,
mellow wine,
intimate, intoxicating garden party
‘midst apparitions of simpler time.
Back from the rabbit hole.
Back from New York City, Boston,
Detroit, LA …
from yet another backstabbing
grind everyday.
Rewind, recall.
Fog dense morning walk
along a rocky roadside,
unruly hair, distant eyes.
Tumble
into
song singing hallelujahs,
place of play, haunted
by pretty memories
tinged gold in sunshine.
Midsummer twilight,
fairytales brought back from sleep.
Sprinting across that abyss,
goblin mouths, hungry ghosts.
No longer keeper of my brethren’s sorrows,
I don mischievous costume,
stomp out power, glory,
love gentle as a summer evening’s rain.
Blossoming countryside,
dandelions and clover,
bounty of Earth blooms with elfin escapades.
Listless children whine.
“Why does no one let us rise?”
A world of sullen children
overdue for naps and coddling,
blueberry jam at teatime.
Flourishing prophets,
delectable, potent, wise
in the ways of demons,
oracles, gypsy Queens,
ascend into sacred muse-ways.
Every day a new day,
standing ground against a grinding
down to profit’s dust.
It can’t be a secret
if nobody’s listening.
But, listen:
places in your mind
will answer.
Each bounding leap more distant.
Inviting opulence, opening vistas
vastly
flowering.
Three Penny Opera and Grateful Dead:
What They Mean to Me
I was listening,
under a shadetree on a summer evening,
to the morals of our time as displayed
in popular music,
and thinking of the many tiny travesties
of personal moments all around me.
The seatide ebbing/flowing of the music
more than hypnotized
as I watched people flowing
through an inner newsreel
of pride and misery.
People marching in various uniforms
to a beat of pride and progress in the marketplace
and war zones;
people marching or being trampled or
sniping from the rooftops
all in rhythm.
And a friend said to me
on a starlit evening,
“It’s so hard to know anymore what to do.”
A Dog Carrying a Frisbee Is a Very Nice Thing
Sunny Sunday, summertime seaside breezes
Bicyclists, joggers, old men asleep on benches
Rollerskaters, sunbathers, and sailboaters
A dog carrying a frisbee is a very nice thing
As are the shade trees and greenery
and rippling blue river
under a blue and white sky
overlooking Cambridge, MA.
I tell you this to let you know
There sometimes is a perfect day.
The Longest Day
Earth of sea and land and air
ignited into opportunistic luminance
by her mother star.
Energy for you and me to
burst into bloom
flit fly in
busy devious thievery
cacophonous ramble.
Surging through veils,
storms breathe ice, sand,
the fire of prophecy,
the flood of repentance.
Glacial migration
bequeaths rage, rampage,
rapacious gratuities
boiling beneath.
It’s not winter here, nuclear quiet;
all’s right for the longest of nights.
Not yet.
The eternal balance:
rocks, meteors, dark
inconsistencies with
metaphors of the righteous,
pilgrims past the age of bowing to scriptures.
Tomorrow, the Sun will rise.
The Earth will revolve.
Life will adjust, compromise.
After the workday, we celebrate
potent evening light.
Under Solstice
Swinging
in phase
with natural rhythms.
Shadow to light
entrained
with greater cycles.
Time through space.
Do ages collide?
Do stars expand
into tragic brilliance?
Do simple little twists
change worlds and consciousness?
Very early in the day,
just beyond the penumbra
of night, as magic
clashes with reason:
That color so enriches
my palette.
Air giving way to water.
Arid emptiness anticipates days filled with
joyful abundance,
emotional sailing on vast
turbulent (and/or) calming seas.
The desert is so fragrant
exotic, mystically inviting.
Dusk whirls of wilding sands,
stoic creatures,
surprising discoveries.
The desert in forms, sculpts,
creates crannies of secret
delight throughout my imagination.
A no-man’s land where cognition
can hear inspiration
blow through, encompassing
senses.
I will not leave the desert.
I will merge with its becoming,
allow imminent floods
to rise into thirsty pores
rendering sand squishy, unsettling
into ocean floor.
Ride with me.
Open raft beneath firmament,
unguided, unplanned, unafraid.
Changing winds have always been my home.
Enclosed against starlight.
Sacrosanct images
meander,
keep close their
mystical meaning.
A touch, a brush,
an entanglement.
Awake in the dream,
breathing cool greens,
intense shadings,
pregnant intimacies
bursting into
the magic of life.
Trail of effervescent Mercury’s abandon.
Charming trickster,
plays upon seasoned winds  — Quicksilver surf.
Exhale old air’s detritus.
Inhale and whoosh,
under sea-change brew.
Sentimental, far from gentle,
whirlwinds gasp; ambitions,
expected conditions,
wavering memory,
caught up in flying breeze.
Blown out to wailing ocean,
forgotten gills respond —
mer-mind wakes.
City Summer
 
 
Let the games begin.
Let the long luxurious summer days begin.
Let us harken back to when
our schooldays’ end
would send our thoughts adrift through 
    dazzling fields
    of daisies and daffodils;
    sandlot games & swimming holes and
    endless flights for fantasy’s fulfillment.
And let us not forget the nights.
The hot & sticky summer city nights
that send us to the streets in colorful array
    like firefly lights.
Joking & drinking and starting sudden fights
’til the thunder rumbles through and blessed
cooling rain relieves hot-headed strife.
 
As the heat-soaked summer skies once more descend,
let us drift down sleepy sun-drenched streams
till summer ends . . . .
*

theme party

New American Century
 
 
 
After Shock and Awe
booms  transitional time
of untidiness
 
We bombed in Baghdad
now fight over meanings and means
to clean up this mess
 
Let common folk suffer,
pay daft debts of hubris
compounded and raised.
 
Buttressed by destruction
against the rest of the world,
triumph of the crazed.
 
 
 

 

Aside

Sagittarius Full Moon

 

astral vision
 
 
Mystery mists of history holy lightening heightening sky.
Desirous anticipation.
Early pinks ascend from eerie violets.
Sun’s lifting eye twinkles like a happy kitten,
tummy exposed for adoration.
Omens, prophecy, hope for enduring happy returns,
quests beyond horizons now observed.
(without gravity, how can we fall … or love?)
Aching for stars, planets, infinite,
silent assent that means all is promised.
I touch a cosmic peak,
breathless at such altitude.
Sagittarius Full Moon
 
 
The many faces of illusive Moon
reflect starlight in her artful glide,
entrance the sky.
My mortal eyes want to believe
gleaming quests, brave truths, romantic rhymes.
Tell me, hoary elders,
rejuvenated for your fling
in sacred moonlight,
swaying from your ivied castles
to mystic mountain
legendary glades,
tell me why I should give credence
to magic codes of
spells and sacrifice.
Is the wisdom of the ages
so constrained?
My species may be blind to
naked eternity,
but we mutate,
find and define
new ways to see.
Fixed space is far too limiting
for me.
Dear Sister Moon, separate entity
from birth, entwined destiny
with Mother Earth,
patterns re-cycling reveal
what we regard to be real
is but reflection.
Face to face to face, fluid
to change.

 

may-june

Fish Tale
 
 
I didn’t know the fish would die
flapping on sun-warmed metal.
Peacefully domestic afternoon.
Children discover death
and other worlds.
 
Sitting by the well
to draw inspiration.
Spinning yarn, weaving words.
Dusty work.  Flakes of skin
embed the fabric.
Struggling through childhood,
the tales get twisted.
Little boys & little girls
separate language.
We think we know our place,
our destinies,
from the games we’re given,
the words we’ve learned to imitate,
rhymes, reasons, rituals.
Imbibing passion body to body,
we awaken rules of blame.
The woman tempts.
The hero conquers.
The sad boy desires a
self-fulfilling fantasy,
stomping upon his heart to
start the flow of real blood,
real rage.
Out of water, out of earth,
out of air,
flopping upon some inert surface
the tale mechanistically repeats.
What world can we discover
nurturing life?
 
 
 
 
bird songs
 
 
I’ve been through this before,
pre-dawn morning
birds chirping, infiltrate my airspace,
awake when I should be long oblivious.
Good girls dream of princes,
subliminal desire to be slain
by love piercing enshrined virtue.
Gold hued birds in crystal cages
incant witchery for food —
hair of newt, spleen of worm; smoky
syllables induce pleasure.
Warm hearts beat together, no bond
of pact
or sentiment.
Lore is explicit; no crime to commit.
Vexed, inconvenienced by the regular
comings and goings of
the natural world.
Birds of a feather exchange their
social pleasantries.
It is I who should be sleeping,
conjuring brave new worlds;
ambient noise translated into
neoteric lullabies.
 
 
 
duet
 
 
Rambling through fields of daisies in spring.
Hoping to find a new feeling.
Coming to terms with what each moment brings.
I’m making a bargain with time.
 
Not getting tired of running around.
But wanting to know where I’m going.
Trying to measure my meaning in sound.
Trying to keep it in rhyme.
 
Hoping to answer a call to my heart.
Quest for passionate focus.
Adrenalin pushing, I’m ready to start.
Making a bargain with time.
 
 
 
 
FAE OPERA (excerpt)
 
 
A joyous encounter with life
A joyous encounter called my life
I’ve swung from trees in tropical climes
And swum the seas of paradise
And learned to breathe upon the earth
You’ve got to see me; you’ve got to listen
to these wonders that I’ve learned
 
Traveling, traveling a hard-stoned road
Working my legs, my back, carrying my load
Journeying for countless years
Seeking out the sea of tears
Eyes bound behind innocent’s lace veil
I break my trail
(As in my mind my song unwinds my tale)
 
A marvelous secret, a hidden treasure trove
While unicorns play harpsichord
within a blossomed grove
A newborn child with something wild that
plays in rainbowed eyes
Has been declared of druid laird
Born to hypnotize
Been borne to hypnotize
Sing lullabies
Reward all the heathen with sleep
And dreaming dreams as such who waken
Find their very core earthshaken
Thus made to believe in possibilities
They set their sites, reshaping all reality
And of them they’ve begotten me.
 
Sound the magic pipes of Pan
All who hear may understand
The fluid waif who walks the land
Spawn of Diana’s fling
With the clove-foot forest king
 
Vibrate to music, music, music
In every cell of living fluid
‘Tis alright to be a druid
Of forest borne to roam through future lands
Touch me, touch me, touch me, touch me
Become my hands.
 
Floating, wandering, restless shades
Call me to respond.
 
I rode a mountain faire
Picked daisies for my hair
Learned to know the name of every weed
I dwelt the night alone
In a crevice made of stone
And never thought of what I next would need
I dreamt of castles bold
And the language of the Olde
And struggled to bring my dreams alive
And whistled as I rode
The songs I’d oft been told
At parties seen
In waking dream
Another place and time
Another tune, another rhyme
And I’d sit beside my campfire
And gaze into the flames
And yearn of learning other places,
Atune to other names
Traveling over other lands,
Seeking secrets, other plans
Or just remembering another song
For the secret of each soul is in its song.
 
Blazing all around
Miles from bare ground
Twisting twig upon an aery sea.
Luminescent way
Whatcha gonna say
Songbird, whistle your wisdom to me.
 
A maid of golden wings
In lullabying sings
Of white sails racing in the wind.
No two are e’re the same
Of the tales she can name
Oh, nightingale — take me in!
Blazing all around
Miles from bare ground
Journeying upon a vessel rare
Silently I sing
To hold remembering
Magic castles in the air.

 

memoriam

Study War No More
 
 
What lesson can be applied?
When imperialist troops crash down upon a people’s pride?
When might as right meets the instinct to survive?
When Midas greed lashes out to destroy?
We’ve been here before, o my brethren, o my children —
repeating fouled lessons poured into our thirsty minds,
pushing back the horror before our eyes with blinding rage
forged into weapons by mortal foes
who hide in plain sight.
The only thing I know —
The lesson repeating agony in all our souls,
haunted by the pleading eyes and bloody hearts
of slaughtered sacrifices to malignant gods —
There is something vital here to learn.
 
 
 
peaceful moment
 
 
Like a warm evening on the beach, all woozy from sunshine.
Tingle of sea breeze, that ocean scent of the wild.
As the sun recedes, cooling, refreshing, yet still a lazy summer eve.
Oh that luscious feeling, that overflow of quiet release.
In and out of sleepy reverie, gently washing through pools, reservoirs
of elation.
Like a sweet warm breath caressing.
 
We give what we can; we take what we need.
Marching, in orderly fashion.
Or beatific saunter to a sacred beat.
The horizon shifts through daily duties, nightly prayers.
We take what we can. We give.
Without edict, without rational equation,
we give each outward breath, and take in what is given.
 
Like happy inspiration, song springs from memory to lip,
moves the fortunate mind to acute ecstasy of recognition.
Moments meant to linger, to haunt as devoted ghostly guardian.
Draped in ethereal glow of grace’s reward.
Ambient iridescent spirits play joyfully,
ubiquitous harmonies.
Like the words we tell ourselves to bring us peace.
 
 
Support Our Troops
 
 
Bravery?
What if they gave a war
and nobody came?
What if our ethos gave up
on targets to blame?
March of disorders;
unstable bonds break down,
crush frightened nestlings
to dust.
We meant to serve our nation.
We meant to save liberty, defend
threatened treasure, staunch
guards against disaster.
We meant to honor sacrifice, deference of
our fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers
for the respected life:
family, God, country
and a wholesome emolument of pleasure.
How could we consent, become executors
of horror so intense
as to reverberate, capture our
remaining consciousness?
Who is advanced?
Who left in pieces that never heal?
God is on the battle field
not as commanding general nor
emboldening mascot,
as witness
and gentle minister
of tragic rites
to shattered soldiers.
 
 
 
Logic of Evolution
 
 
Successful progenitors
survive to sow seed
by force or persuasion
or hiding off screen
or banding together
that more may succeed,
and upgrade conditions,
enhance the breed.
But, for such teams to work well
we must
learn to respect, honor, and trust;
expect to contribute and take and share,
accept the caring for and care.
In community varied seeds are sown.
Thus is a thriving future grown.
Or, sibling rankling infests, turns
on neighbors as scorn.
Barriers proliferate,
preparations for war.
Who is emboldened by
destruction and blood,
blasting civilizations
back into mud?
Are these principled people
filled with kindness and joy?
Those who can create, build;
the lacking destroy.
Guns, bombs, cruel words,
contempt, angry sneers,
promotion of pain,
preying on fears,
paying us naught but
unneeded tears
and advancement of certain
unsavory careers.
We can reject violent lies,
realize the prize.
Here! before our eyes.
Simple. Easy. Free.
Expect, accept, embrace
the abundance
of Peace.
 
 
 
Firelight Story
 
 
Oh my children,
not so very long ago,
probably in many places still,
we lived in communities
in which we had pride and dignity.
Small enough for everyone to
know your name.
Large enough to provide diverse
resource of skills
and personalities.
Caring, squabbling, challenging
as family.
Able to leap beyond petty animosities
and find a way when a way
must be found.
Entrenched in lessons of former days,
preparation for breaking future ground.
Not just a pretty myth
like heroic champions who protect,
subtract our sins.
Community, adaptive growth within
a solid sphere,
a social network of mutual support,
often said to be what we are here for.
(I hear you sneer; you who tear down magic,
hope, shared trust.)
It could be, community,
our prayed for cure (balancing salvation)
to the follies of humanity’s
deadly love
of war.
 
 
 
 
 
Body Language
 
 
Teach Peace
Ecstatic dancing in the classroom
Body wisdom
reaches through neural pathways,
regenerates whole to whole,
touches soul to soul
exactly.
I feel you in my mind, my spine.
Feel me dancing,
elongating muscles
extending connections.

 

555

 

E.L.F.  5/23/14
 
 
Please, never mock at Eris
Lest Eris mock with you
She of star hot temper
fells any who upset Her
You haven’t got a clue
 
It isn’t that you’re stupid
Or even that She’s wise
but that’s She’s wildly puissant
You aren’t dealing with Cupid
mere love spells to hypnotize
 
She wields power of Chaos
She cares not about Right
No honor for high status
What Eris wants She fabricates
from that within Her sight
 
Will charged up with magic
Slights small or large revenged
Express desire, She grabs it
Though for you it’s tragic
She laughs and strikes again
 
Best mortal, mock not Eris
Lest Eris mock with you
Unfazed by fear nor reason
She razes as She pleases
You haven’t got a clue

 

mother eve

Mother and Child Meditation
 
 
Think back to the bond between Mother and Child
Do you imagine it broken by
internal jealousies, shyness against intimacy,
cringing before angry gods of tribal culture,
dying of a thousand casual wounds, volleys
of will and grievance cast into fragile frays?
Or do you see a pageantry of unfailing matriarchs.
Strong sons and daughters waltz in attendance.
Flowers bloom from every slip of finery into
fecund mud.
Mothers of our species tend toward
adaptability, bear challenge of balance.
Trying out touted trends, begging for guidance
when their own experience ill fits today’s
terror and tantalization.  Always someone must
be blamed; sentiments must be appeased.
Where is the ease, the joy, the sharing up and down,
familial care and comfort?  Where is that not our fair
Command?
A child is a gift to the future; a mother is a gift
of nature and nurture.  Each brings, receives
all imaginable possibilities.  Each is a present day.
 
 
 
another road song
 
 
Not all mothers are loving.
Not all grandmas are kind.
DNA can marry hate, terror.
People arrive shamed in error,
in need of mentors, friends that share
connection,
release rejection, reverse lessons from
blighted start.
Transformance art merged with concentration,
consecration to a sane desire —
What would we require?
 
 
 
 
I remember
 
 
Mother mine,
I tried to mother you.
What did you do?
You lashed me from behind,
expected more from anger
than kind eyes, caressing smiles.
Intimated I endangered your true child,
who followed, the one
resembling you.
Scapegoat for resent to represent your robbery,
unfaithful promises not of my time.
 
No regrets.  No graveside confession
of apology.  I have learned to be
a creation of my own obsessive mind.
 
 
 
Eternal Chao
 
 
Eternal rumination through
tangled elaboration.
Taking respite a nonce
to enjoy the adventure,
or stationed to caverns of woe
for a decade or so.
No dragons nor maidens have I,
no trade in answers.
Conveyed by sky,
falling as I yearn to
through luminous translucence,
layers gorgeously etched.
Glorious.
Feathered and free.
Reassurance, Earth’s embrace; firm, gentle.
I tell the ache of ages:
break out, grow
angelic arms.  Malleable,
able to reach each troubled
artery.  Ease the anger,
dissipate insanity.
I am Mother, Daughter, Holy Crone.
I am eternally
my own.

 

Gaea

It’s really a simple story. Beings find planet. Beings treat planet badly. Planet goes about her business.
Beings start to realize that they need planet, and had best learn to make friends rather than futilely keeping up enmity.
 
 
Gaea: A Ritual Performance
 
 
layers of imagery, music, tribal drums, futuristic dreams
 
 
Gaea was there, in the beginning. Gaea was all. Gaea was wise.
How could we not have seen, in the blindness of pride, of avarice,
of service pledged to false gods?
 
The journey was long.
The journey was harsh.
The journey was lonely.
 
Asleep in a box with wilderness dreams.
Or awake on the watch, wondering what was to come.
 
Thus it was those false gods bespake us:
Out of the cold vastness of desolate space,
out of base fear over years seeped in to overtake us,
out of a need to deem our fate Someone else’s scheme,
out of a need to believe all would be well for our kind.
 
Our world was dying.
We did what we could to survive.
Survival we find
an appropriate end
to any means.
Survival will give us
the time we need
to find a better way
to survive.
 
The bravest of us,
the proudest of us,
the meanest of us,
would not allow us to die.
We took off in our ship with the barest of plans
 
to find another land
where our kind could live …
expand.
 
Now,
hybrid children evolved
from refugees
fleeing a hostile star,
Skygods and Earth Mother of ancient lore.
 
When will we relinquish hubris, ruinous hatred,
accept Gaea as partner and home?
Build strength of unity so all may thrive?
 
The land, when we found her was warm and inviting.
We felt safe, supported, encouraged to grow.
 
We ate of her fruit, fish, herds.
We built with her trees, stone and clay.
We drank from her beautiful streams
which we soiled with our waste.
Gaea was saviour and womb.
We repaid her with rape.
 
We didn’t understand,
thought her merely land,
thought ourselves masters from afar.
 
Gaea sent storms to bring us to our senses, wild winds and seas.
 
Gaea tried to shake us off: Earthquakes, Floods, Famine, Plagues
sending us scattering into hiding,
intermingling with her primates, Gaea’s ape children.
Without question or shame, we murdered what we could not steal.
Without honor or remorse, we laid waste to our host,
to our adopted home,
then cursed her for not giving more.
 
By accident or design, chimera adapting to nature’s marketplace,
creating stories to redefine our origins from outer space.
We lied to our halfling children, denigrated their Gaean kin,
twisted their virtues into a false concept we called “sin.”
 
What Gaea did to us? Cruel, evil, in need of the whip.
We seal over her bounty
into mad parody of Mother Ship.
Unforgiving of the mess of living, the miracles of life.
In ignorant pride we gave ourselves law to decide
propriety over fate,
turning
in our minds
mother love
into a mirror of hate.
 
Frozen in fear and rage, children swept out in the storm,
trapped in a self-made cage we had hoped to protect us from harm.
 
Gaea, we cry, why do you treat us so angrily?
What will it take for us to wake up and see it is we who are wrong?
To hear and be aware of Gaea’s song singing in our blood?
To learn the cycles, the seasons,
the reasons for fire, wind and flood?
 
To redefine our race,
to find out that our place is here among our Gaean kin?
 
The telling of new tale must begin.
 
Gaea opens to sunshine to ease our agitation.
Easy winds, breezy gush of summer rain.
Feeding the greedy young grains,
growing along the plains, the flowers of the storm.
Feeding the beasts of the field,
celebrating the cycle, as all is revealed.
 
Love is the web,
craftily spun by great mother spider,
Gaea’s familiar,
weaving magestic grace
no longer concealed. It was never our place
to control, nor others’ to steal.
 
Gaea creates in intricate arrangements,
feeding us all of us all, a transformative stew.
So much energy wasted; painful lies to find our way through.
New beliefs, guiding stories to provide for, enthuse
children, reaching out to become and be free,
embrace our destin,
as Gaea’s beloved.
 
Arising in the circle, giving voice to release pain —
grateful to Gaea’s grace, dancing in her cleansing rain,
we sing, rejoice, united:
 
It would be so nice (paradise)
You and I
Floating in the sunlight
Ready to break free
To be
Exactly who we are
()
()
 
Gifting Gaea EV22
Sacred Earth, EV#7
 
 
 
Earth Angels
 
 
Speciesism.
That boorish arrogance.
Deaf to wisdom, portrayed in
ominous myth, faery lore.
Slay the goose;
destroy the whales.
Uproot untold trees
bearing fruits that may have
saved us staggering pain.
Crucial for well-being
microbes, photosynthesis,
symbiotic
processes ignored, misunderstood.
Focus expended on ephemeral
opinion, petty greeds and rivalries,
diatribes on evil and good.
Realities we have yet to account to,
acknowledge,
fall, collateral damage
to insolent bravado.
When will we ever let go,
rethink this mad master plan,
relinquish need to command?
 

420 eve

420 fledglings escape pie and fly
  *
  *
Silent night, pensive night.
Carefully managing intrepid flight,
serial soaring heightened insight.
Self-sabotage may be a right.
So is a paradigm shift, excitement of
quantum array;
a quick turn through reality’s rift
into a fountain of play.
Happy day, glorious day.
Why would we have it some other way?
Revise decorations — more brilliant, more gay!
Dialogs weave beyond yay or nay.
Reveling in destiny’s space/time/what may.
 *
4/20/10
 *
 *
 *
Escape Velocity
  *
  *
RRRRRunning–Spinning–  rising to fly, to reach
and conquer the sky, the rooftops, the treetops,
outside the city crowds.
To elevate,
escape gravity.
Ascend beyond all those petty groundling woes and fears.
Climb past the clouds,
among stars and moonbeams.
Catching sight of 
those celestial omens foretold by fantasy.
Catching hold of tickly, teasing, zooming ecstasy.
Catching up to steep snow peaks.  Peering in lofty windows.
Prancing gaily so many feet above fields and roads,
glancing below — can’t catch me
not you dour, sour, 
glum-faced cons down on the street.
Learning to fly, to soar, to race up high
where I can see for miles, 
and miles recede.
Learning to say no to ordinary normality
and break free.
Learning to say yes to magic, and make magic me.
Spinning–running–dancing–flying
unlike anything before.
Learning to break out of bounds and take in more
Ain’t nobody gonna tell me I can’t fly.
 *
 *
 *
Smoke and Mirrors
  *
  *
 The calmness of night
with no one
but me
and the cat and the music.
Sentient spirits
out of reach, out of time
feel me yearn
for soft waves, perfumed
ozone,
a secret moonlit ride.
Gentle, waft breezes
carry, caress calloused cares
into quiescence.
Loving seas, cradling essence.
Paradise state of mind.
  *
Some are born to battle,
to die of sadness on rocky
foreign terrain.
If I could give them ease,
could discover
words and gestures
that bind us all
in happy equilibrium,
I would gladly reach out
so far my arms might break.
I would sing above the fray,
soulfully
mesmerize.
I would open the walls
that hold nirvana at bay.
Would you exercise escape?
Would you swim into bliss,
drink the nectar of precious contentment?
Would you be so elated
to play
swept away
in potent beatitude?
Or defiantly never
look past the sign:
No Weapons Allowed
?
 *
  *
April 20, 2008
 *
 *
 *
 Celebration
  *
 *
Caught up in the whirl as the world evolves
We weave by the light of the moon.
A fabric of fancy, sunbeams, pansies, mist.
A trail of bluebirds embroider your tresses.
A veil of gossamer softens your eyes.
A breeze of belief to embellish your breath.
Dressed for the fete in the finest of jewels
Alive to excitement, shining with love
Wrapped warm in a floating cape of wishes fulfilling
 *
 *
 *
Mythopoesis
  *
  *
Reality enrobed in symbols.
Where would we be outside our trance?
Ecstatic in sunrise.
Open to the rainbow rays.
Whirling, life within the dance.
Each cell, each system, synchronized.
Vibrating to celestial tones.
Each jagged lonely fragment
joyfully bonded, tethered with love.
Sent on to chance.
  *
    Listen then, and hear anew
    A melody so swift and free
    It’s memory can carry you
    Floating on a magic sea
    To the inner facings of your soul.
  *
    Look, and feel with lover’s sight
    the polished crystal jewels of time
    that catch you in your secret night
    and send you tumbling down the mire,
    through vortex lambent rabbit hole.
    Expand the seconds of eternity.
    Find your way unwinding.
 *
 *
 *
Joint sessions
  *
 *
Joint sessions
In a hovel-hole basement haven.
We keep the faith and
Drop-in
Turn-on
Tune-out.
  *
And it was told . . .
How the everlasting presence
still isn’t very old.
How the Diamond got her ring
How the matchgirl got her king
How we all got everything
And how everything got sold.
  *
Reeds bending in the wind.
A haunting sentimental song.
Breeze saunters by.
The neon letters “PEACE” light up the air.
  *
A poem in pictures and sound.
Rather like a spell, you know.
Those dawning tendrils
sneaking through my windowshade.
But it’s much too early to be rising.
So I’ll dally in enchanted romance
without recalling
I’ve no one to wake to
beyond the dawn.
 *
Reaching to the stars,
tarry in eternity:
This is all.
 *
Soldiers marching in a desert,
remember not their daily cares.
Remember only endless marching.
Caught suspended, unawares.
The crackling fire.
The sweet cascading smoke.
Light another match and start anew.
As pinwheels and starbursts float
through brilliant trails.
And visions of all our wanderings gently
drift in liquid air.
 *
 *
 *
mix phor meta
  *
  *
double, double toil and trouble
mix in moonbeams dripped from Hubble
with a pinch of housing bubble
dump in tons of scraped off stubble
just a taste of wry
with a twist of lime
seconds cloned from time
and, Voila! a rhyme to rollick
swing your partner, tase your Dalek
what a party tea for frolic!
double down, but “Don’t Panic!”
brewed up for fun – enjoy the manic
d a n c e
 *
 *
 *
There is a world here that knows itself in the way we all do.
That is to say it has a surface personality, a proper social mask
for formal wear.  Underneath, plots are hatching like fish,
bubbles display quick new life — snatched into oblivion
barely formed or growing fiercely strong beneath the surface waves.
  *
Was it a warm, wet Spring?
Is the Sun supplying energy without heed to the people’s stated needs?
Are ocean waters cursed with pollution born disease?
Do ill winds suffocate a nation’s glory?
We could weave this world a better story, play more mindfully
constructed games.  We could take back our focus from blame,
realign.
There is a saying that what one knows is merely that
which has not been denied.
 *
 *
 *
Dazzling Genie, weaves scenes of wizardry
upon the dusty window of my gaze.
Champion of crazy crippled dreamers, lazily
giving wing o’er wondrous glades. Simple,
serene days; nights of stars, Moonbeams,
ecstatic serenades, mystics’ bliss.
My nightmares exchanged for a kiss of your majesty;
enduring pain relearns its place, energy
refocused by your trail.  Enthralled, at peace,
inspired by your tales of labyrinth space and time.
Honoured, awed by your divine gift, I become
at one
with grace
 *
  *
Etherized
 *
  *
Will o’ the wisp wending a land of glee.
Daisies, bright blooming weeds,
mellifluous, grand.
Whoosh! Genie arms-wide smiles
above foamy sea.
Beyond mere illusion,
absorbed by awareness – horizon
confined by no mind, reason, expanse.
Who imagines,
and in that magic space settles
to reside?
Women in velvet and fur, swan necks,
arrogant tresses,
sip marvelous narcotic, sweet as fire.
Upheld mirror paintings, glowing wire strands,
prism hues, released.
Vibrant perfumes call to wander,
to stray.
Will-less, free, each step,
each feather fall
a gift of mystery, of mystics’ play,
caress of bliss.
 *
 *
 *
astral vision
Mystery mists of history holy crescent lightening sky.
Calm anticipation early pinks ascend from eerie violets.
Thunderous Jove twinkles like a happy kitten,
tummy extent for adoration.
Omens, prophecy, hope for endless happy returns,
quests into/out of space/mind.
(without gravity, how can we fall … or love?)
Aching for stars, planets, dreams,
silent assent that means all is promised.
I touch a cosmic peak,
breathless at such altitude.

Poetry Month

 
 
 
Resonant phrase aligns.
Mystic fire sprites manifest, 
call to neural chambers: “Come to play!”
Sparkling children fashion effervescent flares.
Innocence against random nightscape
extols, reveres.
Humbles savants with unknown unknowns.
 
Nascent moment flown, eyes carry amazement,
enticed by fun, perhaps an epiphany or two.
 
Inner ears
merrily engage, swept up in daring code.
Intimacy, kindling as heady lyric,
spreads, ignites.
Muse lit lanterns take wing,
illuminate eternity.
Incite.
 
 
~
 
Disappointed and Disillusioned, Courageously Facing a Seemingly Empty Life
 
 
Dressed in sadness.
Depressed to madness.
Mad to believe in passion,
which never lasts beyond the hour.
Brays to bequeath the
power to stand, to breathe.
Moira appears, macabre hag
preens her wares.
“See how it was, how it could be.
Drag and drop your face, your failures
onto a printed page. Can you see
new meaning? New lamps for old.”
She cackles, like
a metronome.
New maps for a new age.
That charming village erstwhile
known as Hell
metamorphed into Helvetica.
All that acrid sorrow
tomorrow’s poetry.
 
~
 
 
Pop Quiz
 
 
What is more useless than a poet, and why?
 
Cloistered in my artist’s garret, threadbare garments more holes than whole,
paint spattered, unruly and unkempt,
barely aware of the need for sustenance or even air,
entranced by the necessity of exploring, exposing my vision
I am the essence of romance.
 
Typing, writing clever syllables, I am merely effete,
despite my black attire and permanent scowl.
Even if they are good words, finely wrought, express deeply true emotion,
they are almost literally a dime a dozen.
To expose my wound is inelegance, to explore my essence a narcissistic malaise.
 
I am the real deal — the poet-philosopher, the idealist dreamer, the journey’s fool.
Surely I should be surrounded by acolyte worship, at my feet, honored to breathe the sacred
incense of my magnificence.
 
Yet here I stand with bills unpaid in the squalor of a rented room,
unadorned by idolatry.
 
 
~
 
 
 
We are a well at the center of the Universe
suspended like a spider spun out from
webbed space evolving.
All that ever is, like sea rain
catalyzed by light, is processing
rainbows,
manifest illusions,
into effervescent poetry.
 
~
 
 
It is a poem because evocative nature
seeks language, because will intends to speak
more than prosaic words.
Massage to revitalize imagination.
Lines break, imply stage direction phrasing. 
Histories, mystic pleas, lovers’ epiphanies
both oral and visual, as well as
experimental
genre melding and overturning.
Look/listen for what speaks to you.
 
~
 
Voices in my head speak
in poetry, prose, creative nonfiction
stories of courage, adventures in change
 
Tales, whispered spells, hypnotize,
wrench veils between epiphany and sleep.
Deeply darkened mists of memory
prismed in poetry
arouse such imagery.
Be at peace.
Breathe in glacial wind
to warm in secret private seasons.
Breathe out
a better world.
 
 
~
 
 
 
Perhaps we constrain ourselves by our definitions
of “poetry” whatever they may be for each of us, or collectively.
Perhaps we would better serve the honoring of our
deeper, more carefully observed,
more cherished, more reflective,
more hormone evoked or thoughtfully
worded communications by freeing
our critique from “poetry”?
 
When we call “poem”
expectations climb aboard.
Is this one of those silly word games
or a test of my ability to please authority?
Rhymes herding phrases out
of clarity,
over-ardent attempts at sincerity?
What if I just want to explain
beyond the scope of everyday chatter?
What if I want to say how
and why abstractions matter
or work out ways to scatter
bits of emoting on a page?
Words with the precision and ambiguity
to save visions, ahas! glimpses.
Capture gaze at nature’s seas
and stars.  Bring immediacy
of horror or wonder, or aid grappling
to decipher commonalities
that could increase
conviviality.
 
 
~
 
 
 
You expound tale of private familiarity simple, trivial, self-contained.
Profound sincerity, eternal poetry
 
 
~
 
 
 
Poetry is about meaning and wonder
Poetry can say:  “Yes, we feel the same”
and “Yes, we can go further, together.”
It’s not the rhyme or word or name
that creates this form we ponder
to say what we’ve seen, how we came
to be who we are, how another’s
ways of making sense have made us
more …
 
 
~
 
 
poetry mice
nibble nimble syllables
feed on grainy meaning
scamper renewed, enlarged
 
~
 
 
Binary stars blink celestial code.
Music of spheres, of oblongs, of ellipses
twinkle far beyond the constant light.
Cycles within cycles within rhythms within
the magic of rhyme, within eternity’s tricks
of repetition and mutation.
Crystallized, brought to sublime fruition.
Poets taste, express cosmic recipes,
tongue to tongue.
 
 
~
 
 
 
Poker as a Metaphor for Poetry:
Play the cards you are dealt,
inflated for the gaze of your opponents.
Don’t squander emotion reactively.
Enjoy the thrill of being in the game.

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Artist Stories

Submission Guidelines1. Email your story — written or video. There are no word limits. Use your best judgement, remembering that readers tend to do better with articles 250-600 words than very long pieces on the Internet. You can also send in a video through a public or unlisted YouTube link that will be embedded in this website. Keep the videos to about between 2-5 minutes. I know this seems like a short amount of time to fit in a lot of important information, but the attention span of average video watchers is limited to just a few minutes.  Less is okay as long as the message is clear.Send emails to jrowartist at gmail dot com and I will upload your story to this website. There will be a library page designated for stories once we have a good collection of stories. Each person will be linked to their own individual page (See: Vagina Project for examples).2. The story should address the social issues that you face as an artist. Here are some examples of what could be addressed in your story:Why don’t you just get a “real” job?Does your day job take away from your ability to fully pursue an artistic career?Do you have health insurance?What happens when you need to see a doctor? Do you have any tales of woe regarding being unable to afford health care?Forget about living pay check to pay check; do you know how you are going to pay your rent from month to month?Can you identify with the phrase feast or famine?How does living a creative life impact your stress levels, emotional experience, and/or mental health?How does your income impact your nutrition?Do you live in questionable housing conditions due to your artistic vocation?Do you have more than one day job?Do you have stable employment?Do you work as an adjunct? Maybe in more than one location? Maybe the work is seasonal and without benefits?What are the challenges of working full-time and still trying to pursue a creative career?What does it take for you to make money from your art?Are you delaying having children because you don’t have the means to raise a family and pursue a creative career?How has your race, ethnicity, or culture impacted your creative career?What about gender?Disability?Age?Are student loans ruining your life?What do you have to do to afford studio space or other art-related expenses?Do you have zero retirement benefits because of the nature of your career?Have you given up on artistic dreams because of these challenges and how has that impacted you?Other issues not mentioned here

via Submit Your Story!.

World Poetry Day

speak low
We could speak poetry,
language languid with eloquence and charm,
evoke meanings far beyond
common conversation’s command.
Spin me daring scenes and inspirations.
Call my essence to imbibe shared meditations.
Lean mean serene obscene,
we careen floor, wall, ceiling,
fulgent air of ecstasy’s semantic
play.
Speak low, my wondrous love.
Echo within interstice of heart and mind.
Lift magic’s metaphoric blind.
Elicit ribbon binds of pure enchantment
only poetry can conjure.
Neptune’s Fool
I burst my bubble daily
just to feel the pain.
I paint my face up gaily,
and melt out in the rain.
My bag of tricks is magic.
Yet no one calls to buy.
I wish my life were tragic,
horrendously awry.
‘Twould explain my sad refrain:
so bravely strong, heroic,
a saint, stately and stoic.
When truth be told I’m just a bum,
the very lowest common sum
of higher expectations.
So, let’s elbow up and drown in rum,
libertine libations
(congratulations obviously optional).
It’s not that I’m exceptional
(what a wrench that was to say),
but that the conventional
I label reprehensible.
Freudian snake crawls a cross,
a highly wired state.
Too late to deny reliance
on random strangers’ kindness,
I issue this groveling plea:
Feed my sustaining fantasy.
See my poetry, and shout out:  “How profound!”
Art Magic
Listen to the heart of bliss.
Lie supine on vibrant sand, inhaling,
under oceanic starlit sky.
Breeze breathes eternity, circles ever
inward to divine intricately
expansive poetry —
thought in magnificent splendor.
All art is magic; all magic is art.
Yet they are not the same, and part
of wonder’s widening landscape.
Mississippi
    Riverside romance one dusky June
    Turned into a winter poem
    By firelight – light of the moon.
    We loved and parted all too soon
    Each to return, a separate home
    Riverside romance one dusky June.
    I catch a glint, a ring of spoon
    Flashing through the tale I spin
    By firelight – light of the moon.
    Sometimes at night I hear you croon
    “We never had a chance to win.”
    Riverside romance one dusky June
    By firelight – light of the moon.
We are a well at the center of the Universe
suspended like a spider spun out from
a web of space and time
All that ever is, like sea and rain
catalyzed by light, is processing
rainbows
or other illusions
into effervescent poetry
A forest is a poem
in a language of life, of action.
Symbiotic energies swell into echoing song.
Bright catalytic light, dark layers of still
nurturing long decay, fragrant rhythms
hold tune to animal play and parry,
seeds joining in emergent glee, new forms
for old, set in sound and fury.
Forest
the word itself carries mystery, tales
of magic and remorse,
of maidens hiding from giants and
handsome knights sworn to fealty.
Sweet sprites, winsome serpents and ravens
whisper oracular spells to trap or free.
A mere parade of words may create no sap,
no clinging moss, no berries enticing birds
to build for a future family.
Yet a forest is most certainly
a poem.
A Woman Disappointed and Disillusioned, Courageously Facing a Seemingly Empty Life
Dressed in sadness
Depressed to madness
Mad to believe in passion,
which never lasts beyond the hour.
Shrieking to bequeath the
power to stand, to breathe.
Time appears, macabre hag
preening her wares.
“See how it was, how it could be.
Drag and drop your face, your fate
onto a printed page. Can you see
new meaning? New lamps for old.”
She cackles, like
a metronome.
New maps for a new age.
That charming village erstwhile
known as Hell
has realigned into Helvetica.
All that pain and sorrow
tomorrow’s poetry.
Life’s a Mad Dog in Heat; But At Least There’s Art
I want a poem, painting, song
to be authentic
heart to heart,
mind to mind
Not to tell me something about you;
to show me more of me.
Poker as a Metaphor for Poetry
Play the cards you are dealt,
inflated for the gaze of your opponents.
Don’t squander emotion reactively.
Enjoy the thrill of being in the game.
Pop Quiz
What is more useless than a poet, and why?
Encloistered in my artist’s garrett, threadbare garments more holes than whole
Paint spattered, unruly and unkempt
Barely aware of the need for sustenance or even air
Entranced by the necessity of exploring, exposing my vision
I am the essence of romance.
Writing words on paper, I am merely effete,
Despite my black attire and permanent scowl.
Even if they are good words, finely wrought, expressing deeply true emotion
They are almost literally a dime a dozen.
To expose my wound is inelegance, to explore my essence a narcissistic malaise.
I am the real deal — the poet-philosopher, the idealist dreamer, the journey’s fool.
Surely I should be surrounded by accolytes at my feet, honored to breathe the sacred
Incense of my magesty.
Yet here I stand with bills unpaid in the squalor of a rented room,
Unadorned by idolatry.

Aries

 
 
 
 
Warrior fire ablaze.
Crackling blade upraised.
Roar of vital battle, gains,
ascends o’er night
in song and story.
Forward soar in glory.
(Look at you!
You know we do,
hypnotized awake,
’cause you so fine.)
Beam sunshine, outpace clouds.
Thrill kowtowing crowds.
Keep rambunctious sheep
transfixed with hot, arching flame.
Now bow and jaunt.  Play merry, frilly sprite.
Awed by
shot-loud presence, resonance, disdain,
fawning acolytes applaud.
Proud sparkling,
charge fiercely into each new
dawn.
Initiate, ignite.
.
.
.

Spring Medley

 
 
Air clear as a free-running stream
tumbling over country rocks and minty greenery
Clear soft air of early spring
Breathing satsang, reeling eternity,
While running ‘cross the straight-lined highway
— shouting
“Hey sky, embrace me!” shouting
I embrace the air and call it Love.
 
I love you, love you, love you, love you
I
Form, Words, Action
I in motion
I in tumbling, stumbling, crazy image
kaleidoscope
over ‘n’ over
love you, love you, love you, love you
Capture the essence for an almost noninstant
Capture the image of groping, grabbing, grasping
gazing heartfelt on release, but
love you, love you, love you, love you
insane, insatiable
cannot touch release of
love you, love you, love you, love you
Smothering in the too pure air.
 
Hey, Springtime,
Got some time to be wasting
So I tracked a songbird
on a still bare treebranch
and joined it in song.
What wonder the woods bring
I can’t contain it.
Thistle and briar weeds
Capture my imagination
Grow wild and tangly
All through my mind.
.
.
.

work in progress — let it flow

A long and twisty journey
to find me where I started
having never departed at all…
 
 
Half a Page of Scribbled Lines
 
Stone cottage, enchanted forest.
Magical fireplace flickers stories.
Giants and waterfalls.
Ancient and new energy.
Luminescent nets flighty sprites
cast
betwixt, between.
 
Realities Doorway
 
Sedate walk,
subliminally aware of
omnipresent, unobtrusive
psychic feelers.
Surveillance sweep.
Data bombardment.
Brain shakes with malevolent intent.
Tiny spinal fractures emit
memory, reason, the capacity to love.
 
 
I am free to wander
all the stories that
could ever be,
choose the ones I
tell myself
in sleepy morning
soliloquy
Psyche’s numinous doorway stands open.
My little house imbued, protected.
Gentle blue heaven surrounds.
My landscape bold and bountiful.
Soft-shaded bubbles effervesce,
proclaim enchantment.
Voyages.
Eternal siren call
sea-washed
sun-warmed.
Blessed peaks serene,
clothed by playful
sparkling sands.
Anytime you ask
I will gladly
repeat,
interweave, enhance,
pleasure with my stories.
Just outside my doorway
are eternities more.
 
 
 
 
dweller on the threshold
 
 
Ivy dense,
tangly generations,
encircles.  Insulation.
Mortared brick, aged,
in mourning
for days that never can return.
 
Inspired by anger
coursing through my blood-brain barrier,
by symphonies of guilt and shame
by simple morality tableaux
glimpsed in roving eyes,
by gagged and chained
liminal desires,
by sacrificial warriors
who cope with more
than could be required
and the songs my silent ear demands I hear.
 
Collar up against the wind and dark.
Rising smoke creates warmth illusion.
Wrapped in sanity’s delusion,
fog’s memory of mist, imagined tide.
Seated here, salt-etched wall
alone between vast sand and
murmuring waves.
No one sings.
The notes, the voices
appear
 
 
 
Silence
 
 
We who are silent
tongues clamped to grindstone
throats clinched like forever grief
caught, pinned, suspended in poison
We would cry out
send forth aureoles of potent beseeching
to assuage, to persuade to desist
if voice permitted
Grinding to dust, clinging to glints and shards
bare breath escapes without
resistance
silent
but for that shimmer, that subliminal
growl
 
 
 
 
Growing Out of Liminality
 
 
Thirteen Wizards Shall Guide You, rotating in 7s,
to be chosen from a wizard test administered at regular intervals
to any who wish to be tested.
Each wizard shall serve at his/her pleasure — until they decide to move on.
Any wizard may return by retesting and getting the highest score amongst
those currently in line at the time of a vacancy, the same as any other candidate.
The test will be devised by a wise pre-council to ascertain qualities of
wisdom, compassion, responsibility, integrity and clarity of communication.
The test may be reviewed and revised at any time that the full council agrees
to do so, based on evidence of better evidence to be gained.
The wizards do not make the laws.
Laws are made by direct democracy, after a sufficient period of debate when
an overwhelming majority of consensus seems likely.
Wizards do have veto power.
Wizards do not control the economy.  That is the province of the market.
The wizards do oversee the use and conservation of common resources.
They do oversee a social infrastructure that assures everyone a basic secure
livelihood.  They do oversee disputes to assure that everyone is treated fairly
in the course of commerce, and in the course of community life.
They are not paid an outright salary.
They are given ample living conditions so that their minds may be free
of personal want.
 
 
 
The experience of pain and suffering can be used as a gateway to compassion.
Compassion promotes self-compassion
Self-compassion promotes introspection
promotes self-experimentalization
promotes awareness of the personal operating system
promotes forgiveness of misconceived blame
promotes relaxation of boundaries and restrictions
promotes liminal wisdom
promotes calm acceptance of non-rational realities,
promotes reintegration of self as programmer,
promotes self-reprogramming in alignment with
self-progression to a place of bliss and
dharmic awareness in which
every piece fits magically finds its place
all to all eternally unwinding.
 
 
 
windows
 
 
That liminal dimension between the pain
and the screen selection of feeling, immersion
away from meaning:  what you don’t mean;
all the ravaging truth (No, that’s not me!)
I was the princess, all the rage — cashing in
on beauty, charm, ambition
See, my vision, bubbling up in pastel
pinks and blues.
Who were you, back when
the carnival was still in town;
were you that merry clown with
costumed glee, charismatic spree,
grab it all for free!
And now?
Cloaked in silent screaming, bravely scheming
Which face you can allow to smile,
slip through the picket fence or crooked style.
Intense desire disguised as disgust
cowardly trust misapplied
How to excavate, extricate all those lies,
(and why should I?) to touch cool, hard stone
layered experience, etched to magnificence
not mine alone
 
 
God is a concept.   Power is belief.
 
 
Born with the implied function to continue the tradition of who we are.
The desire for applause from those we adore.
Containers of dangerous unknown unknowns.
It’s not morality. It’s not romantic love.
We aren’t equipped to viscerally commit to
the intangible, unentangled.
We act within the bounds of what can be allowed
by our desires.
We act within confines
of who we’ve allowed ourselves to be.
Shell-shocked by normality.
Remnants and bits carelessly sewn together.
Feel the pull before the push catches from behind.
 
Accept
need as given.
Wander on, through generating heat, pleasure,
bliss, mystic surrender
 
Tales of death and resurrection make it seem so easy.
Yes, I’m terrified; but twill be better in the end, and then
again when I revive.
But just because the legends say better days will come
our way doesn’t make it so.
Seers can purvey bitter memories. Fear can
eviscerate for aeons.
Long before healing can get underway, strength diminishes,
resolve deflates, the time to reignite runs out.
 
 
 
 
 
Welkin
 
 
In closing moments of late Winter light,
clouds sink afire into horizon’s shore.
Visions shielded by day from instinct’s sight
creep into focus, relink to nature’s core
 
If the sky could, it would dream of stars nova bright
raining through galactic residue.
A dream that lingers, abreacts, imbues wisdom,
splinters into triptych,
highly meditative.
The you that dreams.
The universal eye dreaming.
The awakened.
 
Breathe deeply.
Relax languidly.
Tell those busy thoughts to be dreams,
diffuse.

WHO IS VLADIMIR PUTIN? SABIAN SYMBOLS FOR VLADIMIR PUTIN As Revealed In His Astrological Birth Chart

from the article

Shared by
wholelottarosie
  

  

pathwaytoascension.wordpress.com

 

I have footnoted the majority of astrological statements made in addition to the Sabian symbol information in order to render this interpretation as objective as possible.TECHNIQUE USED:  I quote the Sabian symbol information.  Then, I follow each symbol interpretation with photos, quotes about and from Putin, and articles that illustrate how the symbol has unfolded in his life’s expression.

via WHO IS VLADIMIR PUTIN? SABIAN SYMBOLS FOR VLADIMIR PUTIN As Revealed In His Astrological Birth Chart.

Link

Acts of Desolation

Acts of Desolation

“Acts of Desolation
 
 
When the battlefield torn by mines is all the school or playground in which to grow,
how can the children be taught to know, to understand a lexicon of peace?
Bitter hatred permeates mother’s milk and what there is of grain,
permeates the very rain, gathered in barrels since the wells ran red
with poisoned blood, since the holiest of sites became blackened
with pestilence and shame.
Rumors expand on who is to blame; not much else to go around..
 
 
I like to walk the dark empty streets.  Late at night, the city becomes its own.  The smells, the silence, the stark black and white, shadows and streetlamps, without the people the city can become comforting, peaceful.  But never for long.”

SciFi novelette originally envisioned as a graphic novel

http://caelastory.blogspot.com/2009_03_01_archive.html

valentines

Be My Valentine
 
 
If the greatest virtue we can aspire to is love
And the greatest follies in our lives are due to love
And we can’t cure our frenzied malady of love
But all sages exhort us just to love
And pure poison emanates from loss in love
And pure bliss is promised us from lovely love
And what about those horrid beings we just can’t love
And what about that horrid feeling of being unloved
So what in heaven/hell is love?
 
 
There is love that sends you dancing
into romantic lunacy
that feels so right and free
There is love that burns so hot and cold
you never know
quite where you are
There is love that holds a whisper
in a cloaked corner of your being
makes you smile in
that secret special way
makes you want to linger
in a lover’s fantasy
makes your day
There is love that hurts and hates
and kills any chance of saving
face or heart
burns the bright flame of your essence
into ash
leaves you bleeding, pleading
for any drug or thrill to kill that agony
There is love
indistinguishable from insanity
in any way your twisted mind
will go
There is love that lets you know
you have a soul
because it’s growing
magically
What kind of love are you offering
to me?
 
 
I offer you a human love,
not constrained to simple delineation.
Part seeking a confidante face,
to find my hoped for reflection.
Part need for nurturing solace
in uncertain days.
Part desire to be hero, adored
shining spirit in your eyes,
because you spark enduring fire
in mine.
You send my boundaries
leaping.
Your presence increases my
self’s reality,
inspires wider denotation
encompassing we.
Crawling into each other’s
place of essence,
breaking through,
It doesn’t matter where
I am
when I’m with you.
 
 
 
 
 
Haphazard People
 
 
Mostly pretty ugly, pretty useless, pretty stupid,
not pretty at all.
But how can I discount them when unexpectedly
somebody kind, unreasonably wise, a vision of grace,
undeniably lovely.
How could we account for miracles, unlikely odds
coming through?
Random chaos is enough for human ingenuity
to engineer you or me, or any soldier joe
or social geek.
Who’s to say which or any of us is the freak?
I like my lovers half-crazed, bravely strong, and wonder-filled.
A true friend to cry with,
who then can laugh me out of my blues.
I like that she could choose,
and freely cleaves to me.
Haphazard people.
Collisions of lives.
What are the chances we might get it right?

Genesis

Fallen open
pages sway, disarray, play with urchin wind
I hear their duet, and my joining hum releases
quiet laughter
A circling jazz, art’s heartbeat,
wild wind’s symphony

The Little Planet Daily

Does it matter how things come into the world? This poem? This heartbeat?

A street puts on a winter coat of snow. A gravel truck spreads its grey afterthought and growls home to sleep with its disciples.

A storm dreams in tight overlapping cylinders.

Sonny Rollins the great jazz artist
says he has one good idea a night.

Does it matter where things circle before they land?

View original post

January 14

 
Sacred Geology
 
 
Rich earth.
Consecrated life.
Imbued myriad layers
nourish omniscient spirit.
Starvations, immolations, decay
scarred into the land
making it holy.
Bounty of beauty
irrigated by tears
and less voluntary bodily fluids.
Teeming loam. Revitalizing
luscious fruits
giving forward.
Partaking of the feast
we are blessed,
renewed in empyreal essence.
Each at our pace,
nature’s cycle reclaims
all that we are
that we may become
yet more abundantly, complexly
layered.
 
 
 
Broken
 
 
Once there was a promise
so tightly clasped,
a nucleus, inseparable
magnetic bond.
The promise said:  “I am
your destiny.
Treat me as any dependent child.”
But you forgot a promise had been made.
You believed in a world
owed to you alone.
The promise grew withered, old,
sluggish, barren, wan.
It liked to laugh, so quietly,
peeking down the staircase
at the grown-ups at play.
It never meant to spoil the party
with its unseemly gasping for air.
Quietly it lay, hidden in shadows,
beneath random cobwebs and crumbs.
 
 
 
A Winter Parable
 
 
Two old men sit 
wrapped in wool, contemplating a frozen stream.
Their memories soar out past yesterday’s horizon
to youthful pleasures and dismays.
Yes, time has been harsh as the coldest winter;
and beautiful as late night snowfall that
covers the world in symbolic purity,
sets off 
strawlike, colorful northern herbs
against a star and moonlit sky.
To know profoundly, we need not be old,
only of a romantic nature.
To share these epiphanies, 
we need only be in love with life.
 
 
 
For Julie
 
 
    The Temple Bells sound clearly.
    Early morning misty mountain rising.
    Pale moon to jolly alpine sun.
    Soft blues & golds
    throughout the Valley.
    And, hark!  Hear the bells
    over hillsides, rockslides, 
    slip of skis, powder peaks,
    & rime held skies.
    That frost smell, plainly
    on that open mountain day
    & no one around but enticing odor
    of clean virgin snow.
   The darkside of the moon faces shyly.
    Sly shade moored under awaits her cue.
    Anticipation pure with mirth.
    & Night comes quickly.
    Icy stars blank out now pallid sun.
    And moonbeams twinkle – oh la!
    Pawprints mar niveous path.
    The mountain creature stalks.
    But soon hides & shivers 
    in providential crevice of warmth.
Vestal white reigns high.
    Crystal-clear
    crystal stars
    celestial tableau.
Snowflake ribbons, cloud dust,
    shatter into mirror-images & gone!
    Scatter, swirl
    Eternally.
 
 
 
When I was Two and Twenty
 
 
It was a warm Winter.
Certainly there was frost, mesmerizing lace of snow.
Still, even northern streets held no forbidding chill.
Brisk movement, bracing meditative walks through
streetlamp shadows sufficiently
far from heavy deadliness of frigidity.
That Winter spanned manifold degrees,
latitudes and longitudes.
The coldest night hit with shock and
good hot anger.  Electrical resistance, exasperation;
existential flurries stomp revenge.
February proffers challenging amity.
Winter’s merge with Spring, icy mud, ire damp,
subsumed in vulgar pleas for relief.
April is cruel.  She is bossy, outrageously on the rag.
She seduces with promises, then laughs in your face,
carelessly spews spittle shames.
April is nobody’s mistress.
She demands notice; delivers only belligerence.
It was a warm Winter, a lusty Spring.  Summer’s
herald of mystery followed through.
By Fall the world took on
a stranger’s ways.  New data to consider.
Years have their stories.
Days awaken to the air’s news, the drums’ rhythm.
Warm Winters, Summers’ call of capricious glory;
twilights of harmonic symphonies when Sun
touches green horizons.
 
 
 
 
Ice-breaking
 
 
Get people talking.
Minds engaged, relating.
Interchanges, connections
excite,
generate synergy.
Diversity finds flow unites;
warm colors array.
Create a day
unlike the past.
Choir’s harmonic magic
breaks frozen thrall,  
isolating spell
silence cast.
 
 
 
 
 
Beyond
 
 
I slip through mystic’s hour-glass,
breathe ethereal sand,
land unseen, yet profoundly tasted
deep in intricate interstices
of pervasive consciousness.
 
Will I meet you there?
A long-lost embrace,
inspiring melody,
synergized anthem of camaraderie?
Welcome me to this place
beyond secrets and stars.

12th month – 18

What year has this been?
Wishes obtained, sustained, began.  Exhilaration.
Races run, sunsets scanned, scintillating proclamations.
Warm, flirtatious masks, goal enhancing tasks,
reflection of cascading plans in dancing flames.
Wrapped up in crinkly fun, happy laughter, expansive games.
Holding the best to memory; the rest let fade away.
 
 
December 18, 2013

12th month – 14

 
What year has this been?
Soft rounds, pregnant clouds, emerging snow
as crepuscular iridescent glow descends.
Below, glistening greeting stars adorn
guardian trees, cozy chimneyed homes.
Thoughts of feasts, merry meets, gift of returning friends.
Familiar songs evoking peace, belonging, generous amends.
 
 
December 14, 2013

12th month – 13

What year has this been?
Soar o’er awakened sky, past to now.
Sunny, Moony, Star-eyed oracle snidely whispers
dense cues, cuneiform runes. Semesters chasing prowess,
prayers for simple shrouds to hide from chaos,
for straight lines, ample ammunition, steadfast ground.
Deranged clouds tinted black from canon fire, obscure vespers.
 
 
December 13, 2013

12th month – 7

What year has this been?
Those pregnant moments, sheltering a friend.
Sharing pleasures, tending love’s impassioned fire.
Stolen elation, carried aloft by inspired surprise.
Daring conversations that melt and meld, and mend.
Snips of eternal bliss, rare, refreshing.
Transcendent bits and blessings, present, aware.  
 
 
December 7, 2013

12th month (1-5)

What year has this been?
What bright star might foretell
future resolution, fears openly quelled,
goals of hope in sight?
Beacons, blessings of a night cold
yet comforting.  Season of light,
of ice and fire.
 
 
December 1, 2013
 
 
 
What year has this been?
Which pages of our story?
Battle wary, ready for rest, to shelter.
Close a solid door; enjoy the fire,
warm, reminiscent of
the peace we fight for.
May Winter’s light mark the way.
 
 
December 2, 2013
 
 
 
What year has this been?
To touch the river, become its flow,
turn toward a swirling sky from here below.
Travel broadens, expands the skein of us.
Doesn’t surely lead to trust nor lessen tension.
Still, to explore, add to what we all know,
the more we learn to question, to quest
instead of merely step by step progress.
 
 
December 3, 2013
 
 
What year has this been?
How did it once begin?
As open vista, faery games.
Wishes released to air in flames.
How might it end?
Cozy cocoa day with friends,
laughing into evening’s fade?
 
 
December 4, 2013
 
 
What year has this been?
When we all begin again
to resolve to evolve, to make a
better trade, more alive, less afraid
ready to dig in and build for blessing.
No prohibition, requirement of mission
denies desire’s essentiality to feed our flame.
 
 
December 5, 2013

October 31, 2013

 

Pink Floyd vs. The Beatles – The Creepiest Song You’ve Ever Heard

 
 
Night Air Reflection
 
 
Archetypes
walk city streets, ride subways
costumed as commoners —
subterranean trickster consciousness,
ethereal siamese twin
to the mundane.
Shadow and substance
entwine as before
the incursive divide.
I long to tell you,
yearn so I loudly whisper,
but only if you really listen.
I cannot say these things twice.
Memories seep through,
acquire form.
Stand straight and true
as soldiers or Marines
gifting full allegiance
to any who will take that load.
There are Gods foaming in excrement,
demanding relief in sardonic
sacrament
potent and deadly.
Angels and
Demons wage stochastic war;
dice from a grail
foresage trial or comfort.
Hungry Ghosts wail.
Vampires and Creatures
made of night
seek shelter before
travails of fablers
break them.
Morning Star
winks salaciously.
In wild’s kingdom
all manner of beings
thrive.
Eagles soar.
Lions roar.
Whales sing.
Humans open a
veiled third eye.
The World rejoices.
.
.
.
 
 
 
Samhainic Verse
 
 

~sharing(secret)water~ EV13 

 

night’s pages

{patchwork narrative} a flash fiction serial following the story of a child vampire, the eternal child monster working out that existence

originally featured (and still appearing) on my PostApocalypse tumblr site:  http://postapocalypse13.tumblr.com/ 
now appearing on this Blogger spot for easy editing and viewing. 
The last entry, which is what you see on the home page, is the first “patch” of the story. Go backwards, down through the previous posts to see the whole story, or as much as you like, or some now, some later …

Libra waves

Wind Song
 
 
Fragrant romance echoes
a’fall through cobwebbed memory.
Catches buoyant balance, calm within storm.
 
Joined in joyful merriment of dancers,
glide of
choreographic poetry.
Mind full,
whispers poignant song.
Beatific motion,
a chance to play
 
where love is symphony
from which breath expands
each to each.  Majestically enhanced,
this brief season.
 
In the wind
stories, blow, whirl,
wisp, purr gentle, insistent, strong,
rush wide, long, dipping below.
A galaxy, a swirl of lights
blinks bright, dark, invisible for a slow
millennium or so;
only vaguely glimpsed on night minds,
obstructed by veil, by shadow, by
“No, that can’t be real.”
Until softly swaying melody
centered in some fantastic sirocco
casts about for local color,
adoring djinn bleating for succor.
 
The field dances
hungrily with wind, with wild.
In the eye of eternity, wise
as any child, as any wizard
myth could conceive,
This One, This Master of
enchantments (believe, my kin,
believe) takes fluid stand.
Takes true command.
Raises eyes, might, arms
to conduct transcendent music.
Sky and ground converge
lightly, marry grace and supplication,
make merry conversation,
soothe wounded beasts from
secret space with dervish charm.
The few self-selected to observe,
learn to carry on these tales,
loose from sobriety.
Enthralled by call of magic,
weave a new reality.
Ride high on dragon scales,
spirits entranced.
*
*
*
 
 
hungry zeitgeist
 
 
Slivers, splinters, falling meaning.
Catch it, send it spinning out to the stars.
Bleeding rags dressed in fine red droplets.
Shredded hands, hopes, hearts, drip desire.
I can’t hold on, hold out, hold a good thought,
flailing through agonized neurons,
shattered mirrors
unable to provide sustenance
hold suction,
bind the wound.
Embrace me.
Clasp so tight and tenderly
as blood scores your fingers.
Touch my raw eroding senses
with gentle rain, easing,
obscuring the view.
I would curl up into destiny,
lock my lacerations
in fantasies of false skins.
Sliding, holding fast to the edges,
I would fall immortally into space,
dripping inward.
I would lock my consciousness in pasteboard boxes,
too tight for mortal breath.
The words whirl around, whirl around, whirl
like scattered bits of paper tears.
I would hide in the deepest cage and
keep to life slowly seeping through.
But the hunger calls.
It growls and jumps in fits to battle.
 
 
October 20, 2006
 
 
 
 
wall of lies
 
 
How could I trust?
All lie, even without meaning
and most certainly
when it serves them
to forget any equation including me.
A lie is an advantage.
Keep me guessing about reality,
out of a loop
to my better strategy.
And then, they make demands,
as if merely standing in their world
implies I owe them compensation
of my life and everlasting soul.
Some social contract I never knew
I signed.
Jungle law ought to be good enough.
Eat or get eaten; do or die.
Do jungle kin lie slyly
amongst their brethren?
Do they scar little children,
raise them tame and scared?
Is there nowhere among humanity
where trust is valued
enough to create language
truly sharing?
Who would travel there
if it meant
forsaking the comfort
of lies?
 
 
October 20, 2007
 
 
 
 
Neon Elephant
 
 
The bubble bursts
throwing us into wakening
Neon elephant, released,
trumpets:  abandon hope,
all ye, all ye
Cast upon cold, raging seas
Melting ice,
jagged, threatening:
Drown or be pierced through
Damn that trumpeting
loud and out of tune
Neon elephant slurps floating
ice cap tasting of
polar bear and cool jazz
Muffled notes of alarm
deny dream refugees,
long abandoned to
holding out hopeful arms,
crying for release
Shiny soap bubbles
Slippery laughter
Treasure and sad, sad lives
slipping under
Neon tons
Pierced by hungry ice shards,
brief angry red screams
call mindless sharks to frenzy
Top of the food chain to ya.
Sleep — the world spins out
from under
Awake, crashing through chaos
Neon elephant trumpets,
plays the blues
 
 
October 20, 2008
 
 
 
 
Ignitiation
 
 
We willingly expose,
offer blood and agony.
Bitter acid drips to anoint,
seared eyes, scalded tongues,
to hallow, to invoke.
 
Sacrificial phoenix, a’blaze
upon the altar’s throne
over and over to approximate
perfection.
Each coronation marked in
condensing steam
of carnate fluids.
We surrender our hope,
our innocence, familiarity
for the freedom wisdom implies.
Each loosened grasp on mortality,
slipping digits still desperate to hold
the next piece of the code.
 
Power – so slender, so sleek and bare,
essential,
air that moves worlds.
 
Burn raw, pure, to feel beyond
what thought could imagine, to know.
 
 
October 20, 2012
 
 

website update

night’s pages

{patchwork narrative} a flash fiction serial following the story of a child vampire, the eternal child monster working out that existence

 

 

OPERATOR’S MANUAL

notes playing to a theme

nightly poetry posts

 

Emerging Visions visionary art zine

 

http://caelastory.blogspot.com/

Something Sacred – metafiction

 

 

 

PostApocalypse blog includes original patchwork narrative flash fiction serial

 

Selected Works 1968-2005

 

Year of Prophecies as a page

 

 

 

Year of Prophecies as blog posts  and posts beyond the project

 

 

 

Samhainic Verse

 

 

beginning soon, posts about healing through dance

 

 

a little Moon music

Moon Light Triptych
 
 
Silver bracelet of Moonlight
night prism of serene
delight
casts lines, luminescent desire
emboldened in reflection
 
 
Masked Lady Moon sneaks
into my room,
speaks of fantastic adventure.
Dare I question her
abundant gesture?
I a masked gypsy
painted in gloom,
a taste for wry humour,
impossible promises,
resplendent terrain.
A woman insane,
taken in by the Moon.
Fair sister, illusory rock, cold, dark
so far from my daily chains.
I have no home
but clear, quiet salvation
hiding like Moonlight
unmasked in my mind.
 
 
I tell you the moon dreams of beauty.
I tell you the soul is but a butterfly,
sweet and fluttery, without the substance
of a cloud.
I tell you that this is what I adore:
You, here and now, a shower of acceptance,
telling me to tell you more.
*
*
*
 
 
as out, so in
 
 
Lake silent, dark
mirror to reflective Moon
complete in stillness
 
Wind escapes blackened maples,
catches crackling leaves
to whirl, to fall
 
Integral, self-contained, this world knows
mystery, bloodlines, senses unspoken,
helpless ecstasies eternity allows
for now
 
 
October 18, 2012
 
 
 
 
Lunation
 
 
Passing mist veils/reveals Moon glow
as she moves through caressing clouds
trying to reach me
so far below.
How can I know
it is me she desires?
My mind is on fire,
moonstruck, some might say.
Flying along the Milky Way
fueled by moonshine.
She flashes her shadowy eye
through cloud-studded sky
and I feel fine.

Link

patchwork narrative – Response

patchwork narrative – Response

patchwork narrative – Response
 
AUG 25

http://postapocalypse13.tumblr.com/

 
Response
 
 
Autumn awakes to alert consciousness not long before dusk.
Lowering Sun offers dimming of somnolent heat.
I tell her I can take her home or we can stay here to decide
what Kathy needs to know.  I tell her I am here for her.
Whatever she needs.  We can stay here, make this house
our home.  We can invite Kathy away from her demons.
We can be a family.  We can remake this place into our own.
She sees my excitement, my hopeful fantasy.  She is calm,
deliberate, solemn.  She moves slowly, cautious to speak.
I feel energy rising in me, response to falling night.
Autumn feels with me, sympathizes to charge of power.
She hugs me with sudden strength.  She takes my hands
in hers, my eyes in hers.  Watery blue absorb into deep,
fierce brown of earth.
“That Geoff, he told me you had a deal.  He said you had
promised to turn him undead when he was ready.  He
laughed that cold, deep knowing laugh and taunted that
he was your real partner for eternity, that I was only a
temporary playmate.  He bragged about how powerful he
was now, but that it was only a shadow of what he would
become as super powered immortal.”
“Yes, I made contract with him.  We were partners in crime
of mutual benefit.  I wanted to believe him my friend.
I let him convince me.  I let his plan take me in.  I understood
no reason to resist.  A good con takes advantage of
unspoken desire, pretends to answer as miraculous fit.
I desired an end to abandonment.  I desired to matter,
to be more than for myself.  I detested being me.  I
attracted a fitting savior.  Then he was gone.  The man who
returned broke my promise.  Betrayal is grounds for breaking
bonds of fealty.  My true bond is to my love for you.  I could
not let him hurt you further.  I removed his threat, for now
and forever.”
She continues to hold my hands, my eyes.
“I understand.  Of course I am glad, relieved, that he is gone.
I know you would have regretted his companionship, even
without me in the mix.  He wasn’t friend material.
I know you love me, protect me, are loyal to me.
You know I love you.  With me, you are not a monster.  You
are my beloved friend.  You have found your more than you
miracle.  I have found safe keeper of my trust, my fantasies,
my fear, my care, all of me.  We can be complete together.
We don’t need anybody else.  We don’t need to put up with
being harshly treated by their hateful judgments and executions,
spiteful sprite power.  We don’t have to live like them, to be
afraid of our own fear so we’ve always preemptively striking,
to always be messing up, creating ugliness as if that were our
greatest goal.  I hate them all; and I’m so sick of hating.
You want to help me be whole, to heal from this traumatic
incident.  You want to matter, to be useful in my resurrection.
Take me with you, into the night.  Turn me.
I’m not some arrogant sleaze.  I am Autumn, your true friend.
Give me the immortal power.  We could be a happy partnership
forever.  You won’t have to stay accustomed to lonely nights.
Neither of us has to suffer ever again.  Turn me, like you were
turned from a living death into becoming a powerful undead.
Neither of us will ever have to be abandoned.”
I turn from her.  My mind, my will break from her grasp.
A voice, Geoff/Peter’s cackle:
“We use you, vampire, not for any purpose you could condone;
otherwise, it wouldn’t be using but common cause.”
No, I understand.  She is scared, scarred, desperate to hide
in transformation.  She believes so deeply her need for power,
for defense.  She desires to be safe.  She desires constant
reassurance of adoration as blanket, as shield.
She demands permanent solution, immersion in darkness.
She does not understand or imagine unintended consequence,
the price of false salvation.  She does not possess the truth
of who I am.
I offer my opening piece in response.
“It was not that I lacked sustenance.  I had a home, a house
where I was allowed existence, expected.  I was fed, clothed,
given opportunity to be clean.  I had purpose.  My life was
service. No questions, ideation of resistance.  How can you
understand?  There was no possible ignition of self will.
When the vampire changed me, it was just one more
unquestioned acquiescence.  The horror came later.
When I was free to understand awareness of willful self.
My fate was never about free choice, power to effect.  By the
time I could cognate the concept of conscience, I was undead,
eternally cursed.”

August 13, 2013

Veil Shift Reveal
 
 
stretch, open, release, proceed
feet spread forward, eyes seized flutter
temporal shift casts and drifts, torrents
take shape as awe
Lie awake to think beyond context,
inklings from pixie dust long infiltrate
formless, bright, twinkling like a
retinal code, like imprints of mystics’ art
Stories with twists to expose different paths
Songs that entwine backbrains, insist
we all dance one foot, one mind, one goal
or another
Face off, blinded, emit sonic rays as walls
so steep, so hard, so badly soiled
In quiet dark before twilight before time
vagrants paint with bloodied fingers, examine
interstice and flow
Slowly, as viscous waste, then quicker pick up
of pace, then light takes hold,  caresses gentle
as a kiss of friendly intent
Will you let it in?  Will you let your vision bend,
extend, begin?
 
 
August 13, 2013

Link

Third Sunday Blog Carnival: June 2013

Third Sunday Blog Carnival: June 2013

 

This month’s blog carnival is brought to you by 22 bloggers: 11 in the Poetry category, 3 in the Fiction category, and 8 in the Writing Life category.

Visit these links and please leave comments for the authors. Feedback is so important to a writer and we need your support. Other ways to help are to follow our blogs, Google+ our postsand share our links on Facebook, Twitter, StumbleUpon, and other social networking sites.  If you know of someone who would enjoy the blog carnival either as a reader or a contributor, please pass this post along.

The next edition of the Blog Carnival will be on July 21. If you want your link to be included, read and follow the guidelines and email your submission by July 10.

Let the Carnival begin. Enjoy!

Aside

Winter triptych

Winter is Coming
She arrives!
Cold, clear, glorious crystalline air.
Happy to roast by the fire, spin out yarn for warmth.
Happy for cozy aroma of home and hearth.
Euphorious, heart singing, blood roaring fun.
Out to run, slide, ride through white mist,
escape from resistance; engage with bright bliss.
She alights from her carriage, a vision of charms
carved in ice.
Look into the prism’s flame, wondrous worlds
never twice the same, mesmerized.
Happy to have this gift, this season, this time,
open eyes.
Winter is coming
She arrives
Glorious voice lifts up the night,
trails splendor, soft drifts of white.
Taste delight, pure as ice, sweet as fantasy.
Soulful reflecting safe by the fire,
caught by flame’s magic,
aligns with the greatest of stars, the finest of galaxies.
Wild Wind whispers “Higher, my love; ride my mystery.”
Deep flow of desire; snow lit in moonglow.
Reclined, widened eyes ablaze to behold.
A fabulous sleigh swoops from above, aglitter with glee.
She alights.
Swirl of romance, adorned in brisk excitement,
stunning aroma,
clear aura of peace.
Winter is coming
She arrives
Conviction strong and glorious
Brilliant astral presence, at last.
Swollen with destiny, swirling in ecstasy.
Feel air breath-moist beat to Her sway.
She drinks, uplifts the cup of our prayers, feasts upon homespun tales.
Listen! She reveals.
Torso spun forward, head arched back
dervish aware. She incants, caresses, blesses,
sweeps through this startled assemblage. Chase if you dare.
A child of shadow slips behind, catches at her tresses.
Slow secret smile grows, their silent delight snow white, bare of guile.
Time freezes. Hungry eyes press against
icy glass. Inside, twinkling eternity blazes, laughs.
All of space awaits. We need but reach through
may all your world ends hook up to better worlds beginning
*

neural circus

variegate shades 
symbols of ancient trade gaily parade 
coax wry smiles shaped to tease 
out 
sinuous pleasure 
cleverly she spins, sways, sweeps, 
catches a whirl of trance 
better than life 
her blood, taste of iron 
and butter, 
sweet, salt, serene 

the thrill is in the taking, 
the rushing and tumbling 
unobserved, unexpected, 
trick of the eye laid bare 

delicious secrets 
creep into sight, strive to misbehave 
for acknowledgement 
small, frantic, overburdened 
Is such awkward love 
allowed? 
this bright moon midnight, 
enter the circus 
mirror fly on the wire 
transform as incantation 
come alive 
free, beneath galaxies, 
perform miraculously
to your gleeful applause  

This Is Not a Sketch

Not the fire in the belly,
but the air in the lungs.
Clarity.
Fire warms, then burns in passion,
flaming, shameful, conflagration
of sin and victory.
Buddha-like compassion,
saintly wise, learned in cycles
of hard labor, blessed bliss —
messages like this mentored, memed,
given credence in electric market,
synapse scent, inhaled essence.
This is not a sketch.
This is awakening
from deep, drugged entanglement
in eiderdown.
Memories march in hideous mime.
Despair hangs heavy, grey,
unbounded.
Coarse, textured currents,
slowed for inhalation, beckon,
wave, invite companionship.
Bubbles surface, break
like flowers expelling seeds.
Breathe the inspiration.

Speak in Peace

Useful communication requires common metaphor.
(Myths forged for tribal survival divide. )

When I feel alive, rooted yet wild, outside of frame
a twirling child, free of security derived from shame
able to rise beyond the schoolyard game of divisive naming

I see within my eyes distant seas and shores,
forest fae blinking in the haze,
journeys rending years into days.
Hear the whistling, touch the swollen fruit,
amazed — counting down as I tumble.

How do I explain in this tongue we mumble,
barely getting through a random chat that
gives no exit wound to that ache beating inside
to grab a hand, touch your mind, bring to being?

Yet, why would you want to see what I am seeing?
It’s only poetry; only curiosity; it’s only
miracles of sand, twinkling, breath of fire
combusted glass, twisted into culture, class.
Beauty survives each blast, more adored for her
scars.  Allured by her charms, may we doze
and stumble into sweeter reveries.

In sleep, relaxed, uncoiled core may cry in surprise
to be free, awaken realigned.

Speak friend and enter.
We have much to discuss.

Call and Response

Clinging to the stories we learned at tv’s knee
Ensorcelled by those glittering stores lining every street
Sure that might has taken the ground defining rights
Cynically forsaken, belief in heroic knights
We aren’t sheep to slaughter, although of bone and meat
Nor cattle to be ordered by our grades of beef
We’re children, with our wonder obscured by others’ dreams
Chastised not to blunder, to supplicate and bleed
To break from such enchantment, from thrall to All insane
First learn to break the viral binds, vitalize, reframe

Final Will

If these be our final days, bleeding out into entropic end
No elite “may we?” can overrule life’s yen
to feel fine
while yet there is fine to feel
Feast on the hoarded best; dance well past dawn
Deny requests of war or debt to waste this waning time
It’s no thievery to claim our hours, free of robotic clocks,
take whatever’s left as a chance to be real —
if the end is nigh, or not

Cross Purpose

At time’s crossroads, Reason drowns
in rage, pain,
irradiated rain, treasonous air.
Weary of care, of punishing,
bottomless anger, of sobbing men
robbed of their right to give birth.
Taken from Mama’s warmth, from
the cave, to play brave.
And it’s ladies’ choice as you squirm
in fool’s corner.
Such a chore — kissing at this
and that for a chance to score
the shame, the blame from stuck-out
tongues, the bloody laughter.
“I could bite off that little thing — make
you squat to pee.” 
Wired to fight, at any cost,
because, of course, the Cross proclaims
“We’re right.  They are inherently wrong.”
“Those below must be taught to obey
our superior tools, to be broken,
that we may ride.”
Against our better fate, our race divided
along strict lines, by difference 
nature devised to make us strong.