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.
Advertisements