Tuesday, March 31, 2015

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?
 
)
 
)
 
 
 
 

Sunday, March 8, 2015

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.

Monday, February 2, 2015

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.

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

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.

Thursday, October 16, 2014

Songs of Persephone

 
 
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




myths new and revisioned