Friday, June 19, 2015

Summer Love?

Human Nature
 
 
Raging winds.
Cataclysmic connections.
A wild ride through ever disintegrating times.
Can we assimilate where we've been?
Ancient footfalls inexorably emerging into
battering rams, explosions, fiery projectiles,
grief, despair, immolation, utter destruction.
Can we feel the pull into the maelstrom,
powers rip our being into basic components,
the essence of nature?
Perhaps there was/is/will be
a time of peaceful reflection,
hoped for abundance,
shared joy and laughter,
ecstatic attainment
moving higher through an upward spiral,
feeling so good, so free, feeling so loved.
Perhaps it is just here, around an unseen corner,
ever available to those who can perceive,
let go of misperception and it's
pull of hate, push of shame.
Perhaps the only solace is in stolen moments,
the vibrant taste of summer wine,
the innocent joy of uncomplicated affection,
the pure sensuality of passionate dance.
Perhaps these will tell us,
if and when we stop to listen,
will lead us to the promised land.
 
 
 
 
Be(gin)ing
 
 
Soft Summer 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.
Summer 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
to ride along home.
 
 
 
 
Rainbow Shop
 
 
And she sold me rainbows
shining gaily 'cross the window
windchimes in light.
And she smiled me daisies
and bursting bright blooms of summer.
And she told me, maybe,
if you're looking in
the right direction,
a miracle may grace your sight.
And I beam,
dancing
into the day.
 
 
 
 
Song of Sun and Earth
Driving beat of nature’s grand
choreography
Call for the cheer that carries carefree souls. 
Stars far from here guide our craft home. 
We've made our career a matter of energy. 
Sing of Summer surf, held close to mystery. 
Undersea caves cradle chests of gems, shining like starlight.
 
 
 
Beautiful child, enrapt in wonder
cradles a ball of ladybug colors
swaying to music, smiling to play
growing through summer's most perfect day
 
Singing to the Chorus
 
Getting warmer.
Days numbered by barbarians.
Travelers rush in to conquer.
Taken to a longer view,
tumbling through the ages ~
Sundials exchange for
binary spiders click-clock,
tabulating the enormous summary,
what has gone before.
The reality of childhood, striving creatures
pull upward from bootie straps,
scrambling for a place in the pile
near enough to top
that derision, pouring downward,
obliges them to only the fiercest of Lords.
Merry tots spend fallen pocket-change of
dollars flowing upward.
Old games reign under the big top.
Solemn children throw glass stones from circus stands,
bet on which clown will full face as disaster.
Speak in tongues of evil, o' my children.
Church Fathers swear to the blackened sky;
cold, withered Mums hope for a crust
of noblesse oblige.
Evil is the providence of Satan,
cloven-hoofed, prancing in the circle's
centerpoint, playing the pipes of Pan.
Oceans of blood boil.
Leading edges swelter, crisp into
conflagration.
In Summerland children play, frolic to
rollicking drums and reeds.
Naked under beaming Moon and starlight laughter,
merrily we act out tales well-loved by All.
 

Friday, June 5, 2015

6/6/15

So You Say You Want a Revelation?
 
 
Disappointed mystic exile John,
eager to besiege his jailors
rendering unto Caesar
tales of woe and destruction
of Biblical proportion:
"The burning bush told me.  I swear it's true."
Beware the ides, the armies of Megiddo,
the smoke and mirrors,
the mushroom clouds
invading our memories.
"I send you these frantic missives,
Oh my Christian soldiers.
Do not stray from Yahweh.
Look what He has done to His
soul-begotten Son,
in a fit of divinity."
I believe Jesus made it his mission,
gave every effort and sacrifice,
to save his mortal family
from mad jealous wrath of Dad.
His words clear, actions legend.
So sad that sheep easily forget,
falling under the evil eye
of any would-be butcher
slavering to grow strong on
the currency of blood.
There are beasts, and Beasts
numbering in legions.
Days end, begin, end again.
Murdering souls in the Name
of the Redeemer.  Oh, the Rapture!
Any sane Judgment would leave us
drowning in bitter tears.
I am begging:
Open your eyes, minds, hearts.
Open and learn.
True revelation awaits in every leaf and vein,
in every newborn cry
revealing pain
is meant to be a message
of active compassion,
to nurture a future
kinder than the past.
 
 
 
 
Breaking bred
 
 
Ravenous,
born from boiling seas.
Holy Beast rampages, rises beneath
broken surface;
exhales snarling flame,
riotous burning blame,
wreaks tidal waves that never quench
roil of fire.
All our desires embroil, enslave
in thrall of poison spit.
We can't allow comfort, nor encourage
scored hearts to heal,
not while we steal your ire
to fatten rich nests.
Believe your cause excessively blessed.
Believe you are doing your best
to be as Creation demands.
Believe you are worthless
beyond condemnation
unless you are taking the stand
prescribed and admired.
If you aspire to anything higher
you must carry the brand
on your forehead or hand,
must be willing to kill
in the name of fealty,
to fulfill the prophecy.
to feed the Beast.
 
 
 
 
Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine.
Jesus cried, and somebody grinned -- don't whine.
Jesus smiled his love on the least,
scattered his manna that the lowly might feast.
All you remember is that slavering Beast;
so remind me why it’s vital to deny
those who promote a peace of mind
based on revering kindness above
Divine.
 
 
Pageantry
 
 
Could Christian Fundamentalism be the dread AntiChrist,
and greedy Wall Street his ravenous Beast?
Could the Second Coming be prides of young
claiming back the streets?
 
Could Prophecies feared and hoped
to bring Sinners to their knees
to lift innocents into just reward
by Blessed Hero's noble sword
avenging faithful meek --
 
Could that parade be before us,
just not the scene surmised,
preached to prove the righteous right?
 
Has the final fight foretold been taking form,
storm clouds positioned for hard rains to fall,
untidy time of transition whence soothsayers call,
alarm bells chime?
 
Is the end of this trial of dependence nigh?
Can we break the Jesus code, create, rewrite
Apocalypse as our own golden age, reign
of Peace?
 
 
 
 
What World Is This?
 
 
Not preordained, not programmed.
Ties that bound cut to slivers,
what will emerge?
No millennial beast slouches here.
Only speed of light delimits.
Earth’s bowl sky holds only air,
not certain destiny.
Perhaps, if we allow release from
baseless blindness
a state of grace may find us.
Independent of holy demons
or royal decree,
fate can be self-reliant.
Beyond grasp of power arrogated
to God or mortal master,
each well-examined self
is a force of nature.
 
From shadows shy wood nymph watches warily,
ready to bolt rather than chance being seen.
She knows her universe straddles change, craves balance.
Hubris claimed humans cry for trial by combat
sacred?  profane?   narrations between?
 
What world is this
in swaddling clothes
at the break of days?
 
 
 
Postnatal
 
 
So many unpleasant faces
ruin a beautiful view.
Angry reds instead of cool blues,
calm ease.
Too many bruises
scream to be free
of burden
of skin and blood.
Tribute to the Muses,
pleasing balm of misery,
that I be allowed
their resplendent disgrace.
 
child in crumpled corner silently sings
to hold tears, tongue, repent, appease.
Songs of laughing eyes a’float in kindness --
happy fantasy to pretend to reminisce.
 
Where does it start?
A life, a mind, a set of states of being?
Innocence, vulnerability, not having
practice of precepts that frame awareness.
Why she yells, unmasks her ugly face;
why he shakes and strikes and blubbers.
Contorted eyes, cheeks, mouth
loud to invoke terror.
 
Violation, violent broken boundaries;
monstrous, fearsome,
because grotesque beyond comfort.
So unthinkable
we call it myth, delusion.
Iconic target for hatred.
A twisted face to pin on evil tales, to
spit out sobbing poisons, paint in shades
concealing
lies that harden into revelations,
legends, the stuff of nightmares
and deflected shame.
 
Memory’s child, forced to hopeless obliviation long before
a chance for clarity, sense of agency,
for a self to determine.
Undermined.
A child wants the safety of hearth and tribe,
of happy fairytales, everyone well fed and
tucked to bed, caressed in love that hugs away
the slavering beast.
A child wants, a busy mother wants,
a charming serpent, cowering servant, honest merchant
wants. Voice of sympathy, soothing harmony,
innocent pleasure.
 
No room to complain.
You enjoy when offered reasonably clean and unspoiled
food to fill that screaming hole of hunger.
Irregular shelter where maybe you can sleep, escape
all the pain and wailing indignity.
 
Sing for your supper; patrons toss coins to amuse,
rapacious, their cultured appetites.
A darkened Church (candles saved for opulent ritual
-- none may steal this God’s fire), blood bond, sacrifice.
Taste of copper and iron.
We are of the Earth, Her mighty Sun, of
tides and moonbeams and molten seas.
Not love --
chemistry, explosions, immortal fire.
 
I have wandered, blundered forth as a leaf in the wind,
as a pebble scoured by erratic waves, as
a child of Man loosened from mortality.
If there are stories I could tell my mind
to feel safety in dreaming, to feel
a possibility of home,
I have yet to find them.
Still, I listen for a voice to believe, for a song
that might feel like hope,
or finality.
 
Shell-shocked from this war of all against all.
 
Live where you belong:  right here; right now.
 
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.
 
 
 
 
46664
 
Caging the Beast
"call me after the Rapture" I
post on religious social network
sites.
Have you read Yeats' "Second Coming"?
After the prophecy
After the hard, hard rain
after the rainbow

Call me.  We should get together.

Sunday, May 3, 2015

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

Tuesday, April 21, 2015

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.
()
()
()

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