Sunday, June 18, 2017

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200820092011
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29 Jan 1999 - 22 Feb 2011
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Seers and Seekers Discussion Forum
thresholds & doorways
go_to_thoughts
libramoon's Observatory (blog)
dreams


Ride a stallion of snow to the heart of your dreams
Imbibe the sweet nectar of endless romance
Twirl into the world of magic and melody and dance.

Send out twinkling moonbeams as smiles of delight
Gift us all with love's vision of bountiful peace
Pour out joy that every beauty filled impulse increase.

Find a song that fills your heart
Feel a beat that sets you free
Embrace the dance of who you're meant to be.

zodiac cards 

Hi I'm libramoon, poet for hire or collaboration. Creator of Cosmik Poetry - Poetic Interpretations of Astrological Charts;
inspirational words, rituals, ceremonies, lyrics and poems custom created for all occasions
"Who Are You?" - Life Issue Astrological Counseling

space exploration



Astrology's Wisdom Web-Ring
Gilbert Williams mystic art link

List Sites | 

current cosmic poem

Holistic Therapy Consulting
Internet News Clipping and Research Services

(I websurf, therefore I am)

I am also seeking visual artists for possible collaborations

emerging visions

Want to know more? Please e-mail me at: libramoon42@mindspring.com
(I would be happy to email you poems from time to time)
I would love to discuss speculative fiction and occult topics Seers and Seekers 


 


Go forth in infinite beauty and wonder Go forth into the magic of multi-layered possibilities Go forth into the future you choose to create May this new millennium usher in the golden age of peace.

Season of Light - 5 Solstice Songs for 2007

gods rest ye If only that were what it's all about Communal fire, warm and glowing Cooking up a feast enough to fill our bellies and our larders for wintry weeks to come; Exchanging the gifts our separate crafts empower with wishes of good will; good cheer, inebriating spirits raised and quaffed against chill or fear of night; If only peace and sensitive portrayal of the gift of human frailty were the point and purpose of a season, voices pitched to harmonize for beauty's sake; If only we could reach into legendary epiphany, reach out in simple empathy, if only we could simply be merry. Winter Song O' Mother Sun Winter homage to our waning Sun that she will return, feeding us with light and heat, sweet energy. Mother Star, we enchant thee with ceremony, singing/dancing in glorious pageantry at your feet, a synergy of faith and formal prayer. We are your children, refining your gift of life, designing grand structures, grander dreams, imaging rainbows from your streaming light; see how our visions learn to take flight under your warm embrace and on through the night. These long dark nights, we beseech you, reach out to join our hands, sharing warmth of your reflected love, Mother Sun. (c) December 10, 2007 Laurie Corzett/libramoon Trees to Dream on Pine mountain scent majestic snow-globe memories ancient beings twixt sky and earth basking in the waning sunlight, twinkling night encroaching, fluttering leaves cast in white lace and starry splendor. Long have we lived cycling through death's rebirth, seasons of land and sea linked in living countenance open to winds of fate and change. Days have been when brutal cold demanding sacrifice saw hunt and harvest. Nights given to ceremony, eloping frenzied dance, spontaneous gaiety -- a tribal stew of sustenance warming spirit and body through the dark times. Built on timber, built on years of sun, storm, forces claimed and reconfigured to bring us here, reconnecting, anchoring to tales told in firelight. Warm wood, bright tinder, holding ancient light, charms, secrets, holding warmth to warmth, life to life year to year. (c) December 8, 2007 Laurie Corzett/libramoon Beneath the Winter Sky Beneath a veil of painful confusion Beyond a settling into daily grind Amidst the stars, in blinding profusion Hidden in interstices of time See the glory Feel the energy Inhale sweet fumes of delight A living story retold through synergy rekindles our vision through the night if we but look through a vaster range of sight Voices in unison are singing Invocations beautiful and wise In the distance holy bells are ringing If we can discern through the disguise the message this time of year keeps bringing a life-giving promise from the skies __._,_.___ Bright lights entice our weary eyes Spritely carols fill the air Stories abound of precious losses found, to inspire Treats so sweet ignite a childlike fire A season for sensual pleasure while diving for spiritual treasure can be such a joy beyond measure This special time Make it yours; and shine like a guiding star enlightening the darkest skies. (c) December 13, 2007 Laurie Corzett/libramoon
 Seasons Past

Not in Our Name Nobody wins in a war (well, maybe a few financiers of war industries, but) Not us, not them, not humanity Not the dead, not the living Not the yet to be born Not the land, water, air, our natural resources Not the roads, buildings, pipes, utility lines, the infrastructure Not love or peace or morality Not human nature Not Right Not Justice Not God Not the battlegrounds or the cemeteries, or the unhealable wounds in our souls Whatever we may hope to accomplish with war, There are better ways. 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 the 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 the slaughtered sacrifices to malignant gods -- There is something vital here to learn.

hurricane like a hurricane like a natural disaster wind and rain laying waste to my life. tossed, torn, left astray and a stranger in the way, or at least not the norm. a sad wastrel left adrift in the storm. sing my wanderers' song tonight. let the wind carry my fading melody off onto wind-whipped ports of call. my breath's been carried out to sea nothing left to become of me once the hurricane has passed into the day the foggy, rainy day . . . I gaze upon the ragged sea.

pronoia prayer

poem(s) of the day


(some days are longer than others)

It was a warm and windy day, bittersweet in springtime, the trees, newly leaved, swayed in the warm, sweet melody. It was a day to kick stones along a riverbank and dream, before a night of jukebox music and cokes at the local diner. What kind of day are you? Autumnal Vision Wind, rain: a snuggle under the covers morning Dreamtime -- "dreaming of the way things might have been"? Someone asked: What short of revolution could remake the world to be more fair, peaceful, more encouraging of love? My new mantra: "lighten up": Eyes upward, facing mysteries of stars and heavens Heart lightened, to more merry, merry be I lighten the load to my aching shoulders, and find worlds of light and joy easier to carry I look to ancient wisdoms to enlighten my soul And I laugh, lightly, brightly, let loose too tightly inheld breath of fear/hate/judgment. Breathing freely, I inhale the exhilarating scent of changing leaves zen cards spirit e-cards knife's edge My heart is on the edge of a knife-- not licensed surgery just self-medication for pain. What else is true? Betrayal by the gods can result in confusion. Sometimes it all seems clear and clean and real -- When sensation makes sense. Nobody knows the trouble I've seen, 'cause they're all busy looking at their own. Knife's edge -- the end of the rainbow See the shining beatitude, the joyous reunion. When all the lonely, separated strands and coloured bands finally find their proper placement in celestial harmony. Oh, the trumpets will sound calling all to glory. But what else is true? Are there cries for war throughout the land? Are there crises crying for attendance while our leaders are otherwise involved? Are there cowering souls, beyond earthly torment, crying for release while hiding in cubicles or corner offices or ivory towers playing at mind games, convoluted strategies, never quite sure who they are? Are there banners flying, urging all to attend the great banquet? Is this the feast for which we've come? The knife cuts both ways. Does it matter why we bleed? Timothy McVeigh Is Still Dead It's morning in America The morning of June 11, 2001 A warm and beautiful Spring day And in Terre Haute, Indiana -- a little after 7:00 am -- Timothy McVeigh is dead. What more is there to say? We all know the score: Death: 169, Mercy: 0 The hero "bloody, but unbowed" Silenced, but still proud Ashes to scattered ashes Death to death.
Lifelines It's a tale many times in the telling Of wisdom and wonder and enchantment foretold. Captivating, yes compelling. But catch it now, before you're old (We're so soon old.). Cross country wide and free; a gypsy's life by caravan And what is yet to be is stretching wide, without a plan. Try, if you can, to imagine just how you're gonna end. . . . You're gonna end. Past ships and planes and miles of dusty road, It's all been told . . .and then retold. We've lived a thousand lives before, we the vagabonds of Earth But let me try to tell to you my story, it's all I own Whatever be its worth. It started in a coffeehouse so many years ago Where poets of our century were wont to waste their days And in those days did bright mindwaves cast their nets and flow To catch up young unruly souls and charge them with the craze For adventuring -- for "something new" To catch a star and follow wherever it should lead To search out the holy answer to the ache of human need To be the first new holy breed to wholey shake the Earth To usher in a promised age, so many years in birth. It was a time of carousels and colored lights; A time of feeling grandly strong and right; A time when Life was just beyond our sight. What made it go? Which corner was the wrong one turned? Or is it merely time to take things slow, To gather up the threads of what we've learned? The darkness cast upon us, how was it earned? Oh yes, I meant to tell you of brilliant desert skies And city street romances that sparkled ere they died. Of Denver's summer snowstorm and LA's winter flood And secret, solemn friendship pacts seal'd in summer blood. Of a much awaited sunrise within a foreign town Of food and flowers and incense freely passed around Of turquoise rings & violent springs & jails of many brands And music wafting through the streets Of gentle smell of smoke so sweet And wondrous madmen once to meet who read witchcraft in your hand. And so much more; yes, lifetimes more. I would give it all to you, asking nothing in return But that you seek, in your own style, for yourself to learn Of corners waiting yet to turn before our time is through. And perhaps one day you'll say to me: "Yes, the answer's here! Yes, the answer's clear!" And you will say to all of us: "Here's what we must do." Before our time is through . . .
LINK: ENERGY from the SUN
Approaching Millennium She sits in an old rocking chair And questions the silence of night. As the waves blow, the winds flow, the sands sift with sea And faraway stars shine in soft mystery Her eyes shine with starlight and stare at the sea Asking questions as ancient as night Expecting no sign to appear. In the village, at noon, on the square Beneath the near blinding day light, Sits a man with a plan he's no means to play Wondering how he will get through his day And just where, this night, he will finally lay (Yes, beneath which exit light?) Expecting no sign to appear? I questioned myself on a dare Tell me: What's wrong and what's right? Have I caught a new thought that God has no mind? We search for salvation that's nowhere to find? or merely grown tired of life's daily grind, Not caring to search for the light, Expecting no sign to appear. We children of flowers and light Have we turned to dour-faced fear Our dreams sacrificed to the night Expecting no sign to appear?

Life, the Universe and Everything (for Patty) Let's talk about life the one you have and the one you imagined . . . With all the world of possibilities, what have you settled for? Waking up in the cool, cool morning Autumn crisp -- as your lungs reach for air The sounds, the smells, the awaited adventures Anticipation . . . Or merely another day? Do you long for love in the dark, dusky evening? Do you count the countless stars, knowing a miracle is on its way? Has the chill of eternity captured your imagination? What anchors you to Earth? What makes you want to stay? A journey of a thousand destinies Written deep within your soul Traveling daily through all the possibilities Which are the parts that make you whole?

A Knock on the Duir

poems for other days

 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.

 Sun in Leo, Moon in Libra Sitting here, in the cluttered fan-cooled kitchen While a storm-brewing wind rustles through the garden below. The California wine tastes tart and sticky. The wine tells me stories, you know. It's the redness and the way the light reflects against the glass, along with the drug. Hearing voices in the silent darkness, I listen without question. As the night slowly falls, I envision fantasies of former lives: Glistening ball gowns and a smiling orange moon in a starlit sky appear in my mind's eye along with jugglers and dancers. A fortune-telling maiden in glorious rags places cards upon a table: "The red one is Death; the white one is Honour; the green one is Fortune; the blue one is Love." She lives in a log cabin with a unicorn and goat who feed and clothe her and keep her safe. There are many things I need to know and few to tell me. So I listen to the wine's stories. I wish it were my garden, below. I would go out barefoot and gather ripe vegetables under the moon, breathing deeply of the cool night air. Order of the White Lion  CHAOS-STARS E-LIST

OR MAYBE CINCINNATI The crowd dissolves and I am left in a sad corner holding a wrinkled overcoat wishing for warm holiday homecoming goodwill. But the endless night enwraps my mind leaving me twisted jumping here and there without purpose. Johnny didn't have a penny, but he had good looks and good times & Mary had her pimp's abortion to even the score But no one took the beggar seriously when he said that times had turned to emptiness. No one believed in fulfillment; No one had the time. & the crowd dissolved vanished into the fog tho ectoplasmic energies milled about the mainfare. It was Thursday in the rain and mist and sooted brownstones. And the streetlamps only served as muted halos like the cafe neon flashing. So I stopped in for another beer and borrowed music & listened to the couple in the next booth discuss their barren lives & thought of 19th century philosophers who make me sad & wished for a breezy bright beach in May & wrote you another letter to be locked in my diary. So I'm thinking of splitting for the coast or maybe Cincinnati But my overdraft is overdrawn and I'm not strong enough to hitchhike and maybe tomorrow just won't happen if I can find the right door to oblivion. But maybe tomorrow will dawn bright and warm and smiling and the labor pool will call me and the coffee buns will be sweet at breaktime and someone will smile at me and come to my barstool to shoot the breeze and share my dreaming And the crowd will dissolve And the people will emerge.

and for other days

Venus Guide Us to Peace a meditative poem Not just sweetness and light There is a strength; there is conviction -- there is a vibrant dedication to true worth. If we can but believe again in all the humane virtues -- Love is sharing, in kindness, understanding, supportive regard. Love is forgiving and being forgiven, when it is clear that malice was not intended or malice has been exorcised -- an acceptance of the positive power of change, of growth in spirit. Love is the assumption of "we." We are doing being going having creating We are able to exchange our labor, knowledge, possessions, positions We are able to take in more than I -- to synergize our fortunes into wealth and integral well being. Love is not just a song -- a pretty set of symbols Love is a power and a glory and an all encompassing truth. Love is addition and multiplication, not division or subtraction. Love enriches and inspires us. Love is not blind, not foolish. Love is not denying the self or self interest. Love is seeing clearly, knowing wisely, understanding and expanding the self -- expanding outward to take in the universe of interconnected, interdependent being. Love sees the ugliness; and love sees the beauty. The ugliness saddens; the beauty invigorates. Love is to peace as music is to harmony. But how are we to love in a discordant world? It is within us to pick out the true, enduring melody to which our essential selves are tuned -- If we but look to, listen to, open our selves to Venus, the Goddess of Love, Peace, Justice, Harmony as she manifests within us all. Madalyn Aslan's Astrology Web Page
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.

The moon is blue and dreaming Cry all my children to sleep In conquest dreams we deem to rule In darkest halls we plot in torment In empty caverns we deify glory Dance, again, dance for freedom Dance my children to sober dreaming Of valor and honor and color and pain Dance and cry and strive again To hold a mass and state the Name Call forth my demons from sleep The songs of old and runes of yore The empty words we've learned to score The high and low and even Listen and you'll hear them moan It's dark and dirty here below The emptiness can drive you To a place you ought not go You'll die in horror screaming Cry all my children to sleep The moon is blue and so are you You'll hear its song so clearly And discount it all to dreams And when you wake, you'll wonder Why you're screaming Why you ache in places you can't feel Why your work and world don't seem so real Why the voices in your head are screaming And you'll count the phases of the moon And wander in the night without direction And keep a silent vigil in your secret heart And turn quickly round the corners, Lest someone see you And when the curse is cast, you'll hear it spoken Without bothering to look for the absent speaker And when the moon has turned its face To other dreamers You'll see a vision overpower the sky And answer . . . when you ask it "why?" The moon is blue and dreaming. Mushroom teacups sail in stardust withered laurels snap in dustwhirls tethered horsemen roam the skyways soldiered remnants hiss through brushwoods All is soon made clear.

A Kodak Moment

[these are actually song lyrics. some people have offered to write the music for them. if you would like to write your own music, i would love to hear it.]

Picture you in a fairy-tale moment Picture me as I was always meant to be Picture us rolling through green meadows Picture everybody happy In my life of quiet desperation I still try to find the time to dream Look at us, we're quite a combination Wonder if we'll be happy Picture love as quiet desperation Picture life as where we have to be Picture time away from aggravation Picture everybody happy Picture you in a fairy-tale moment Picture me as I was always meant to be Picture us rolling through green meadows Picture everybody happy Art Image Link
This Druid Seat site owned by Laurie Corzett.
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Designs by Willow

The Druid's Opera

A joyous encounter with life A joyous encounter called my life I've swung from trees in tropical times 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 mind, carrying my load Journeying for countless years Seeking out the sea of tears Eyes blinded by a black lace veil I break my trail (As in my mind my thoughts unwind 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 And 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-footed 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 dreams 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. Getch yer gimme Pull that file! Collapse that case! You are obsolete -- unexistent And ain't no one gonna hire you in this industry. Whatcha holding on to? Whatch gonna live for? Got a score to settle while the dying's cheap Gonna find a rooftop and fire. Gonna tap a neural gap and get higher. Gonna hold a seance and retire. Become a log a'rotting in the wood Enter eternity a nonfunctioning robot Captured in celluloid, electronic impulses Air tremors and interruptions in space. We make no difference to a meteor -- Any blind force that destroys without design -- We make no difference to our own kind. Blind orgiastic miasma Pressing, moaning, sucking in life. Entropy. Elegy. Ontogeny. Images of innocence float by in my mind I'm looking for a pot of gold I never hope to find And wonder in the dark of night What if I should go blind. Today is made of yesterdays, Tonight of yestereves. The spoken words I say to you I hope you won't believe. We've but so little time my friend, Too little time to grieve. And I wonder in my heart of hearts Just where all will lead. Will I once more take an oath of pain And watch my body bleed Or will I learn that living's When you take all that you need? Busy work, busy talk, trying to make time Talk of energy, talk of war, Talk of who you're out to score Learn to love and disremember Trying to make time; dying to make time. Try to run and they've got you busted. Try to hide, try to hide, try to hide. Everyone's there to be mistrusted. Try to hide, try to hide, try to hide. What's left of you inside? You are of me. You are one of me. You see what I see. You do what I see. You do what I command. I've got you in my hand. I've got you underhand. Touch me. Touch me. Touch me. Touch me. You are far away. You are very far away. You don't do what I say. You don't hear what I say. I'm screaming "go away." Go away. Go away. Go away. Go away. I'm sitting in my room. I've got you in my room. I see you in my womb. You got away too soon. You haven't got a chance. No, not a bloody chance. I circle in my dance. I've got you in my dance. In a trance, in a trance, in a trance, in a trance Come on -- DANCE! Touch me. Touch me. Touch me. Touch me. DANCE! Quietly, quickly, without a trace Annihilate an entire race Stealthily, silently my poison kills To cleanse this land of a people's ills. The key's been cast, so lock the door On lies and poverty; greed and war. Purify in red hot fire Diefy the symbol of desire And when all desire's turned to dust Etch in fire: "IN GOD WE TRUST." A sacred trust. Sound the bell Sound the bell Sound the bell slowly O'er all we've made holy. Ring bright pure-toned peals O'er gold flaming fields In music now seal'd the end of our fate. Sound the bell. Sound the bell. And now I sail from the sea of Lethe A phoenix, risen from my death To journey on through time and space Progenitor to the human race. [The Druid's Opera was originally conceived as a multi-media event -- if you would like to perform it, please let me know.]

AIN'T NOBODIES' BUSINESS IF YOU DO Peter McWilliam is dead -- June 14, 2000 -- r.i.p.
a noble educator killed in his prime by the senseless "war on drugs"

thoughts provocateur



Listening to daily news reports, I am assaulted by senseless acts of violence and despair. It has been occurring to me that our world need not be such an ugly and hopeless place for so many of our citizens. With the technology already available, we could provide the means to more happily fulfilled lives for a great many more of us, thereby ending the bulk of beastly behavior engendered by squalid environments and the anger/apathy reactions to a derth of meaningful alternatives in so many lives. The media is full of woeful tidings about young people involved with drugs and inappropriate sexual experiences -- an outgrowth of the glorification of such activities in the same media, but also the reaching out for somekind of experience in a world that allows very little in the way of achievement or fulfilling activities for the young. Young children are subjected to all kinds of horrible experiences perpetrated by their so-called caretakers, both abusing parents and those in whose care the parents mistakenly leave them in order to go to jobs to provide for the material needs of the family. People in many parts of the world suffer basic deprivations of food and shelter. Many children face lifelong handicaps resulting from early malnutrition. Many are left with lifelong emotional and physical scars from having to fend for themselves on the streets from an early age. Violence is learned as the appropriate reaction to anger and frustrations. In the media and on the streets, violence is glorified and rewarded. Love is seen as being linked to pain, of betrayal, of loss, and the love/pain link experienced in abusive family relationships. Poverty both material and emotional is endured, but not quietly. Violent reactions are visited especially on the families and neighbors themselves subject to these brutalizing environments, as well as upon those who are materially better off, in the form of all manner of violent crime. The criminal justice system seems to only reflect and propagate the brutalizing conditions which do nothing to amerliorate the hate, pain, frustrations in an endless cycle of violence, victimizing victims and perpetrators and numbing the sensibilities of the professionals who attempt to work within the system. The education system fails to educate in most of the areas that we need to understand to function in our world. How much do we learn in school (or even at home or on the streets) about basic health and safety, financial management, childcare, legal rights and responsibilities, building meaningful relationships, building self-esteem, building and maintaining a home? Instead, most of what our young people learn in the schools that they must spend most of their formative years attending seems to be more destructive and counterproductive than truly useful. Like it or not, our children (the children of our world, be we parents or not) are our future. The quality of life we can look forward to is the quality of life we teach our children to expect and produce. And in the present we live out the expectations we are producing today. Do we really want a world based on violence and ignorance? I don't. I want a world in which I and my loved ones could live in relative peace, security and well-informed choice. Yet, what am I doing to promote such a world? I see the misfortunes around me, and feel hopelessly frustrated, beyond any attempt at change. "I am, after all, only one relatively powerless person," I say, and go on with my daily chores, which, after all, leave me little time or energy for doing battle with the powers that shape my surroundings. I have come up with several ideas and fantasy scenerios which I believe would, if implemented, result in a happier world. I do not expect you to agree with my ideas. In fact, I would be highly gratified if you would disagree, and in your disagreement develop or expand ideas of your own which you might share, thereby increasing the energy expended toward positive change in opposition to the apathy or uselessly expended anger against vague or inappropriate targets which, I fear, are overwhelming our healthier impulses. And, if by chance you do agree with any of my ideas, perhaps you could expand on them or help to devise more effective methods of implementation than I have yet been able to imagine. It is said that imagination can be a powerful tool toward change. Perhaps the opening of channels of communication for our positive imaginings might help us to create a world in which we could be prouder and happier to live.

Friday, May 19, 2017

[evening dionysian]

[evening dionysian]

working title: [evening dionysian]

Dancers dance
musicians play
Enchanting sylph narrates stories
while seductively moving to sinuous
back beat, tick of chimes.
Occasionally emphasizes subtle percussions
with intense expressions, leaps, cunning
stumbles, falling to crawl into spellbound speech.
Scheherazade myths, archetypal passion
escapades, poignant weeps, salient shouts
to power. Exquisite meditations on mystic
climes, spirit and form. Merry masks,
sparkly costumes, paint and glitter as
embellishment to the tellings.
Theater as intimate ritual.
Anything could manifest.
.
.
Pisces murky androgeny
Libra emits graceful beauty
Scorpio at home in passion
Deeply attractive
Complicated self-hatred urging service and demeaning.
At core strong self-belief expressed intuitively.
Stories from the collective well, mystic ether, imbued
in earth, exhaled by flames.
Centering, sense memory trances exhibits as
sinuous performance.
.
.
This world is ending …
.
.
Even happy families share dissonance,
complex histories, emotional triggers.
Happy families learn to thrive,
profound mutual respect as guide,
resort to good humor for smoother passage.
Why fight, divide strength from where it
is better spent?
Folk who pull together by choice
rejoice in shared communion.
.
.
Outside self-circumscribed worlds
Diverse perception of views
Sight with wide spectra of hues
.
.
She heard him crying, a lost child in the night.
In her prophetic heart she knew only she could comfort him.
But she was only a child who was never allowed to be lost.
How could she comfort this lost boy when she had no freedom
to reach out?
Late in quiet dark, after her people, asleep, would not be
checking on her, she opened her window and made daring escape.
Wandering in the outside dark, she listened for his cries.
At first she discerned wind among leaves and branches,
small creature forays, clash of metal against pavement,
perfumed strains from afar.
Then, yes, whimpers, ragged rhythm past exhausted weeping.
He was huddled, hidden, on the alley side of a cold brick building.
Seeing him, frightened, lost, she did not know what to say.
He smelled of rancid sweat and fear. She did not know how
to speak. She cried.
She emptied herself of every caustic tear, every regret held for
guilty ransom, every sadness kept inside so no one would fuss.
He looked up at her watery face and asked with amazed concern:
“Are you lost, too? Because if we are lost together, really we have
found each other. We don’t have to stay scared and alone.”
She looked around, realized that in al her blind wandering she had
lost her way. She had no idea where they were.
She knelt beside him. They smiled and hugged. For that precious
while they became beloved kin.
Perhaps some special night they’ll meet again.
.
.
Mythy visions to transcribe; thought fragments to form.
Myths we live, and how to rewrite them.
.
.
She knows she has awakened. Every effort of her body pinches, aches, demands refuge in self-talk, reason, mental override of pain.
Carefully, she measures out tools of destruction, what she must carry in her pack into the city, to her place of destiny.
Doing what one can to make sense, have meaning.
Life is short, ugly, pointless, unless you get that call.
Trying to act cool with familiar friends, laying low, hiding from everything that doesn’t allow relevant existence for dregs like us.
Recognition? Commendation? A scrap of real notice?
To sacrifice this humorless joke to Godly cause, that’s got to be imbued with meaning, to be holy.
How not find zealous courage, so dishonor numbing a drug, one point of focus.
All my sins, my impoverishments, inadequacies, forgiven in ultimate atonement. God can love me.
I am made pure in His sight. A tool, a weapon, no matter how lowly, bestowed sacred purpose in this great fight.
My parents, my kin, vindicated, their suffering denied nobility avenged.
Cleansed in adventure’s icy plunge, only ever young in throes of romance, a chance for breathless rush of brief immortality.
.
.
question everything
accept or reject with clear awareness
and flexibility
.
.
purity of essence is to will one thing
.
.
She didn’t like her skin. So hard to blend in.
She didn’t like her body, jutting awkwardly, too bulky,
not compliant to conscious control.
She ached to let her spirit free from matter’s burden,
to ooze out onto open air. Her envisioned wish took her
to aerial glee, and no more.
“What would I see, outside of eyes, no biological boundaries?”
Her attention, turned to this yearn for omniscient sight, was caught,
held strong and seduced. Ever present, ever expanding through
every crevice of her consciousness, she became inured to
matter’s inadequacies. She desired entirely. No one could
reach her, though no one tried. She trance-walked through
her duties and habits with none to notice any lack of
aliveness, lack of any impish spark within her eyes.
Self-consumed, obsessed, absorbed in apotheosis,
physical possibilities no longer matter. Her spirit no longer
held to this room, this body. Blind to her unseeing world,
enraptured in unfiltered light, colors far beyond our rainbow.
.
.
A brave and learned man hired out to guide a motley assortment
through a narrow, rocky passage to a settlement in need of laborers.
At this time, he was a stranger to settlers and these prospective immigrants.
He had an idea of joining their project, but felt nag of doubt enough to only
commit as far as hiring out for specified work and pay.
This Job – this man who gave his name as Job – was curious, clever, aloof
because caught up in thoughts complex, calculating, critical, cynical,
contemplative, entertaining. He spoke as necessary for terse communication.
He listened as if a subtle etching of rain on sand. He sucked in sounds
and all their meaning to nourish his chattering brain.
Though his behavior, demeanor, presentment appeared distancing,
others tended to respect his leadership, his abilities. Even those who
mocked or boisterously complained in private camaraderie in which he
did not join agreed that he bested them at coming through.
After their passaging, safely gathered at the settlement, words and
gestures of gratitude lauded upon him were spontaneous and sincere.
As settlers and new arrivals met together to discuss their common project,
ask questions, give opinions, figure out teams and chores, Job continued
his passage. Busy in their plans and adaptations, no one noticed him
disappear.
.
.
Capture my imagination
Take me for a ride
self-discipline, acknowledge without judging
.
.
Philip, he so tired, exhausted, can’t bear the nattering.
Silly people, spew of soft-heart advice. Stupidly happy people,
smug in their hugs and white smiles.
Philip recedes into deep, dark hate – so mired and convoluted
spirals down his mind.
Lethargic impulses, held back, kicked down, pounded to weakness
as he grew in twists and turns.
“Don’t look at me.” He hears his silence scream. Horrid beast snarls,
whimpers. Philip aches to hide from his own mind, beastly child
whining, cringing around cutting steel for comfort.
Snappy, happy babblers burst like saliva balloons, insult, annoy.
“Don’t speak to me. Don’t daintily pretend you understand; oh so
precious extended hands, limpid eyes question, judge, sentence
to demented status.
“I am fine, or will be when you all leave me alone. Ignore my retreat
into secure solitary recrimination, whip lash of vengeful sin. You know
you don’t really want to be let in, to feel the wrath I am. Scatter, you
flesh-covered delusions who choose to disturb my sleep, my darling
nightmares’ stomping victory. You clearly don’t need my input to be
complete. Complete fools – go do your better things. Enjoy your day.
I’ve no more to say, to share.” Aloud?
Allowed?
He allows himself to voice complaint aloud. And the folk crowd ebbs out
beyond his self-fixed point.
“Express your truth,” he silently affirms. People may listen.
.
.
Imbibe trance
Fall into story
Record intimately
.
Become one story
Imbibe trance intimately
Record while falling
.
face shifter. story spinner. dervish zeitgeist possessed.
defined by shades, by shadows,
by negation.
.
.
Sammy scary loco crazy. They say he got the paranoid schizophrenia.
What he got is commandos tracking his thoughts, grinning.
Party of demons who been with him, telling him what to do, clever talk when
he needs to answer some fool.
He’s got my nightmares, but can’t shake them awake.
No one wants to listen to me or him when we say what’s real.
They want us to be kids, whatever that is. They want us to make them feel
alive in their self-comforting fantasies about responsibilities.
What is Sammy responsible for or to? Because he suffers disability,
because he can’t break through Hell’s circles, flames of purity.
I walked from Hell. My mind still burns. I am strong, a born survivor.
He survives as he can. Is that weakness, or alternative dimensions habitated?
I am amazing, mobile, continuing, sensibly explaining, harmoniously relating,
conversing like a pro. I struggle. I hurt, it feels unbearably. I work until I want
to scream, become explosive screaming. I stifle, call up mania to work on.
Efforts only I applaud – amazing me! Nothing spectacular to entice the jaded they.
Sammy is spectacular. I am seriously amazing. I won’t let them blind me.
.
.
They walk in and out of patterns, broad swath of night.
No designated home; no one has to accept them.
They walk.
Dust, dirt, soot, effluvia collect, protect in the sense of repel.
In safe dark none encounter to harass. Those alive by day buried in bed.
They walk without notice or plan. This is their closest approach to sleep,
hypnotic glide through distance. Landscape undifferentiated by visible
presentation. Footsteps feel clearly what comes under, it seems by instinct
— or possibly familiarity. They walk on perhaps forever with no where to stop.
Pit stops. Beg for food or find leavings. Play merry fool, eyes gleaming,
lips voice hands form expressive grand soliloquies, hoped fee implied
(implored). Sustenance they afford varies by mood of kindness, unswayed
by desperation. Exhaustion only dulls, removes any attractive shine.
As air blows colder, nights freeze over, they seem to dissolve into
neverwere. Empty shadow, haunted tingle bereft of cause.
“They were never us, nothing like us.” Unspoken song bears rhythms
of walking unseen.
.
.
She awoke in a body, young, womanly, driving consciousness
on hold somewhere like dreamless sleep.
It was her occasional brief invasion to feel in touch with
mortal concerns.
She is to be a bride, again. Foolish, innocent yet of so many
regrets and betrayals to come. She is ready to exult in the veil
and it symbolic lift. Happy to perform, darling of her audience
of familiars. Happy day, swept clean of trepidations, of all
yesterdays and their burdensome effluvia. Today is always hers.
These ceremonies, traditional duties and pleasures, bind her to
cults, cultures, accumulated lore and intuition. Not creature, but
weaver – still she is inseparable from the story.
Today she again assumes bridehood. Tonight, awash in festivities,
again she removes her spell of possession.
This new bride returns to a familiar world, changed.
No longer civil child nor spiritual supplicant, she has ascended.
People see her differently, treat her with more deference, more
distance even as they proclaim her their precious chosen intimate,
ply her with cherished secrets as if her allegiance would add value.
Her bearing carries an air, an enhanced spirit, a subtle awareness,
unspoken by any inner voicing.
Language is a human art.
.
.
Gathered on picnic table benches behind the home,
hot in sunshine. Karen explains, fact by fact, how Gus
became her inseparable soul. They beam together.
He gives consoling hand to shoulder as she grieves
children left with their father, her ex’s condemnation,
stern paternal assertion of power. Saving his kin from
this unrepentant whore. Karen cries, again – unrehearsed
habit. She carries sadness; leaks occur.
Gus hardly speaks. His troubled eyes, weary stance,
gentle pull and pass of their pint bottle as he glances with
deep countenance to each face around is eloquent conversation.
Sweat smells, condensed alcohol, burnt tobacco, drying shit from
local dogs, passing fumes from the road out front, all permeate,
help set the mood.
They treat the stranger in their midst as a friend of long
acquaintance, just another straggly member of a morphing crew.
“Ain’t we all strangers of long acquaintance – everybody a
wrapping of layers, appearing in colored bits along our drowsy
companionship. Strange friends, welcome distractions, smoky
mirrors that let us see as we discern.”
Bonnie and Denise giggle at Big Dan’s pedantic speech.
They solicit contributions for their liquor store expedition.
Enough gets thrown in to make it a go.
Go, girls. We’ll be waiting, celebrating what we can because
here we are.