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.

Friday, December 30, 2016

pentacle

SWAN SONG

She untangles
clumped dust from her unbrushed hair,
hands smoothing into silk
pleasure for her touch.
Bare of self-consciousness,
nonplussed,
internally eternal,
she enjoys the panoply,
the panorama of poetically entangled memory
along lanes of wonder.
Without the barricade of
fixed identity,
she plays replete,
balcony to world wide stage.
Old,
crone,
mage,
sovereign priestess of unnamed domain,
she wishes
and coin of primeval realm
freely obeys.
Watch her, gaze
in consecrated crystal,
blooms of long limbed
hedonistic grace.
She is yours for a song.

GIFTED

Years of my life I believed
why wouldn’t I?
how couldn’t I?
Give more than I receive.
Most importantly, give to humanity.
Never mind humiliating pain; let it rain,
take the drenching. Perfume mendacious stench
prattling pretty happy plans,
idealizing mankind as we could be
brought to peaks of glorious peace and bliss.
The word these days is Passion.
A flying heart.
The ache of Art.
Find where my mind takes ease,
soars with eternity, smiles with fluidity.
Learn from those few I can respect;
let go the rest.
Float, a ghost in repose, leaving regret
for scavengers to eat in my wake.
Every dawn could reveal inspiration,
unrestrained by beliefs in gifting obligations.
Streaming energy gleefully received.

WINTER SKY

Straw sky
Westerly
Moonless, Sunless, Starless
Leaveless trees point gnarly fingers
to the heavens
deepening into darkness.
Frayed and tattered demons
Lucid praying
A feeling beyond touch
Beyond fear or sadness
A feeling unlike hope
Without reason
Formless
Yet delineated
Like constellations
I make motions with my hands,
move my skin into contact
with ineffable realms.
Move, oozing miasma.
Creating signs in faint luminescence.
Bit by bit they encompass
the night’s horizon.
But there is more.
It comes to me in brief emanation.
Droning, encircling, swooping in and out.
I organize a study chamber.
Pull out maps and ruler.
Set my quill to taking notes.
Images engaged in excited conversation
pull me in to their heady company.
I can feel the sky breaking around me.
Bits of colored prisms falling.
Make a wish.

ANDROMEDA UNBOUND

Primal emergent scene of fear/betrayal/rage
Against prosaic life tuned to a simpler age
A woman and a man and progeny of course
A life tailored to plan, no stranger to remorse
So early in the days of what might hence occur
The learning of the ways of how to be are stirred
So legends have been cast, so myths in mist abound
As some realities are buried underground.
It was a cold and gilded house, camouflaged as home
It was a brutal game of chance camouflaged as life
Chain me to my jagged rock and let me bleed
Let the ravage start, I will not plead,
My tears will only flow when primed by raging seas
They say that life’s a school, we must learn or die
They knock into us what, where, when, forgetting why
Each put into our place and left to wait our turn
It’s not about what we may be, but what we earn.
Tree-lined sidewalks, car-lined streets, children at play
It seems so calm and peaceful, keeping fear at bay
Do the laundry, buy the groceries, pay the heating bills
Get it done, don’t delay, no matter who it kills.
It was a curse hurled from the gods, but it wasn’t mine
Punishment for a crime of pride I did not commit
Clinging to my prison door, I hide my eyes
Expecting no pardon from the skies
No where left to go to hide from my mind’s lies
What can’t be told infects a deep and deadly path
Buried wounds untended surface into storms of wrath
A beaten creature huddles beneath a snarling face
Dying for a welcome smile, the warmth of caring grace
Some doors left open lead to mystic hidden rooms
Of purple velvet drapes, plush carpets and rare perfumes
The tapestry of life upon an ancient wall
Or was it down a rabbit-hole you meant to fall?
I begged a chance to be saved, but it was not my time
The monster’s howl a hungry hound denying rest
Lost in a tempest, finding none to care
Petrified by my own inward icy stare
Bound and cursed by the gods, of what use is prayer?
Comes the time in spiraling life of do or die
Take the time to breathe the air, read visions from the sky
Willing change, allowing pain to tell its sorry tale
Rearrange the picture’s frame, learn to adjust the scale
The rules laid down to keep us bound were never friends
A hero’s quest with divine intent can open stories’ ends
Gods inspire nature’s desire for beauty, healing, choice
Reclaiming heart, we do our part, obeying our true voice
Opening my eyes, raising my voice, I claim my power
The gods respond not with violence but with joy
Claiming my life as my own, I turn my demons into stone
Free at last my spirit soars as I
dance by day through sweet Olympian fields — by night among the stars

RETURNING

 

 

If I could turn again
If I could turn
If I could
If I
If
I
Flying too high
confused, losing oxygen’s fire
infused with enthusing desire
Touch me
Don’t take me down
You, who never knew me,
grasping in space where
I may have lain.
Laugh to my face
exploding in pain.
O’, that’s no way to survive.
I want you to thrive,
be better than
still life man.
I’ll encase you in goo that
allows you to see
while you writhe
inside intricate mind.
Each molecule of remorse
creeps out of your eyes.
Sweet water
of life, grace effervescing.
(Lessons of Nietzschean blessing.)
Rocky hazards face those who
walk this ridge.
Take it slow; let time wait.
Patience  prevails.
Duration spans to build
bridges, irrigation ditches.
Inch by plodding inch plot
fields of grain, barrels for rain,
roofs, walls, windowpanes,
chimneys for warm hearths below.
Flowing rivers reveal lines for exploration,
mining ores.
Mine and yours,
that element missing from accounting calculations.
Earth and her hordes, a separate salvation?
Wherever did you hear that enmity
would take you anywhere but desolation?
Dear, darling man, so wrapped up in
some plan you think you’ve sussed;
delivering your birthright and your trust
without second opinion;
believing written history makes mystery clear.
How can I discover words you will hear?
Why should I any longer care?
Off am I, breathing higher air.
No need to share with those who
daren’t climb.
Sublimity, subliminally inclined —
nothing more to reach for.
No need to aspire.
If there is a you, and you choose,
touch me.
Don’t take me down.