from a fool's journal

brought to you by

hOLy CHaoS ~ Emerging Visions #17 ~ April 1

http://emergingvisions.blogspot.com/2010_04_01_archive.html

Why suffer fools at all? They can certainly suffer just fine for themselves.

A Fool I've been

walking behind visions

cringing from derision

seeking solace from a merry Moon

too soon gone old

Laughing back on follies

sticking pins in pain -- jolly?

Morose, cold ...

harridan crone

Have my wanderings sown

no happy harvest, raised 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?

Or self-hate insisting I mistake

a journey for a goal?

A Fool can be a cherished, merry soul

dancing the golden mountain trail

reveling in freezing rain and snow

tasting the bite without bitterness

This I know

Fairy Tale

A memory of haunting nostalgia

I cannot not touch it, taste it, hold it, know it, breathe it

Still it piques me at the corner of my eye, below perception.

The words escape me.

One must be very careful of words.

They hold great power: mystic and legal and personal.

Words can weave a whole world, a whirl of worlds, a wild wind of words

They can create reality for those who get caught up in them.

The right word at the right time can catalyze miracles.

The right word at the wrong time can destroy the eternal.

How might I find the words to capture my dream, my destiny?

Enter the Fool upon the Precipice, prattling ditties of the 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.

There is a tale I try to tell.

Its point escapes me, withering into fairydust.

I breathe in the poisoned air, drink the poisoned water, eat the poisoned food

Like a desperately swimming fish in a polluted bowl, like a creature of the streets eating garbage,

Like a child.

The pattern is corrupted, but I follow it as best I can.

I have been told that if I can properly put the pieces in place

All will be revealed; all will be peace and beauty and love.

The pieces of my foolish shattered heart.

Calling Card

I am metamorphing art

a brain in a biological bottle.

What does that even mean?

I am but a latter day fool,

a futile Lancelot sans his Art or Guin.

If you let me in, if I satisfy some gaping

pinhole in your aimless curiosity,

if my foraging philosophy intrigues

your rambling wit, if we sit to laugh and cry

over brie and wine, you will see.

Etherized

Will o' the wisp wending a land of dreams

Daisies, bright blooming weeds,

mellifluous, grand.

Whoosh! Genie arms wide into flight

above foam and sea.

Beyond fear,

absorbed by awareness -- sheer horizon

confined by no mind, eyes

or reason.

Who imagines,

and in that magic space settles

to reside?

Women in velvet and fur, swan necks,

arrogant tresses,

sip marvelous narcotic, sweet as fire.

Upheld mirror portraits, glowing strands

of wire and prismic hues,

vibrant perfumes call to wander,

to stray.

Will-less, free, each step,

each feather fall

a gift of mystery, of mystics' play,

caress of bliss.

High Art

A chimera of Mage and Fool

Image of watery fire

a’flow and standing resolute

Creation of patient desire

Tell me a tale of intricate pleasure

Knit me a touchstone against any weather

Join me in illusive

smoke, wine and song

Catch me in delusion; but don't imply I'm wrong

Let me breathe grand fantasy

past grasping reality

spin out sunbeams from decay of dross

sweetly decorate my cross

Waylaid reason is no loss

because I have reason to see

the world I create it to be

resurrection

"Jesus wept and died"

I always wondered what that meant.

Is it an admonition to us to do the same?

Like, "Life sucks, and then you die"?

Or, if Jesus died for our sins,

did he first weep for our sins --

a holy pity party embracing us all?

So, our sins have been wept for, died for;

we carry the blood and tears of the Lamb

on our souls.

Perhaps that would be best blessed, if we

rejoiced and laughed and hugged and forgave

and generally enjoyed the feast of life

to balance the weeping and dying and love.

For joy balances weeping;

life balances death;

and love, of course,

is the only balance to love.

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 you find daring to share peace of mind in kindness less than Divine

Holy Weak

Locked in a keyhole

a romance gone AWOL,

a sad bitter song badly sung.

Mad voices lie to our young,

encrypt failure as beggar’s choice.

Born to be property, Innocent of means to judge,

to please

a man of pride, complete his beautiful

bride, be his family retreat from

right and wrong.

. . .

Jesus, before His Destiny

removed Him from common ribaldry,

banter and shoving that score for a man,

secure his order among fellow men,

Jesus loved the children even then.

He dared to imagine a gentle love, free

from bullies’ shaming, from easy blaming,

from traumatic scars of social war.

He believed in us, human kin, above

judgmental sin.

Fatherly humor, the way fathers love

their children, with the pride of

ownership and the slave master’s

secret fear,

God disciplines His Heir.

Easter

Gentle rosy raindrops of a mellow morning,

Children make the day – it's Spring.

I thought of Christ in Church this morning,

nailed to His cross in long ago Jerusalem,

arising to springtime, the earth's reawakening.

It's a time for children and games of childhood,

a time for playing with love,

secret smiles and daisy chains.

It's a time for the simple and natural

A time for anointing the soul in peace

after the ravages of winter.

A time for gentle things

like newborn kittens

and flowerbuds after the rain.

I am slowly relearning the healing strength of love,

Slowly relearning the simple pleasures of humanity.

Life is sweet, poignant,

a drifting melody.

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, merging through

transubstantiation.

Constellations, moving, shifting,

making waves in our collective

consciousness, appear to reveal

sparkling impulses of truth.

On that warm, wet 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 emerge 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.

faith healers

Faith Healers

No doubt, excellent penance must be paid.

Life is debt.

Always more to need pulls forward

out of dusty cracked ground to quiet thirst.

We are not last, or first, nor most grieved,

most grievous.

Another litter along this trail of fools.

As if ever more stringent rules,

admonitions of flame and infamy,

could slake or set us free.

Comic cosmic tragedy, but for descendants

begrudged, pre-judged, caught up pre-aware

in dismal prophecy catechized by

bumbling attendants.

Future’s fettered face: shake faith in

reckless disregard for creation.

March 29, 2013

pray for violence

Pray for Violence

The God of Abraham

enjoys His Master tricks.

Calls Chosen men to violent

revenge against all fancied slights.

“They’re wicked – Smite!
Pillage their villages.

Rape their disgusting whores.

Make their acres yours in My sight,

in My glory. Give blood lust, My rightful

gory sacrifice. Pride is My reward

when your sons fight in My Name.

Pride can pay the price, replace shame.

I am no pansy, no prancing debutante

at Papa’s ball. I am no Mama’s man,

no Fate’s enthralled. I am the First, the

Prime, the All.”

Soldiers, persons of honor, heroes of

common cause, deserve our worship on the throne

of myth. No longer men or women alone, adrift,

seeking meaning, solace for their losses,

receivers for their gifts. Sins and virtues

washed in wars’ conflicting visions, no longer fit

collective debt. Don’t crimes against our mirrors

deserve refection? Does the command of worship

demand recursive lies, impossibility of true

repentance, vicious alibis, endless falling into

death?

March 24, 2013

anticipating Spring

Memories, they weave a silken web in silence

We talk of times past in gently measured tones,

sometimes bitter humor.

We watch a bird circling in the distance,

and build patterns in the clouds.

Last year I spied a mole burrowing in

the unmelted snow of early spring.

Today I tend to think of you

smiling as you did last night

when you first saw me after parting.

Spring Medley

Air clear as a free-running stream

tumbling over country rocks and minty greenery

Clear soft air of early spring

Breathing satsang, reeling eternity,

While running 'cross the straight-lined highway

-- shouting

"Hey sky, embrace me!" shouting

I embrace the air and call it Love.

I love you, love you, love you, love you

I

Form, Words, Action

I in motion

I in tumbling, stumbling, crazy image

kaleidoscope

over 'n' over

love you, love you, love you, love you

Capture the essence for an almost noninstant

Capture the image of groping, grabbing, grasping

gazing heartfelt on release, but

love you, love you, love you, love you

insane, insatiable

cannot touch release of

love you, love you, love you, love you

Smothering in the too pure air.

Hey, Springtime,

Got some time to be wasting

So I tracked a songbird

on a still bare treebranch

and joined it in song.

What wonder the woods bring

I can't contain it.

Thistle and briar weeds

Capture my imagination

Grow wild and tangly

All through my mind.

Spring is for being born;

Autumn for dying.

Spring is for being born

(or maybe sometimes Winter --

something has to take you through

those long cold months of snow and ice).

Spring is for being born;

Autumn for dying

(when the leaves change colors

and fall and blow

into the frost and first fall snow).

Spring is for being born;

Autumn for dying.

(Why do you weep for me, sister,

long heartfelt sobs of dismay?

Why do you weep as I drift off to sleep

for many and many a day?

Today I shall die so tonight I may fly

-- with the leaves I'll be scattered away.)

Spring is for being born;

Autumn for dying.

(But I only die today that I may be reborn

tomorrow, when the warm kiss of Spring

touches the earth,

bringing promise of joyous rebirth

and months of summer sun,

when leaves turn green again.)

Spring is for being born;

Autumn for dying.

Renewal

Faded jackolantern,

darkened eyes obscured;

blooming trees

branches swaying,

picking up the tempo

dancing 'n' jivin'

in merry celebration

of Spring.

Look at us flounce our skirts

rolling our hips

licking our lips

ready to rollick,

enticing pregnant play.

Let the goodtimes roll

on down the verdant hillside

winter's sorrows

spilling out like seed

cleansed free

singing in the

flowing rain

recombinant flowers and wildlife.

Stories hidden,

tangled and mired in

tired decades of dust and gloom

swept into light by chance,

unobscured in the gently falling rain,

taken up, given honoured place

singing now in the ritual chorus.

Timeless chanting,

calling in vibrant winds.

Moving, re- and un- engaging,

ever changing,

never wholly new.

When All Fails

And it’s always on to the next adventure.

Random leaves flicker roads of desolate

neglect

trod and cried

over, fallen quicksand depths demanding

flight

for survival.

Frozen wings, sudden sparkling cold

commanding

damp unforgiven. Bent below, tramps

expecting handouts,

bankers expecting deeds,

women expecting hollow forcomings.

There is no easy fantasy. Tales of fates and

magics

lie on quantum desperation, haunted nights.

Winter always lurks on Spring’s horizon.

Keep moving; keep life singing, gyrating for

warmth.

The road long saturated with evil, rise above.

Learn, grieve, abandon.

Envision a grander hope, shining spire

beckoning.

healing balm of Spring

washing winter sorrows

in hope of warm tomorrows

the flowering they bring

5 law plan

1) First, do no harm

2) Be honest in all your dealings

3) Learn to love yourself, and understand that we are all selves and interconnected

4) Promote the concept that what is good for each is good for all, and vice versa

5) Promote creativity, flexibility, authenticity, communication

thinking forward

St. Patty

You touched me with clear green eyes

Pulled my tumbled mind into

this moment.

Not karma, not destiny,

nothing like history connects our days.

A moment of clear vision

binds like divine embrace.

Live Long

Flexibility is key

to move with the wind,

blend into changing seasons,

to dance the tide with gleeful grace.

Able to arrange form to place,

freely embrace

or bend away.

and check out my post apocalyptic blog:

http://postapocalypse13.tumblr.com/

42 skiddoo

Don't panic
 
world-eating fog encroaches
no chance to breathe in this miasma
gasping for something clean
to inhale
 
release
gently
into nothingness
no trace of panic
around which to coalesce
fear, malice
let all pain bleed off
into airless mist
 
relax, restless thrashing
sinking bit by bit 
into silence
now, wasn't that easy?
slowly, without emotion
watch the fog roll by
easing into serene skies


http://ibnlive.in.com/news/google-celebrates-douglas-adams-61st-birthday-with-a-doodle/377960-11.html

woman's worlds

Persephone's Worlds

I have wandered far from thoughtless girlhood,

am a woman, 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, here I must obey the crowd,

displaying charm and grace

in haute couture, making small, insipid

conversation with the 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 the social condition,

know nothing of my true life

under Winter's glory.

Athena's Valentine

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.

Scrying on the Moon (for Brigid)

~twilight of the goddess, call to song to 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 that 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

in withered 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"

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 diamonds, scuff-polished,

hidden like icebergs in paleolithic mud.

Dismiss prophetic exaltation, work songs,

labyrinthine gardens,

we who are only dreams in your philosophy.

You may well be better

stuck in your own

wheel of clay.

My lesson, when I am ready,

is to leave you to your way;

cleave to the ecstasy

loose, lost, subjective

heroic

cubicle woman

The moments go by if you forget they're there. Sucking in sweetness, hot sugared coffee, aroma into memory.

It might be a warm, clammy late 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, cared for. It doesn't matter that we are never more than strangers,

passing faces, smiling. 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.

Masked Lady Moon shines

into my room

speaks of fantastic adventure.

Dare I question her

abundant concern?

I a masked gypsy

painted in gloom,

a taste for wry humour,

impossible promises,

resplendent terrain.

A woman insane,

taken in by the Moon

fair sister, sparkling cold

so far

I wander without home

but that clear, quiet salvation

hiding like Moonlight

unmasked in my mind.

A Woman Disappointed and Disillusioned, Courageously Facing a Seemingly Empty Life

Dressed in sadness

Depressed to madness

Mad to believe in passion,

which never lasts beyond the hour.

Shrieking to bequeath the

power to stand, to breathe.

Years appear, macabre hag

preening her wares.

"See how it was, how it could be.

Drag and drop your face, your fate

onto a printed page. Can you see

new meaning? New lamps for old."

She cackles, like

a metronome.

New maps for a new age.

That charming village erstwhile

known as Hell

has realigned into Helvetica.

All that burning sorrow

tomorrow's poetry.

Lovers Meeting

Carry her with love

Always, in your deepest places

She is a woman upon the Earth

in a land of briar and weeds

It is so easy to fall

to fail to thrive

set upon by slavering beasts

and prophets

You know she yearns to serve

so well

that none could find fault

Yet every agonizing step

like angry knives

cutting from below

hobbles her further, deeper

leaving less to give

Bloody prints mark her

dusty trail

Thirsting for the cooling warmth

of love

Carry her into your

sacred caverns

secreted wellsprings

journey's end

Here at the bar again, bar nothing to me.

Here at the bar again, bar nothing to me.

Early Scorpio warm, warm village 2 pm poetry reading

at Chumley's

Searching for bargains, found a Paul Goodman book

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 fulfilling aspirations

When all he does is cry and threaten

Big Brute Violence

To storm my awareness.

(What's frustrating is he doesn't hear me cry.)

Laughing in the park we loved

Crying in the night we parted

Oh, beseech I, god above

Why must you leave me broken-hearted

(and I know he'll be returning with more disregards

and diatribes and possibly pistols drawn to fire.)

So I sit here in the bar, again

Drinking sweet Kahlua and awaiting the poetry

Taking a respite, you see.

Oh, god, for this while,

Bar nothing to this troubled child

(for child I feel, though woman grown)

Let peace alone assail me.

Earth Goddess

 

Ceres, mother of the Earth

Athena, of cerebral birth

Juno, queen of all the gods

Vesta, pure against all odds

Virgo woman, life bequeaths you,

Standing proud amongst your sheaths,

Wisdom, loving gifts of grace,

In all fields is your place

To give of virtue, mind and soul

You plant the seed. You help it grow.

You till the soil and prune and weed.

You are the soil. You are the seed.

A snow-white light on field's relief

To countenance divine belief.

The image of a wishful star:

A steady shine -- but still so far.

The nights of hope; the days of pain

And on and on, that old refrain

We are the heart, the soul, the spleen

We are all we've known, done and seen

We are the time that marches on

With much to do before we're gone.

Sun in Pisces/Moon in Aquarius

Sun in Pisces/Moon in Aquarius

Lilting spirit out of body

dance of purified energy

merged into music

outside law or obligation.

Reinstate time of bright lights in darkness,

of flagrant song, buoyant laughter,

twirling theme of ecstasy beyond reason or ration.

Reinstate the quiet sunrise

smell of pine and wild roses,

of limitless sky entertaining majestic formations of earth,

unbridled passion encompassing silent reflection,

all orchestrated in bold tones, exquisite complexity

and simple truth.

Take me there. Let me fly

forever undisturbed by a need to touch down.