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hOLy CHaoS ~ Emerging Visions #17 ~ April 1
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
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