Thursday, November 28, 2013

happy Sagittarian celebration

music of the spheres
In the quiet of night sky
while starlight and peace prevail
a haunting rhythm,
music of the spheres,
slowly soars, entrances,
embracing fear,
kissing taunt of pain away.
Well into darkness, watching, 
hoping for a passing meteor
to swoop down and carry me
far into another space,
where kindly constellations
tell stories of joy and thanksgiving.
Celestial fusion crackles and strains
like an old jazz recording.
Melodies of another age
written on a mighty, sacred wind
told like Homeric verse
by the wanderers --
heavenly nourishing guides
leading us home.
Lake so dark
I can't see into it
swallows the sliver of Moon
as clouds roll through to
cover the sky.
Quiet, simple.
No life; nor conflict.
Meaning is that quality allowing sensation
to mature into sense.
Sudden chill wind requires response.
I turn
back, front, crouched down
into my own shelter.
Why am I not safe in a heated
room, exploring pleasure?
Context quotes:
"That was another stream,
a dream not taken."
No road enters here --
circle closed, unyielding.
Stories, fading candles, flicker.
Sweet wealth of warmth.
My fingers draw ritual from
patient water.
Sensation condenses.
Sense evaporates.
Scent of warm breath.
Taste of cold wind.
Wet, dark, silent.
Outside of meaning.
November 28, 2011
Thanks for sharing
Thanks for sharing
your intimate secrets
guilty despair
"How can  anything matter?
I am too dark,
no fun to be with."
It is not a birthday without
cake and good wishes.
No cure can take hold without
a get well card,
expressed courage
from caring others.
I have no rhyme, no rhythm,
no choir to calm me
into soft healing eiderdown.
Searing potions,
shocking wires,
disconnection from
harried continuity
cannot weave wholeness.
Kind touch, open
reveling in shared humanity
paints a loving pattern
for integration,
incentive to dare creative leap.
Re-merged, charged with fuel for 
healthy fulfillment.
Multi-hued singing fountains
rejoice in new found dancing.
Not in Gratitude
Gratitude implies obligation
Shining happiness implies
free acceptance, grace.
I am graciously embraced with joy.
Happy in my natural rhythm,
open to pleasure;
warm, melting sunshine,
complex luscious nectars,
elation, charismatic exultation.
I am in awe, a true believer.
I am not on my knees in supplication,

but supine, open to grace.

Monday, November 11, 2013


Honoring peace
Honoring lives left behind
not in consecrated fields
open to air and sunlight
tended father to son,
mother to daughter.
Dust to carry forward.
Lives not given, not shared.Taken.
Ripped asunder.
Limbs, guts, glory.
Shrieking abandoned waifs,
wailing inconsolate lovers.
Screaming bombs, squealing tanks.
Arms shattered,
vision scarred
for peace, for Fatherland, for prosperity.
Today, cold, raw, ice flecks
obscure a longed-for Sun.
Support Our Troops
What if they gave a war
and nobody came?
What if our ethos gave up
on targets to blame?
March of disorders;
unstable bonds break down,
crush frightened innocents
to dust.
We meant to serve our nation.
We meant to save rights, defend
threatened treasure, stalwart
bulwarks against disaster.
We meant to honor sacrifice, work of
our fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers
for the good life:
family, God, country
and a wholesome recompense of pleasure.
Not executors of horror so intense
as to reverberate through our
remaining consciousness.
Who is advanced?
Who left in pieces that never heal?
God is on the battle field
not as commanding general or inspiring
as witness
and gentle minister
of last rites
to shattered soldiers.
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.

Monday, November 4, 2013

the political is personal

Live Revolution
Revolution comes when it is ready.
Sparks so many times seem sure to light, embolden change.
Only when the tinder is sufficiently arranged will fire take hold.
Blaze clear fidelity to this erupted moment, charging forward.
After images, ash flakes in settling dark, take flight,
swirl within echoed breeze.
Readiness, relative to chaos, free range of human whim.
Revolution is but a shared anthem, parts of anger and revenge,
parts of reaching toward a new religion.
In the aftermath of violent schism,
what bright vision will sustain?
New World Order
Post-feudal society
obsessed with security and place
lock-step shuffle of obeisance
counting corners, counting on
science and leaders of order
counting on gospel served cold,
filleted, and layered just so.
Fashionably secured, tied and
corseted, made up for easy recognition.
"Mommy, Mommy, Mommy! Buy me
the pretty fire." So mesmerizing, so
certain to tell me who I am, how to be.
Casting savage spells, they are,
far and wide, telecommunication.
Tying up and tidying with vast
imaginary whips and wheels,
spinning like a Pied Piper's tales.
No wonder.
We get it wrong and twisted.
Throwing out the wheat to eat
the chaff.  Poisoning the well
that no enemy may drink our bounty.
Burning our bridges and tunnels
to save them.
Embarrassment of riches.
Gorging on fine cakes and
sugar water champagne.
No wonder.
Eerie daylight marching
timed by mechanistic masters
armed with decisions directing
torture, incarceration.
Power derived from the people
constrained of memory
mistaking some paranoid parody
for a promise of life.
infinite regression of change and resistance
multi-rhythmed rhyme
singing into the winds of change
to move their vector more in line
with where we wish to arrive
What is power?
Power is a word.
Power is an idea.
The Word is power.
The Idea is power.
Power is a distribution of energy, wealth, strength:
Physical, material, mental, metaphysical,
Power is that which allows us,
Or we allow others, to have
sway over their/our actions, emotions, limitations.
Power is a rush of air, of water, of electrons,
of words,
of weapons, of will
-- the force behind movement
or stasis.
Feudal Diffraction
It's not the color chart; it's the hierarchy.
Hoarders of permission slips for supplies
thereby decide what gets prioritized,
which brick gets laid, or even fired,
who lives well,
who scrapes til they no longer get by.
It's not our genetic code that compels stupidity.
Perhaps it's a kind of manic compulsion,
depressive obsession,
mass psychosis,
St. Vitus line-dance to a zombie
caller's tune.
What to do?
Meme-web reconstruction in increments
paradigm warping incidents
realign the pulse of macro/microsphere
benign gibberish cy-phones through?
Take back your time.
Take back your right to self-valuation.
Take back your place
outside of the lines.
If our needs, self-fulfilling desires, greater
ecstatic glory and grace
are to be based
on solid infrastructure,
on fruitful interplay,
on free and freeing expression,
let us take hands in
undulating, beatific dance
Let us be and do and feel
that which gives us permission
to be whole.