Tuesday, April 22, 2014


It's really a simple story. Beings find planet. Beings treat planet badly. Planet goes about her business.
Beings start to realize that they need planet, and had best learn to make friends rather than futilely keeping up enmity.
Gaea: A Ritual Performance
layers of imagery, music, tribal drums, futuristic dreams
Gaea was there, in the beginning. Gaea was all. Gaea was wise.
How could we not have seen, in the blindness of pride, of avarice,
of service pledged to false gods?
The journey was long.
The journey was harsh.
The journey was lonely.
Asleep in a box with wilderness dreams.
Or awake on the watch, wondering what was to come.
Thus it was those false gods bespake us:
Out of the cold vastness of desolate space,
out of base fear over years seeped in to overtake us,
out of a need to deem our fate Someone else's scheme,
out of a need to believe all would be well for our kind.
Our world was dying.
We did what we could to survive.
Survival we find
an appropriate end
to any means.
Survival will give us
the time we need
to find a better way
to survive.
The bravest of us,
the proudest of us,
the meanest of us,
would not allow us to die.
We took off in our ship with the barest of plans
to find another land
where our kind could live ...
hybrid children evolved
from refugees
fleeing a hostile star,
Skygods and Earth Mother of ancient lore.
When will we relinquish hubris, ruinous hatred,
accept Gaea as partner and home?
Build strength of unity so all may thrive?
The land, when we found her was warm and inviting.
We felt safe, supported, encouraged to grow.
We ate of her fruit, fish, herds.
We built with her trees, stone and clay.
We drank from her beautiful streams
which we soiled with our waste.
Gaea was saviour and womb.
We repaid her with rape.
We didn't understand,
thought her merely land,
thought ourselves masters from afar.
Gaea sent storms to bring us to our senses, wild winds and seas.
Gaea tried to shake us off: Earthquakes, Floods, Famine, Plagues
sending us scattering into hiding,
intermingling with her primates, Gaea's ape children.
Without question or shame, we murdered what we could not steal.
Without honor or remorse, we laid waste to our host,
to our adopted home,
then cursed her for not giving more.
By accident or design, chimera adapting to nature’s marketplace,
creating stories to redefine our origins from outer space.
We lied to our halfling children, denigrated their Gaean kin,
twisted their virtues into a false concept we called "sin."
What Gaea did to us? Cruel, evil, in need of the whip.
We seal over her bounty
into mad parody of Mother Ship.
Unforgiving of the mess of living, the miracles of life.
In ignorant pride we gave ourselves law to decide
propriety over fate,
in our minds
mother love
into a mirror of hate.
Frozen in fear and rage, children swept out in the storm,
trapped in a self-made cage we had hoped to protect us from harm.
Gaea, we cry, why do you treat us so angrily?
What will it take for us to wake up and see it is we who are wrong?
To hear and be aware of Gaea's song singing in our blood?
To learn the cycles, the seasons,
the reasons for fire, wind and flood?
To redefine our race,
to find out that our place is here among our Gaean kin?
The telling of new tale must begin.
Gaea opens to sunshine to ease our agitation.
Easy winds, breezy gush of summer rain.
Feeding the greedy young grains,
growing along the plains, the flowers of the storm.
Feeding the beasts of the field,
celebrating the cycle, as all is revealed.
Love is the web,
craftily spun by great mother spider,
Gaea's familiar,
weaving magestic grace
no longer concealed. It was never our place
to control, nor others' to steal.
Gaea creates in intricate arrangements,
feeding us all of us all, a transformative stew.
So much energy wasted; painful lies to find our way through.
New beliefs, guiding stories to provide for, enthuse
children, reaching out to become and be free,
embrace our destin,
as Gaea's beloved.
Arising in the circle, giving voice to release pain --
grateful to Gaea's grace, dancing in her cleansing rain,
we sing, rejoice, united:
It would be so nice (paradise)
You and I
Floating in the sunlight
Ready to break free
To be
Exactly who we are
Gifting Gaea EV22
Sacred Earth, EV#7
Earth Angels
That boorish arrogance.
Deaf to wisdom, portrayed in
ominous myth, faery lore.
Slay the goose;
destroy the whales.
Uproot untold trees
bearing fruits that may have
saved us staggering pain.
Crucial for well-being
microbes, photosynthesis,
processes ignored, misunderstood.
Focus expended on ephemeral
opinion, petty greeds and rivalries,
diatribes on evil and good.
Realities we have yet to account to,
fall, collateral damage
to insolent bravado.
When will we ever let go,
rethink this mad master plan,
relinquish need to command?

Saturday, April 19, 2014

420 eve

420 fledglings escape pie and fly
Silent night, pensive night.
Carefully managing intrepid flight,
serial soaring heightened insight.
Self-sabotage may be a right.
So is a paradigm shift, excitement of
quantum array;
a quick turn through reality's rift
into a fountain of play.
Happy day, glorious day.
Why would we have it some other way?
Revise decorations -- more brilliant, more gay!
Dialogs weave beyond yay or nay.
Reveling in destiny's space/time/what may.
Escape Velocity
RRRRRunning--Spinning--  rising to fly, to reach
and conquer the sky, the rooftops, the treetops,
outside the city crowds.
To elevate,
escape gravity.
Ascend beyond all those petty groundling woes and fears.
Climb past the clouds,
among stars and moonbeams.
Catching sight of 
those celestial omens foretold by fantasy.
Catching hold of tickly, teasing, zooming ecstasy.
Catching up to steep snow peaks.  Peering in lofty windows.
Prancing gaily so many feet above fields and roads,
glancing below -- can't catch me
not you dour, sour, 
glum-faced cons down on the street.
Learning to fly, to soar, to race up high
where I can see for miles, 
and miles recede.
Learning to say no to ordinary normality
and break free.
Learning to say yes to magic, and make magic me.
unlike anything before.
Learning to break out of bounds and take in more
Ain't nobody gonna tell me I can't fly.
Smoke and Mirrors
 The calmness of night
with no one
but me
and the cat and the music.
Sentient spirits
out of reach, out of time
feel me yearn
for soft waves, perfumed
a secret moonlit ride.
Gentle, waft breezes
carry, caress calloused cares
into quiescence.
Loving seas, cradling essence.
Paradise state of mind.
Some are born to battle,
to die of sadness on rocky
foreign terrain.
If I could give them ease,
could discover
words and gestures
that bind us all
in happy equilibrium,
I would gladly reach out
so far my arms might break.
I would sing above the fray,
I would open the walls
that hold nirvana at bay.
Would you exercise escape?
Would you swim into bliss,
drink the nectar of precious contentment?
Would you be so elated
to play
swept away
in potent beatitude?
Or defiantly never
look past the sign:
No Weapons Allowed
April 20, 2008
Caught up in the whirl as the world evolves
We weave by the light of the moon.
A fabric of fancy, sunbeams, pansies, mist.
A trail of bluebirds embroider your tresses.
A veil of gossamer softens your eyes.
A breeze of belief to embellish your breath.
Dressed for the fete in the finest of jewels
Alive to excitement, shining with love
Wrapped warm in a floating cape of wishes fulfilling
 * *
Reality enrobed in symbols.
Where would we be outside our trance?
Ecstatic in sunrise.
Open to the rainbow rays.
Whirling, life within the dance.
Each cell, each system, synchronized.
Vibrating to celestial tones.
Each jagged lonely fragment
joyfully bonded, tethered with love.
Sent on to chance.
    Listen then, and hear anew
    A melody so swift and free
    It's memory can carry you
    Floating on a magic sea
    To the inner facings of your soul.
    Look, and feel with lover's sight
    the polished crystal jewels of time
    that catch you in your secret night
    and send you tumbling down the mire,
    through vortex lambent rabbit hole.
    Expand the seconds of eternity.
    Find your way unwinding.
Joint sessions
Joint sessions
In a hovel-hole basement haven.
We keep the faith and
And it was told . . .
How the everlasting presence
still isn't very old.
How the Diamond got her ring
How the matchgirl got her king
How we all got everything
And how everything got sold.
Reeds bending in the wind.
A haunting sentimental song.
Breeze saunters by.
The neon letters "PEACE" light up the air.
A poem in pictures and sound.
Rather like a spell, you know.
Those dawning tendrils
sneaking through my windowshade.
But it's much too early to be rising.
So I'll dally in enchanted romance
without recalling
I've no one to wake to
beyond the dawn.
Reaching to the stars,
tarry in eternity:
This is all.
Soldiers marching in a desert,
remember not their daily cares.
Remember only endless marching.
Caught suspended, unawares.
The crackling fire.
The sweet cascading smoke.
Light another match and start anew.
As pinwheels and starbursts float
through brilliant trails.
And visions of all our wanderings gently
drift in liquid air.
mix phor meta
double, double toil and trouble
mix in moonbeams dripped from Hubble
with a pinch of housing bubble
dump in tons of scraped off stubble
just a taste of wry
with a twist of lime
seconds cloned from time
and, Voila! a rhyme to rollick
swing your partner, tase your Dalek
what a party tea for frolic!
double down, but “Don’t Panic!”
brewed up for fun – enjoy the manic
d a n c e
There is a world here that knows itself in the way we all do.
That is to say it has a surface personality, a proper social mask
for formal wear.  Underneath, plots are hatching like fish,
bubbles display quick new life -- snatched into oblivion
barely formed or growing fiercely strong beneath the surface waves.
Was it a warm, wet Spring?
Is the Sun supplying energy without heed to the people's stated needs?
Are ocean waters cursed with pollution born disease?
Do ill winds suffocate a nation's glory?
We could weave this world a better story, play more mindfully
constructed games.  We could take back our focus from blame,
There is a saying that what one knows is merely that
which has not been denied.
Dazzling Genie, weaves scenes of wizardry
upon the dusty window of my gaze.
Champion of crazy crippled dreamers, lazily
giving wing o'er wondrous glades. Simple,
serene days; nights of stars, Moonbeams,
ecstatic serenades, mystics' bliss.
My nightmares exchanged for a kiss of your majesty;
enduring pain relearns its place, energy
refocused by your trail.  Enthralled, at peace,
inspired by your tales of labyrinth space and time.
Honoured, awed by your divine gift, I become
at one
with grace
Will o' the wisp wending a land of glee.
Daisies, bright blooming weeds,
mellifluous, grand.
Whoosh! Genie arms-wide smiles
above foamy sea.
Beyond mere illusion,
absorbed by awareness – horizon
confined by no mind, reason, expanse.
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 paintings, glowing wire strands,
prism hues, released.
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.
astral vision
Mystery mists of history holy crescent lightening sky.
Calm anticipation early pinks ascend from eerie violets.
Thunderous Jove twinkles like a happy kitten,
tummy extent for adoration.
Omens, prophecy, hope for endless happy returns,
quests into/out of space/mind.
(without gravity, how can we fall ... or love?)
Aching for stars, planets, dreams,
silent assent that means all is promised.
I touch a cosmic peak,
breathless at such altitude.

Friday, April 4, 2014

poetry month

Poetry Month
Resonant phrase aligns.
Mystic fire sprites manifest, 
call to neural chambers: "Come to play!"
Sparkling children fashion effervescent flares.
Innocence against random nightscape
extols, reveres.
Humbles savants with unknown unknowns.
Nascent moment flown, eyes carry amazement,
enticed by fun, perhaps an epiphany or two.
Inner ears
merrily engage, swept up in daring code.
Intimacy, kindling as heady lyric,
spreads, ignites.
Muse lit lanterns take wing,
illuminate eternity.
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.
Brays to bequeath the
power to stand, to breathe.
Moira appears, macabre hag
preens her wares.
"See how it was, how it could be.
Drag and drop your face, your failures
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
metamorphed into Helvetica.
All that acrid sorrow
tomorrow's poetry.
Pop Quiz
What is more useless than a poet, and why?
Cloistered in my artist's garret, threadbare garments more holes than whole,
paint spattered, unruly and unkempt,
barely aware of the need for sustenance or even air,
entranced by the necessity of exploring, exposing my vision
I am the essence of romance.
Typing, writing clever syllables, I am merely effete,
despite my black attire and permanent scowl.
Even if they are good words, finely wrought, express deeply true emotion,
they are almost literally a dime a dozen.
To expose my wound is inelegance, to explore my essence a narcissistic malaise.
I am the real deal -- the poet-philosopher, the idealist dreamer, the journey's fool.
Surely I should be surrounded by acolyte worship, at my feet, honored to breathe the sacred
incense of my magnificence.
Yet here I stand with bills unpaid in the squalor of a rented room,
unadorned by idolatry.
We are a well at the center of the Universe
suspended like a spider spun out from
webbed space evolving.
All that ever is, like sea rain
catalyzed by light, is processing
manifest illusions,
into effervescent poetry.
It is a poem because evocative nature
seeks language, because will intends to speak
more than prosaic words.
Massage to revitalize imagination.
Lines break, imply stage direction phrasing. 
Histories, mystic pleas, lovers’ epiphanies
both oral and visual, as well as
genre melding and overturning.
Look/listen for what speaks to you.
Voices in my head speak
in poetry, prose, creative nonfiction
stories of courage, adventures in change
Tales, whispered spells, hypnotize,
wrench veils between epiphany and sleep.
Deeply darkened mists of memory
prismed in poetry
arouse such imagery.
Be at peace.
Breathe in glacial wind
to warm in secret private seasons.
Breathe out
a better world.
Perhaps we constrain ourselves by our definitions
of "poetry" whatever they may be for each of us, or collectively.
Perhaps we would better serve the honoring of our
deeper, more carefully observed,
more cherished, more reflective,
more hormone evoked or thoughtfully
worded communications by freeing
our critique from "poetry"?
When we call "poem"
expectations climb aboard.
Is this one of those silly word games
or a test of my ability to please authority?
Rhymes herding phrases out
of clarity,
over-ardent attempts at sincerity?
What if I just want to explain
beyond the scope of everyday chatter?
What if I want to say how
and why abstractions matter
or work out ways to scatter
bits of emoting on a page?
Words with the precision and ambiguity
to save visions, ahas! glimpses.
Capture gaze at nature's seas
and stars.  Bring immediacy
of horror or wonder, or aid grappling
to decipher commonalities
that could increase
You expound tale of private familiarity simple, trivial, self-contained.
Profound sincerity, eternal poetry
Poetry is about meaning and wonder
Poetry can say:  "Yes, we feel the same"
and "Yes, we can go further, together."
It's not the rhyme or word or name
that creates this form we ponder
to say what we've seen, how we came
to be who we are, how another's
ways of making sense have made us
more ...
poetry mice
nibble nimble syllables
feed on grainy meaning
scamper renewed, enlarged
Binary stars blink celestial code.
Music of spheres, of oblongs, of ellipses
twinkle far beyond the constant light.
Cycles within cycles within rhythms within
the magic of rhyme, within eternity's tricks
of repetition and mutation.
Crystallized, brought to sublime fruition.
Poets taste, express cosmic recipes,
tongue to tongue.
Poker as a Metaphor for Poetry:
Play the cards you are dealt,
inflated for the gaze of your opponents.
Don't squander emotion reactively.
Enjoy the thrill of being in the game.