Tuesday, April 21, 2015

Earth sings

In the garden
In the garden
rags and broken bits,
trailing paper ribbons,
shards and excrement,
weave a picture, a scene
a thumb reel of protected vision.
The garden grows
though abandoned by light
and conscious thought.
Tangles give way to magical gates.
Imaginary flowers bloom,
twist absurd
mangling shapes,
evoke scents
unknowable in common categories.
Once the garden was ripe and lush,
fed legions,
earned prizes in the canons
of great literature.
If other gardens vied in performance,
it was for the grander glory of gardenhood.
Lovers trysting
Children's play
Old philosophers walking,
speaking deliberately, deeply,
breathing in heaven.
A garden of substance,
tradition and grace
where sore of heart might
find tender comfort, growing wild
in sweet evening breeze,
a calming call to prayer,
mending meditation
on the ways of Earth and sky and rain.
Walking the garden,
old, papery, withered of breath,
dreaming yesterdays, tomorrows,
screaming silently
a hope too desperate to speak
for vibrant new seeds
to take root.
Back to Basics
Walking backwards, over the cracks, the broken glass, the crying shame.
Looking in and out.  All the hostile visions I never want to see
damning me.
They say to give is blessed, when in doubt give it all away.
I say
we are each a universe, so many worlds, so many stars
we lose track
we look back
whoosh into the vastness of possible trajectories.
Without crossroads, without stones of demarcation,
we would fall upwards eternally.
I am digging a well,
a holding place for tears.
When the hole is of the right proportions
I will fashion a tight container of stone and clay.
The excavation uncovers rotten cadavers, old bones
twisted from unhealed violations, bits of broken treasures,
shattered expectations,
here and there
pieces of nursery toys no longer loved.
I crawl through the earth, exulting in sensuous pleasure.
Moving like a snake at home in the elements,
shedding my skin, becoming silky sinuous sense cells.
It is so beautiful here, under it all.
Fertile soil, made of the cast off, the ruined, the dead.
Seeds try again to perfect the expression of dna.
It would all fall together naturally.
But nature did not make me.
It was self-flagellating nurturance of worlds and stars
trying to cast off their earthly heritage.
Sacred Geology
Rich earth.
Consecrated life.
Imbued myriad layers
nourish omniscient spirit.
Starvations, immolations, decay
scarred into the land
making it holy.
Bounty of beauty
irrigated by tears
and less voluntary bodily fluids.
Teeming loam. Revitalizing
luscious fruits
giving forward.
Partaking of the feast
we are blessed,
renewed in empyreal essence.
Each at our pace,
nature’s cycle reclaims
all that we are
that we may become
yet more abundantly, complexly ()
Eclipse Dream
Jump!  Jittery.  Nauseous claustrophobia . . .
l e t t i n g  g o  s  l  o  o  o  w
Whoosh leap faster than my breath can catch me.
Dizzily, half-blinded, out of focus,
slant view along tree-strewn path.
Enchanted forest?
Smoke curling upward.
Gingerbread cottage in the woods.
Do I rest here, recoup my losses?
Savory soup simmers over tender hearth fire.
Shadow gloom occludes unswept corners.
Yet the center of the room
is surprisingly clean, radiant.
I sit, mantra embraced.
Nestled by magestic silk wings.
Outside winter is falling.
When I awaken from my trance
planting season will begin.
The wild rains of spring
have caught me napping.
They catch me up in torrents,
swing me along,
a cradle in the sea.
I descry mazes,
wondrous pageantry
woven into  stellar stories.
Celestial spray anoints me.
I commence secret ceremony,
believing the Earth to be my home.
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?
Sky born, lifted above
Water, Earth, primordial mud.
Bare breath and lilting light waft up, carry ephemeral
tongues, frenzied yet exquisite. Exaltation, daring
to swoop, touch, climb, pirouette.
Path briefly complete in hover, amazed over
flowering waves.
Winter Gods freeze-glaze mountain peaks,
rocky rivers, mother's eyes.
She gives suck embalmed in vision trails,
engulfed in smoke of smelting flame,
gasping, tropically turning, blind, yet
beyond mistrust.  She regurgitates paste of
air, dust, instinct, steeped with spit
and love.  Taste her sacrifice.
A world drifts.  Black night backlit in
pinpricks.  Atmosphere composed like bioluminescence,
symphonic, symbiotic.  Listen as rippling elements
grow words, symbolic histories, into a Summer game.
Out here, sparkling rain weaves rainbows.  Reverence
casts poetry as shimmer and shadow play.
Up here, beyond boundaries of ordinary days,
the only Commandment to penetrate --
Be Peace
It’s not the landscape, but the ambiance.
Emanant surroundings suggest fantasy motif.
Just that evocative forest green, desert rose.
Waft of lilac, vibrations of tidal reveries,
cast off, buried.  Reclaimed, exposed.
Gracious glory.
Terra spins through stories.
Webs of sparkle and synapse
suspend on delicate balance.
Work and love,
expression and assimilation.
Venture in search of food, air, stimulation.
Ideation, imagination, mood impels
self-aware cells, each with place
and passion.
Busy interchange
at market and field
combines power to wield, grow
beyond personal boundaries
permeable to trade, exploration,
creative generation.
Each iteration fuels further spring to
Gaea's laughing.
Silly scrapping scavengers
groomed in self-importance
rarely see the joke.
Long has her fete entertained.
Sol to Gaea, flirting seasons, night and day.
Eons slip through alignment.
Mud to worm
to facile mind
wondering at starlight
as constellations parade
in siren mystery.
Common wisdom, basic observation.
If river, then water and silt,
mud, clay, pottery, etched hieroglyphs,
television, robotics, space aeronautics.
Rippling along sinuous riverbed
I can smell the salty sands of yesteryear,
taste tears of copper, touch sparkling rain,
feel the lift of storms in formation
fill evening breeze with electric potential.


Friday, April 17, 2015

in the beginning

Before the Beginning
Before imagination,
sound or fury,
in a wraithlike pocket
outside of time and space
none to command
none to hinder
how does the spark ignite?
Spontaneous combustion?
Multiplicities of zeroes
encircling void
before chicken or egg or seed.
Was there a silent prophecy?
If the system is closed,
nothing created or destroyed,
where does all come from?
How far can it expand?
If the system is open,
how far does it go?
If there is no system,
chaos endlessly realigning,
helpless to demand rule of law,
form but temporarily
delimiting substance,
no matter.
In our space and time
we play at definitions.
"In the Beginning . . .."
Words upon a screen,
over millennia.
In the beginning
we fell apart,
thrust out, expanding,
becoming the heart
of time, space, and life.
The division of darkness and light
into binary code,
the linear sequence of time
growing older each moment.
Catalytic stimulation, element assimilation.
Systems and cycles ignite.
Wavicles swirl in excitement,
bumping and grinding unite,
build this grand reality,
seed ethereal possibility
long before divinity
could be defined.
Birth Day
In the beginning,
before integral threads unfurled
for reassignment,
feral forces churned, thrashed in
throes of creation.
Telescoping backward,
witness chaotic magic
riotous storms,
vivid electricity,
eternity singing in words
Over vast escapade,
threads weave into fabric.
Recognizable forms
coalesce into destinies.
This great projectile vitality,
infinitely recombining.
Locate pleasure in distinct moments
tied in gaily colored threads
for remembrance.
Soft bliss of night.
Far drift of stars; open carless road.
Kicking up bits of stone and dust.
I could be anyone.
I could start here.
What is beginning?
Aware of the first rays,
conscious aloneness.
Sunshine is harsh on
fragile skin, newly opened eyes.
They catch on eager forays,
studies in elucidation;
simple truth hidden in rules,
squalid mine-like cages, punishing
rewards that bind and itch.
Beginnings are not the point.
They are portals, not the
mystic river,
the sand so burning insubstantial,
the forest enchanted in
eider and lace.
Beginnings never warn of battle
flame or drunken dares.
They only promise vague
adventure, valiant possibilities.
A brief eternity before dawn,
supplicating the night sky for
solace, this soft moment before 
an unmarked road.
Sun and Moon embrace
as one
for brief eternity
all mystery reflects recursively within
Black and White
create gradation
radiate kinetic energy
We can achieve,
begin, begin, begin
Gardeners, planting vibrant fields,
planting food,
planting future flowering in
nurturing soil
perceiving wounds
to be sewn,
relieving loneliness,
revealing pain denied,
held in; applying benevolent medicines
to salve twists of ardent toil
adoring mentors of their wards
discover with them
questions, keys and doors;
realizing history is only destiny
when explorations cease;
invitations from ideation over time
come complete
with choices
A choir of voices
from softest spark
to fervent blaze
Troops of effervescent players
drums at dawn
Inspiration and instruction
carried forth through song, animated acts on stage,
multi-partnered murals, painting onward age to age
Taking up the challenge of the tale
that twists, turns, meanders,
provides kaleidoscopic opportunity
ever to begin again
Make Peace The Issue