A wild ride through ever disintegrating times.
Can we assimilate where we've been?
Ancient footfalls inexorably emerging into
battering rams, explosions, fiery projectiles,
grief, despair, immolation, utter destruction.
Can we feel the pull into the maelstrom,
powers rip our being into basic components,
the essence of nature?
Perhaps there was/is/will be
a time of peaceful reflection,
hoped for abundance,
shared joy and laughter,
moving higher through an upward spiral,
feeling so good, so free, feeling so loved.
Perhaps it is just here, around an unseen corner,
ever available to those who can perceive,
let go of misperception and it's
pull of hate, push of shame.
Perhaps the only solace is in stolen moments,
the vibrant taste of summer wine,
the innocent joy of uncomplicated affection,
the pure sensuality of passionate dance.
Perhaps these will tell us,
if and when we stop to listen,
will lead us to the promised land.
Soft Summer 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,
Summer 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
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
to ride along home.
And she sold me rainbows
shining gaily 'cross the window
windchimes in light.
And she smiled me daisies
and bursting bright blooms of summer.
And she told me, maybe,
if you're looking in
the right direction,
a miracle may grace your sight.
And I beam,
into the day.
Song of Sun and Earth
Driving beat of nature’s grand
Call for the cheer that carries carefree souls.
Stars far from here guide our craft home.
We've made our career a matter of energy.
Sing of Summer surf, held close to mystery.
Undersea caves cradle chests of gems, shining like starlight.
Beautiful child, enrapt in wonder
cradles a ball of ladybug colors
swaying to music, smiling to play
growing through summer's most perfect day
Singing to the Chorus
Days numbered by barbarians.
Travelers rush in to conquer.
Taken to a longer view,
tumbling through the ages ~
Sundials exchange for
binary spiders click-clock,
tabulating the enormous summary,
what has gone before.
The reality of childhood, striving creatures
pull upward from bootie straps,
scrambling for a place in the pile
near enough to top
that derision, pouring downward,
obliges them to only the fiercest of Lords.
Merry tots spend fallen pocket-change of
dollars flowing upward.
Old games reign under the big top.
Solemn children throw glass stones from circus stands,
bet on which clown will full face as disaster.
Speak in tongues of evil, o' my children.
Church Fathers swear to the blackened sky;
cold, withered Mums hope for a crust
of noblesse oblige.
Evil is the providence of Satan,
cloven-hoofed, prancing in the circle's
centerpoint, playing the pipes of Pan.
Oceans of blood boil.
Leading edges swelter, crisp into
In Summerland children play, frolic to
rollicking drums and reeds.
Naked under beaming Moon and starlight laughter,
merrily we act out tales well-loved by All.