when the rains came

like a hurricane 

like a natural disaster 

wind and rain laying waste to my life. 

tossed, torn, left astray and a stranger 

in the way, or at least not the norm. 

a sad wastrel left adrift in the storm. 

sing my wanderers' song tonight. 

let the wind carry my fading melody 

off onto wind-whipped ports of call. 

my breath's been carried out to sea 

nothing left to become of me 

once the hurricane has passed into the day 

the foggy, rainy day . . . 
I gaze upon the ragged sea.

 

,,,

 

‘’’

Rainstorm howls,

cleanses,

sends tidings, murky repentance and

beard for tears.

Savage rain tip-tapping

rhythms and blues.

Barrels for dipping, for ritual

washing, for tribal hydration, replenishment.

Agriculture,

hunger, health, hygiene.  Sordid rain,

ashen water, terror, pain, diluted

blood.

Storm warnings advise caution.

Cover yer windows and blinds.

Hide in cellars and pray.

Find salvation in fearsome company.

Oh, Hell – give in!  Cave into slippery ground;

swallow and be swallowed.

The rains came, carried fortune to further shores

and supplicants. 

Long into unspoken tomorrows.

,,,

 

 

 

‘’’
I’ve got rain.

No words.

No fancy maledictions.

Pounding drips against

my inner scream.

Out in the valley,

obscured by smoky haze,

gathering armies.

Bright polished armor.

Weaponry clean

beauteously shines,

stars behind dark clouds.

No roots to cling to.

Flood water rises,

drowns fire, air, ability to

speak of sorrow.

Ashes

fall unevenly

through seeping valley.

 

 

,,,

‘’’

 

Steady chilly rain of

irritations, builds into pools of

rage, a sea of tears.

Paddling, that old canoe splinters through.

Dreary, filthy floodwater, always needs bailing.

I am sore with life,

bruised, blood-stained, a sorry sight.

I cry out to Gaea’s strength, brutal acceptance.

My body aches to mend in healing

bend and release,

graceful hypnotic

undulation, deep breaths of puissant sea air.

Expanding horizon beckons. Waves of welcome

extend hand to hand,

beyond gravity. Fragrant allure of serene

ease.  Feel the moonlight,

gently embrace, then,

twirl me grandly into cosmic glee.

Exhilaration, peace beyond compassion,

beyond evidence of empty space between.

Ebb and flow.  Drought and tsunami.

Guiding beacon, or oncoming train.

The underworld is flooded; rotting

stench escalates to outrage.

We on the surface busily scramble

to survive.  In this torrent of madness

float keys to magical caverns beneath ocean swells.

It is a fine era for purveyors of diving gear

and we with will to learn

new methods of breathing.

 

,,,

‘’’

health policy options

The reason most of us even bother with health insurance is that we assume our human bodies will not be forever healthy, that there are diseases that could left to their own devices kill us.

If people whose bodies are already not healthy cannot readily afford health insurance, there is really no reason to have it at all because basically it is not a service but a con -- you only are entitled to the benefits while you don't need them.

 

What is needed is to bypass all the politics and develop healthcare affordability for everyone -- perhaps better insurance options (I think a Medicare buy-in option could easily get the health insurance industry looking at better ways to serve their customers), better treatment options, many more healthcare professionals (trained in whole patient care, in active listening, in looking for the most practical options for their customers), community healthcare centers with sliding scale fees, and generally thinking these issues through without being tied to what hasn't been working.

 

If we really want immediate relief, and not an ongoing bipartisan debacle on national healthcare insurance coverage, why not legislate a simple Medicare buy-in for all option, sliding scale based on income, continue payroll tax but without a cut-off and at a lower rate to keep the buy-in cost low; those without means for any buy-in get government subsidy. Private insurers who want to continue in that business can give better service/coverage beyond Medicare or whatever they think the customers will buy from them with whatever conditions they choose.

 

Since the Medicare infrastructure is already in place, it could more quickly and easily work than a whole new scheme. This scheme could be a job booster by putting more money into low income pockets (people most likely to spend) and giving small business a break from the drag of providing healthcare. Medicare would have even more volume for cost-cutting clout and a greater income stream to stay solvent.

 

Still, we must continue to work on the underlying problem of high medical cost: seriously look at best practices both medically and fiscally and better promote what works, including treatments that are considered nontraditional in this culture; expand access to medical education (on all levels, not just MDs); expand efforts to educate the public generally on positive health practices and self-treatment options.

 

The true conservative solution would be to encourage massive entrance into the healthcare professions. Flood the country with drs, and real competition would kick in. In the meanwhile, having real competition for the healthcare insurance industry from the so-called public option (maybe a better name would help -- how about nonprofit option?) is in fact a free market conservative solution.

eclipse mania

between the eclipses

 

 

unblessed

with necessities of success

lost, adrift in prophecy

 

A confluence of ripples

scoops up objects of prophetic reclamation

(seen smaller in the glass-eye of science)

readies to set off more forceful expression

Elemental reaction

Metamagick metamorphoses

any body’s guess

Smooth glide out of cavernous hiding

into buoyant seas

Gala release to navigate (no hesitation) past history’s

sunken shore

— to explore, forward

— captivated, not captured

Fleet from soul to feet, swim enraptured

immersed in the only delightfully lighted path

Form flows with function

at last, riding unprismed waves

gracefully, recreated

as dance

 

 

 

ON THE THRESHOLD

 

 

before the eclipse

before the dawn

before we are given our missions,

sent forward in time

we must be ready

without map or guidebook to prepare

we must rise to the challenge

endure the patience to exercise

control over every capillary,

every synapse,

every atom of our being

 

it’s not in the believing, but

the seeing

a better world needs a new kind

of ware

be a ware

for peace, for change,

for consciousness

before the wake

 

 

 

Liminal Spaces

 

 

Twilight, the wee hours,

the dark of the moon

liminal spaces,

places where magic reigns,

crossroads, crises, cusps.

 

There is static on the radio.

A song

my voice was singing

taking flight to surround me,

the sound of music,

a comforter of down

to ease my soul.

 

I’ve been trying to define a taste,

a sense of bittersweet and salt.

I’ve been trying to find a trace

a footprint in the desert,

a sound, a scent,

a memory.

I’ve been trying to find a trace of me,

a piece to fit the puzzle,

my contribution to the grand design.

Seeking in the shadows,

the space between

myth and matter,

those places words

cannot define.

On those insubstantial plains

of myst and awe,

the stuff of dreams,

threshold of wonder,

creation begins.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The moon is blue and dreaming Cry all my children to sleep In conquest dreams we deem to rule In darkest halls we plot in torment In empty caverns we deify glory Dance, again, dance for freedom Dance my children to sober dreaming Of valor and honor and color and pain Dance and cry and strive again To hold a mass and state the Name Call forth my demons from sleep The songs of old and runes of yore The empty words we've learned to score The high and low and even Listen and you'll hear them moan It's dark and dirty here below The emptiness can drive you To a place you ought not go You'll die in horror screaming Cry all my children to sleep The moon is blue and so are you You'll hear its song so clearly And discount it all to dreams And when you wake, you'll wonder Why you're screaming Why you ache in places you can't feel Why your work and world don't seem so real Why the voices in your head are screaming And you'll count the phases of the moon And wander in the night without direction And keep a silent vigil in your secret heart And turn quickly round the corners, Lest someone see you And when the curse is cast, you'll hear it spoken Without bothering to look for the absent speaker And when the moon has turned its face To other dreamers You'll see a vision overpower the sky And answer . . . when you ask it "why?" The moon is blue and dreaming. Mushroom teacups sail in stardust withered laurels snap in dustwhirls tethered horsemen roam the skyways soldiered remnants hiss through brushwoods All is soon made clear.

 

 

 

 

Blind old seer, wizard, holy prophet

stumbling over rocky hillocks

toward the sun

beseeches, sings, ululates

opening passage, veils, gates

free to breathe, drink, be absorbed

 

 

 

London Bridge is burning, burning

The towers are struck and fallen down

With time and tide a'turning

What was lost may still be found

In a world of lads and lasses

Hale and strong, brave and true

Joined in singing,

Raise our glasses

And do as we must do

 

 

 

Immolation

 

 

Red Dragon glorious

Rising to flame

Cleansed of tumbling towers,

poisonous pits,

no refuge

Caustic breath invigorates

Hard smoke billows out challenge

Burning gloriously

ember threads

seer's memory

 

 

 

Empire

 

 

Standing askew as the inexorable boot commands

squeezing out gems, polished and pure.

Paid in bread and circuses.

Bathed in raw entitlement

dreaming of ravaging, raping at will

drinking bright blood doped with

ecstatic thrill

casting lot that promised reward

be assured.

Cold, this world.

Shadow sans Sun.

Listless lapping at sparkling carbonation.

Sinking below matter and form

into terror stories;

taking warmth from smoldering coals.

As tomorrow continues today

your dissolving heart

dispersing pearls of wisdom.

 

 

 

 

With a word, the stranger gives a hand

An image stronger than the sound

Water falls upon the land

A smile peeks out from a frown

An eclipse returns dark to noon

As men's minds walk upon the Moon

 

 

 

Prologue

 

 

Sun and Moon embrace

as one

for brief eternity

all mystery within

 

Black and White

create gradation

radiate kinetic energy

We can achieve

believe, begin, begin, begin

 

Gardeners, planting flowers,

planting food,

planting souls in

nurturing soil

 

Healers

perceiving wounds

to be sewn

relieving loneliness

revealing pain

held in, denied

twisting ardent toil

 

Teachers

admiring their wards

finding with them

questions, keys and doors;

realizing history is only destiny

when explorations cease;

invitations from space and time

come complete

with choices

 

A choir of voices

from softest spark

to fervent blaze

Troops of effervescent players

Symphonies,

drums at dawn

Inspiration and instruction

carried forth through song and stage

vibrant murals painting onward age to age

Taking up the challenge of the tale

that twists, turns, meanders

providing kaleidoscopic opportunity

ever to begin again

 

 

 

 

ECLIPSE SCRYING

 

 

Where’s the fun

in hiding in the eye

of the hurricane?

I want to be bodysurfing

the storm,

madly dancing in the rain,

cast off from restrictive form …

I want to taste sweet grapes

break crisply;

Embark on a journey of ecstasy

to be all I have

thought to be;

yet safely reside

in a place deep inside

away from the prying norm.

I want romance in the sense of

sensation inviting and free.

I want a chance to believe in magic.

And I want what I want to be

crazily in love with me.

 

 

 

Accept (I am as I am)

and flow

 

 

silvery sediment

Grand glowing Sun

eclipse on the river.

Caressed by satin water

hot and cold

element controlled, ever free.

River journeys

more sensual than air

more loquacious that Earth

more secure than fire

We can discover,

transmute along the river

never noticing how everything

has changed.

River run true rumination

murky, long flirtation with mysteries

we are born to yearn for.

Consummation may be our last reward.

When none (not even I) observe —

that’s always when it happens.

Feel safe, alone or in good

company. The river loves

in her own fashion.

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

Purposeless circumstance

wears and weakens

eclipse’s focus

eve of Hekate

Stars’ Crossing

*

*

Crossed roads, slowly swaying

entrance beads from day to night.

Slip in between to become

for that instant of eternity

dancing gypsy calling to

Moon, to storytelling stars.

Embrace that mystery, train tracking

adventure.  Breathe forgotten fields,

lush or shriveled, dependent on water

and feed.  Let go of all but one brave

hand solidly grasped to the doorway.

Let go; let fingers fall reaching.

*

*

*

*

Second Star to the Right

 *

*

Traveling beyond Persephone’s garden

on the etheric threshold

‘tween mortality and death.

Taking an oblique path at the crossroads

onto an accessway

along the axis of bliss.

It’s not a road on which

the dramas fade.

It’s not about a numbing block

to pain.

Drama unfolds —

my chemistry responds exquisitely.

Touch is just touch;

sensation translates information.

All the appointed tasks,

routine errands of the everyday,

little pauses along the bliss path,

allow me to breathe the scent

of endless possibilities,

as path and consciousness expand

blissfully aware.

*

*

*

*

Liminal Spaces

 *

*

Twilight, the wee hours,

the dark of the moon,

liminal spaces,

places where magic dwells,

crossroads, crises, cusps.

*

There is static on the radio.

A song

my voice was singing,

rhythm of sound

takes flight to surround me,

a comforter of down

to ease my soul.

*

I’ve been trying to define a taste,

a sense of bittersweet and salt.

I’ve been trying to find a trace

a footprint in the desert,

a sight, a scent,

a memory.

I’ve been trying to discern a trace of me,

a piece to fit the puzzle,

my contribution to the grand design.

Seeking in shadows,

the space between

myth and matter,

those places words

cannot define.

On those insubstantial plains

of myst and awe,

the stuff of dreams,

threshold of wonder,

creation is spawned.

 *

*

*

*

Crossing the Threshold

*

*

At the crossroads at midnight

My lady did swear

That she must be alone

To face up to her demons

*

“Please understand that I must

be aware of just who I am

and where I’ve come from.”

*

I sat by the bridge

as she set forth her tools,

her sorcerer lore, her alchemic runes

So she’d know who to honor, to break

and to blame

What she’d been made for,

her journey, her truth.

 *

At the crossroads, past midnight,

just before dawn

My lady thrice nodded and

stamped out her flames.

She beckoned I join her out on the meadow

to kiss and rejoice

and reveal our true names.

*

*

*

*

Cross Purpose

 *

*

At hours’ crossroads, Reason drowns

in rage, scathe,

irradiated rain, treasonous air.

Weary of care, of punishing,

bottomless anger, of sobbing men

robbed of their right to give birth.

Wrested from Mama’s warmth, from

the cave, to play brave.

And it’s ladies’ choice as you squirm

in fool’s corner.

Such a chore — kissing at this

and that for a chance to score

the shame, the blame from stuck-out

tongues, the bloody laughter.

“I could bite off that little thing — make

you squat to pee.”

Wired to fight, at any cost,

because, of course, the Cross proclaims

“We’re right.  They are inherently wrong.”

“Those below must be taught to obey

our superior tools, to be broken,

that we may ride.”

Against our better fate, sad race divides

along strict lines, by difference

nature devised to spawn us strong.

 *

*

*

*

Alchemy

*

*

Simple acceptance.

The dancer with the dance

entering pre-dawn mystery.

Quiet interval, enchanting music.

Undulating reverie.

Alone in Hekate’s garden,

breathing in memory

of jasmine and spice.

Weary roads traveled

crossroad to crossroad;

the journey continues.

Weary days have found sustenance

in secreted hovels, dimestore romance.

Convoluted talk, empty gestures,

soul-less ritual

take up the stitches of time.

Some brave midnight,

if I learn my lessons well,

I will eat the fruits of Hekate’s garden,

dancing in piquant reverie,

leaving my tears and anguish

along the windswept trail.

Ebullient music

dances me

as the Goddess kisses

my tearstains into

gold.

Degree of my natal Hekate —
a liminal year for the dweller
on the threshold.
The search is for clarity,
expanding borders, introducing
elasticity as integral character.
To see, to feel, to merge and undulate
through; to discover, uncover, swim
in the glory of original grace,
ecstatic beauty.
To see, to feel, to breathe in
all exquisite luxury of prescience; to hold,
transmit as cellular energy.
To paint upon translucent canvas
subliminal etchings, private symbols 
generously revealed.
Sagacity gifted, re-gifted,
planted in potent fertility
of visions, of cantations.
The tinsel of starlight;
the subtle scent of conflagrated pain;
the feather touch of eternity.
I fall into velvet voice, enchanting form.
Move with the rhythm;
caressed within word and worlds’mysteries.

Eve of Hecate

As we approach the 13th of August

celebration of the Dark Moon Goddess

under shining Moonlight,

Faery Queen or fabled harlot

stirs potent night blooms, expelling myths of

what we cannot bear, cannot overcome

Feel in the electric falling starlight

Spells of renewal, of power to look back

upon our falterings, to find the seed now grown

yet changing still and ever, able,

willing, co-creating in the illuminated shadow

invoking the peace of dissolving twilight

of midnight's hopeful resurrection

of the hinting flame that lightens before the dawn

take peace into each breath, each incantation

from the strength to align impeccably

with your deepest truth

The transition to the transformation of death is a different kind of birth. Hecate would understand, the Goddess of birth and death and the spaces between, thresholds, doorways, crossroads, limbo. Goddess Hecate, I understand that I am in your realm for this duration, for this direction in which you are moving my consciousness. Bless me, Goddess. Give me your strength of purpose and will, serenity within the maelstrom. The future is one moment at a time. The time is always now. Who I am to become will amaze me, I’m sure.

Hekate Is My Cellar Door

I am in awe

I am prostrate in acceptance

of such power as you bestow to me

by incultation of your love

Dynamism

resounds in every fiber

I breathe you in

without resistance

My exhalation

is the stuff of bliss

Tell your sisters

to breathe with me.

I have been working with an inner image of Hecate, the underworld, ancient, self-empowered goddess of birth/death/life. As I am understanding, her lesson is about becoming one's true self, unafraid of social appropriation because not in need of permission to totally embrace one's own magick. To begin to find this inner core (unless, I suppose, one is lucky enough to have never lost it), one needs to go through, truly feel and accept, all the pain and miseries of one's life, to learn that these are not what life is about, not punishments, though sometimes warnings, but just an interpretation of what is. A very long time ago, on a cold and windy winter night, a friend told me: open up to the cold and feel it, don't resist -- it is really warm. On those nights when I remember and try it, it really is.

Hekate's Child

Child of Hekate,
sweetness and light?
Where is the mark
of your entombment?
Buried prematurely,
to strive for growth
in dark enclosure
striving for a breath
of the pompously negligent
Sun,
of the blushing Moon
of the squabbling sons and daughters,
of daylight's pleasures.
Striving, tenderly
twisting around corners
aching for an unknown touch.

"Tell me, sir, then, how's it going now?"
Looking up narrowly from a tepid meal,
all at once remembering
playfellows on the schoolyard
running, out of breath,
filled with pride
a jolly good game.
Always someone begging
my attention,
but it wasn't really me,
just a story to steam off
or a butt to joke on.
All the silly give and take;
only time is taken
and that in big hungry chunks
of no tomorrows.

One long day
now the part all groggy
waking from fevered napping.
It wasn't supposed to be a tomb
nestled in Transylvanian bloodlines.
It was meant to be a child's cot,
freshly laundered cotton lace.
But the rats got in,
once the cats had been slaughtered.

Slowly wakening
I strive again to find my footing.
Learning to walk
was never as easyas forgetting to fly.

Caught up in my Hecate role,
I feel the power of my soul.
Rain and wind and ice and snow
I feel you all from here below,
and revel in elemental energy.
I am the wind, the seas, the fire
I am all will and all desire.
It is me you love, and me you hate —
I am the master of your fate.
Yet I am hidden from all sight,
beyond the reach or need of light.
I have found my peace,
my place, my voice.
Take heed, O’ mortal,
create your choice.
Create it every day.