6/6/15

So You Say You Want a Revelation?

 

 

Disappointed mystic exile John,

eager to besiege his jailors

rendering unto Caesar

tales of woe and destruction

of Biblical proportion:

"The burning bush told me.  I swear it's true."

Beware the ides, the armies of Megiddo,

the smoke and mirrors,

the mushroom clouds

invading our memories.

"I send you these frantic missives,

Oh my Christian soldiers.

Do not stray from Yahweh.

Look what He has done to His

soul-begotten Son,

in a fit of divinity."

I believe Jesus made it his mission,

gave every effort and sacrifice,

to save his mortal family

from mad jealous wrath of Dad.

His words clear, actions legend.

So sad that sheep easily forget,

falling under the evil eye

of any would-be butcher

slavering to grow strong on

the currency of blood.

There are beasts, and Beasts

numbering in legions.

Days end, begin, end again.

Murdering souls in the Name

of the Redeemer.  Oh, the Rapture!

Any sane Judgment would leave us

drowning in bitter tears.

I am begging:

Open your eyes, minds, hearts.

Open and learn.

True revelation awaits in every leaf and vein,

in every newborn cry

revealing pain

is meant to be a message

of active compassion,

to nurture a future

kinder than the past.

 

 

 

 

Breaking bred

 

 

Ravenous,

born from boiling seas.

Holy Beast rampages, rises beneath

broken surface;

exhales snarling flame,

riotous burning blame,

wreaks tidal waves that never quench

roil of fire.

All our desires embroil, enslave

in thrall of poison spit.

We can't allow comfort, nor encourage

scored hearts to heal,

not while we steal your ire

to fatten rich nests.

Believe your cause excessively blessed.

Believe you are doing your best

to be as Creation demands.

Believe you are worthless

beyond condemnation

unless you are taking the stand

prescribed and admired.

If you aspire to anything higher

you must carry the brand

on your forehead or hand,

must be willing to kill

in the name of fealty,

to fulfill the prophecy.

to feed the Beast.

 

 

 

 

Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine.

Jesus cried, and somebody grinned -- don't whine.

Jesus smiled his love on the least,

scattered his manna that the lowly might feast.

All you remember is that slavering Beast;

so remind me why it’s vital to deny

those who promote a peace of mind

based on revering kindness above

Divine.

 

 

Pageantry

 

 

Could Christian Fundamentalism be the dread AntiChrist,

and greedy Wall Street his ravenous Beast?

Could the Second Coming be prides of young

claiming back the streets?

 

Could Prophecies feared and hoped

to bring Sinners to their knees

to lift innocents into just reward

by Blessed Hero's noble sword

avenging faithful meek --

 

Could that parade be before us,

just not the scene surmised,

preached to prove the righteous right?

 

Has the final fight foretold been taking form,

storm clouds positioned for hard rains to fall,

untidy time of transition whence soothsayers call,

alarm bells chime?

 

Is the end of this trial of dependence nigh?

Can we break the Jesus code, create, rewrite

Apocalypse as our own golden age, reign

of Peace?

 

 

 

 

What World Is This?

 

 

Not preordained, not programmed.

Ties that bound cut to slivers,

what will emerge?

No millennial beast slouches here.

Only speed of light delimits.

Earth’s bowl sky holds only air,

not certain destiny.

Perhaps, if we allow release from

baseless blindness

a state of grace may find us.

Independent of holy demons

or royal decree,

fate can be self-reliant.

Beyond grasp of power arrogated

to God or mortal master,

each well-examined self

is a force of nature.

 

From shadows shy wood nymph watches warily,

ready to bolt rather than chance being seen.

She knows her universe straddles change, craves balance.

Hubris claimed humans cry for trial by combat

sacred?  profane?   narrations between?

 

What world is this

in swaddling clothes

at the break of days?

 

 

 

Postnatal

 

 

So many unpleasant faces

ruin a beautiful view.

Angry reds instead of cool blues,

calm ease.

Too many bruises

scream to be free

of burden

of skin and blood.

Tribute to the Muses,

pleasing balm of misery,

that I be allowed

their resplendent disgrace.

 

child in crumpled corner silently sings

to hold tears, tongue, repent, appease.

Songs of laughing eyes a’float in kindness --

happy fantasy to pretend to reminisce.

 

Where does it start?

A life, a mind, a set of states of being?

Innocence, vulnerability, not having

practice of precepts that frame awareness.

Why she yells, unmasks her ugly face;

why he shakes and strikes and blubbers.

Contorted eyes, cheeks, mouth

loud to invoke terror.

 

Violation, violent broken boundaries;

monstrous, fearsome,

because grotesque beyond comfort.

So unthinkable

we call it myth, delusion.

Iconic target for hatred.

A twisted face to pin on evil tales, to

spit out sobbing poisons, paint in shades

concealing

lies that harden into revelations,

legends, the stuff of nightmares

and deflected shame.

 

Memory’s child, forced to hopeless obliviation long before

a chance for clarity, sense of agency,

for a self to determine.

Undermined.

A child wants the safety of hearth and tribe,

of happy fairytales, everyone well fed and

tucked to bed, caressed in love that hugs away

the slavering beast.

A child wants, a busy mother wants,

a charming serpent, cowering servant, honest merchant

wants. Voice of sympathy, soothing harmony,

innocent pleasure.

 

No room to complain.

You enjoy when offered reasonably clean and unspoiled

food to fill that screaming hole of hunger.

Irregular shelter where maybe you can sleep, escape

all the pain and wailing indignity.

 

Sing for your supper; patrons toss coins to amuse,

rapacious, their cultured appetites.

A darkened Church (candles saved for opulent ritual

-- none may steal this God’s fire), blood bond, sacrifice.

Taste of copper and iron.

We are of the Earth, Her mighty Sun, of

tides and moonbeams and molten seas.

Not love --

chemistry, explosions, immortal fire.

 

I have wandered, blundered forth as a leaf in the wind,

as a pebble scoured by erratic waves, as

a child of Man loosened from mortality.

If there are stories I could tell my mind

to feel safety in dreaming, to feel

a possibility of home,

I have yet to find them.

Still, I listen for a voice to believe, for a song

that might feel like hope,

or finality.

 

Shell-shocked from this war of all against all.

 

Live where you belong:  right here; right now.

 

Here’s to the weary.

Here’s to the fun.

Here’s to the berry that makes us all young.

Here’s to the rulers.

Here’s to the fools.

Here’s to the toilers and tellers of truths.

Here’s to the end of another decline.

Here’s to the best of our time.

 

 

 

 

46664

 

Caging the Beast

"call me after the Rapture" I

post on religious social network

sites.

Have you read Yeats' "Second Coming"?

After the prophecy

After the hard, hard rain

after the rainbow

Call me.  We should get together.

cross quarters

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.

 

 

 

 

Green Magic

 

 

Ancient prototypes etched into collective retina.

Vast vegetation, expansive cure for distressed

neural cells.

Casting outward.  Hope for connection

to sacred ground, profoundly real.

Reborn to forest,

nurtured in nativity.

Green, deep healing green.

 

Fear is a thrill.

Rush anticipation of danger.

Piquant romance with what might kill or maim

or carry dread.

Warnings fill imploding head; adrenalin syncopates heart.

Fear, a crossroad to start from,

then taunting groves to hide behind.

Fear can dazzle, delay, explain years of wasted time.

 

Any sufficiently

advanced efficiency of

chemistry, natural

technology, exchange of toxic breath for

benign symbiotic ecology.

(No college degree could assure

so lush a life.)

So sad that we only see what we expect.

Trained to tragedy, to forget the best

that could be manifest.

 

Sagacious find a quiet relaxed pace.

Days drift and wander.

Daring to explore pleasure, infinite awareness.

Leisurely share what feels genial, good, light.

Engage.

 

 

 

 

Make Peace The Issue

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.

Abundance

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 ()

layered.

()

()

()

()

 

 

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

()

()

Speciesism.

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,

symbiotic

processes ignored, misunderstood.

Focus expended on ephemeral

opinion, petty greeds and rivalries,

diatribes on evil and good.

Realities we have yet to account to,

acknowledge,

fall, collateral damage

to insolent bravado.

When will we ever let go,

rethink this mad master plan,

relinquish need to command?

 

()

()

()

()

 

 

Risen

()

()

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

 

()

()

 

()

()

Eco-Location

()

()

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

essence.

()

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.

()

()

()

()

in the beginning

Pre-Genesis

 

 

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,

analyzed

over millennia.

 

 

 

Genesis

 

 

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

explode,

riotous storms,

vivid electricity,

eternity singing in words

unfathomable.

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.

 

 

 

 

Be(gin)ing

 

 

Soft bliss of night.

Far drift of stars; open carless road.

Kicking up bits of stone and dust.

Saying:

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

PROLOGUE

 

 

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,

believe,

begin, begin, begin

 

Gardeners, planting vibrant fields,

planting food,

planting future flowering in

nurturing soil

 

Healers,

perceiving wounds

to be sewn,

relieving loneliness,

revealing pain denied,

held in; applying benevolent medicines

to salve twists of ardent toil

 

Teachers,

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

Symphonies,

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