from a fool's journal

brought to you by

hOLy CHaoS ~ Emerging Visions #17 ~ April 1

http://emergingvisions.blogspot.com/2010_04_01_archive.html

Why suffer fools at all? They can certainly suffer just fine for themselves.

A Fool I've been

walking behind visions

cringing from derision

seeking solace from a merry Moon

too soon gone old

Laughing back on follies

sticking pins in pain -- jolly?

Morose, cold ...

harridan crone

Have my wanderings sown

no happy harvest, raised no cozy home?

Snuggling into punishing remorse

"You knew you should have run a better course!"

"You know you deserve to be alone."

Is that true? Am I the Fool careening

down the precipice,

broken, no meaning;

is this my hapless fate?

Or self-hate insisting I mistake

a journey for a goal?

A Fool can be a cherished, merry soul

dancing the golden mountain trail

reveling in freezing rain and snow

tasting the bite without bitterness

This I know

Fairy Tale

A memory of haunting nostalgia

I cannot not touch it, taste it, hold it, know it, breathe it

Still it piques me at the corner of my eye, below perception.

The words escape me.

One must be very careful of words.

They hold great power: mystic and legal and personal.

Words can weave a whole world, a whirl of worlds, a wild wind of words

They can create reality for those who get caught up in them.

The right word at the right time can catalyze miracles.

The right word at the wrong time can destroy the eternal.

How might I find the words to capture my dream, my destiny?

Enter the Fool upon the Precipice, prattling ditties of the daily airwaves.

She is whirling blithely, eyes upon a distant rainbow, breathing in clouds

Breathing out daisies and daffodils and a brilliance of pansies.

She is dancing to her own symphony, entranced in her deepest essence.

Without thought, without prayer, without a government authorized identity

There are no guarantees, no happy ending.

There is a tale I try to tell.

Its point escapes me, withering into fairydust.

I breathe in the poisoned air, drink the poisoned water, eat the poisoned food

Like a desperately swimming fish in a polluted bowl, like a creature of the streets eating garbage,

Like a child.

The pattern is corrupted, but I follow it as best I can.

I have been told that if I can properly put the pieces in place

All will be revealed; all will be peace and beauty and love.

The pieces of my foolish shattered heart.

Calling Card

I am metamorphing art

a brain in a biological bottle.

What does that even mean?

I am but a latter day fool,

a futile Lancelot sans his Art or Guin.

If you let me in, if I satisfy some gaping

pinhole in your aimless curiosity,

if my foraging philosophy intrigues

your rambling wit, if we sit to laugh and cry

over brie and wine, you will see.

Etherized

Will o' the wisp wending a land of dreams

Daisies, bright blooming weeds,

mellifluous, grand.

Whoosh! Genie arms wide into flight

above foam and sea.

Beyond fear,

absorbed by awareness -- sheer horizon

confined by no mind, eyes

or reason.

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 portraits, glowing strands

of wire and prismic hues,

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.

High Art

A chimera of Mage and Fool

Image of watery fire

a’flow and standing resolute

Creation of patient desire

Tell me a tale of intricate pleasure

Knit me a touchstone against any weather

Join me in illusive

smoke, wine and song

Catch me in delusion; but don't imply I'm wrong

Let me breathe grand fantasy

past grasping reality

spin out sunbeams from decay of dross

sweetly decorate my cross

Waylaid reason is no loss

because I have reason to see

the world I create it to be

resurrection

"Jesus wept and died"

I always wondered what that meant.

Is it an admonition to us to do the same?

Like, "Life sucks, and then you die"?

Or, if Jesus died for our sins,

did he first weep for our sins --

a holy pity party embracing us all?

So, our sins have been wept for, died for;

we carry the blood and tears of the Lamb

on our souls.

Perhaps that would be best blessed, if we

rejoiced and laughed and hugged and forgave

and generally enjoyed the feast of life

to balance the weeping and dying and love.

For joy balances weeping;

life balances death;

and love, of course,

is the only balance to love.

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 you find daring to share peace of mind in kindness less than Divine

Holy Weak

Locked in a keyhole

a romance gone AWOL,

a sad bitter song badly sung.

Mad voices lie to our young,

encrypt failure as beggar’s choice.

Born to be property, Innocent of means to judge,

to please

a man of pride, complete his beautiful

bride, be his family retreat from

right and wrong.

. . .

Jesus, before His Destiny

removed Him from common ribaldry,

banter and shoving that score for a man,

secure his order among fellow men,

Jesus loved the children even then.

He dared to imagine a gentle love, free

from bullies’ shaming, from easy blaming,

from traumatic scars of social war.

He believed in us, human kin, above

judgmental sin.

Fatherly humor, the way fathers love

their children, with the pride of

ownership and the slave master’s

secret fear,

God disciplines His Heir.

Easter

Gentle rosy raindrops of a mellow morning,

Children make the day – it's Spring.

I thought of Christ in Church this morning,

nailed to His cross in long ago Jerusalem,

arising to springtime, the earth's reawakening.

It's a time for children and games of childhood,

a time for playing with love,

secret smiles and daisy chains.

It's a time for the simple and natural

A time for anointing the soul in peace

after the ravages of winter.

A time for gentle things

like newborn kittens

and flowerbuds after the rain.

I am slowly relearning the healing strength of love,

Slowly relearning the simple pleasures of humanity.

Life is sweet, poignant,

a drifting melody.

At the Table

You want your fond place at the table

You want to be a fellow jolly good "so say we all."

I tell you, the table is vastly laden with

layers of little memories, which

no two see the same.

We arrive at the feast

hungry for virtue, for love, for

forgiveness of our wanton ways;

willing to be merry, to partake of

ritual, merging through

transubstantiation.

Constellations, moving, shifting,

making waves in our collective

consciousness, appear to reveal

sparkling impulses of truth.

On that warm, wet evening

taking in the sweet, evocative air,

embracing untranslated joy,

something catches in our throats.

The song we need so desperately

to share can only emerge in shards.

The pain, sucked in with our breath,

becomes one with the bread and wine.

This is the blood, the body,

marinated in salty tears, preserving

what has not yet found

appropriate release.

Again, and yet again

meeting, to take sustenance.

Hungry battle wounds

courageously opening,

to imbibe the healing

of grace.

faith healers

Faith Healers

No doubt, excellent penance must be paid.

Life is debt.

Always more to need pulls forward

out of dusty cracked ground to quiet thirst.

We are not last, or first, nor most grieved,

most grievous.

Another litter along this trail of fools.

As if ever more stringent rules,

admonitions of flame and infamy,

could slake or set us free.

Comic cosmic tragedy, but for descendants

begrudged, pre-judged, caught up pre-aware

in dismal prophecy catechized by

bumbling attendants.

Future’s fettered face: shake faith in

reckless disregard for creation.

March 29, 2013

pray for violence

Pray for Violence

The God of Abraham

enjoys His Master tricks.

Calls Chosen men to violent

revenge against all fancied slights.

“They’re wicked – Smite!
Pillage their villages.

Rape their disgusting whores.

Make their acres yours in My sight,

in My glory. Give blood lust, My rightful

gory sacrifice. Pride is My reward

when your sons fight in My Name.

Pride can pay the price, replace shame.

I am no pansy, no prancing debutante

at Papa’s ball. I am no Mama’s man,

no Fate’s enthralled. I am the First, the

Prime, the All.”

Soldiers, persons of honor, heroes of

common cause, deserve our worship on the throne

of myth. No longer men or women alone, adrift,

seeking meaning, solace for their losses,

receivers for their gifts. Sins and virtues

washed in wars’ conflicting visions, no longer fit

collective debt. Don’t crimes against our mirrors

deserve refection? Does the command of worship

demand recursive lies, impossibility of true

repentance, vicious alibis, endless falling into

death?

March 24, 2013

anticipating Spring

Memories, they weave a silken web in silence

We talk of times past in gently measured tones,

sometimes bitter humor.

We watch a bird circling in the distance,

and build patterns in the clouds.

Last year I spied a mole burrowing in

the unmelted snow of early spring.

Today I tend to think of you

smiling as you did last night

when you first saw me after parting.

Spring Medley

Air clear as a free-running stream

tumbling over country rocks and minty greenery

Clear soft air of early spring

Breathing satsang, reeling eternity,

While running 'cross the straight-lined highway

-- shouting

"Hey sky, embrace me!" shouting

I embrace the air and call it Love.

I love you, love you, love you, love you

I

Form, Words, Action

I in motion

I in tumbling, stumbling, crazy image

kaleidoscope

over 'n' over

love you, love you, love you, love you

Capture the essence for an almost noninstant

Capture the image of groping, grabbing, grasping

gazing heartfelt on release, but

love you, love you, love you, love you

insane, insatiable

cannot touch release of

love you, love you, love you, love you

Smothering in the too pure air.

Hey, Springtime,

Got some time to be wasting

So I tracked a songbird

on a still bare treebranch

and joined it in song.

What wonder the woods bring

I can't contain it.

Thistle and briar weeds

Capture my imagination

Grow wild and tangly

All through my mind.

Spring is for being born;

Autumn for dying.

Spring is for being born

(or maybe sometimes Winter --

something has to take you through

those long cold months of snow and ice).

Spring is for being born;

Autumn for dying

(when the leaves change colors

and fall and blow

into the frost and first fall snow).

Spring is for being born;

Autumn for dying.

(Why do you weep for me, sister,

long heartfelt sobs of dismay?

Why do you weep as I drift off to sleep

for many and many a day?

Today I shall die so tonight I may fly

-- with the leaves I'll be scattered away.)

Spring is for being born;

Autumn for dying.

(But I only die today that I may be reborn

tomorrow, when the warm kiss of Spring

touches the earth,

bringing promise of joyous rebirth

and months of summer sun,

when leaves turn green again.)

Spring is for being born;

Autumn for dying.

Renewal

Faded jackolantern,

darkened eyes obscured;

blooming trees

branches swaying,

picking up the tempo

dancing 'n' jivin'

in merry celebration

of Spring.

Look at us flounce our skirts

rolling our hips

licking our lips

ready to rollick,

enticing pregnant play.

Let the goodtimes roll

on down the verdant hillside

winter's sorrows

spilling out like seed

cleansed free

singing in the

flowing rain

recombinant flowers and wildlife.

Stories hidden,

tangled and mired in

tired decades of dust and gloom

swept into light by chance,

unobscured in the gently falling rain,

taken up, given honoured place

singing now in the ritual chorus.

Timeless chanting,

calling in vibrant winds.

Moving, re- and un- engaging,

ever changing,

never wholly new.

When All Fails

And it’s always on to the next adventure.

Random leaves flicker roads of desolate

neglect

trod and cried

over, fallen quicksand depths demanding

flight

for survival.

Frozen wings, sudden sparkling cold

commanding

damp unforgiven. Bent below, tramps

expecting handouts,

bankers expecting deeds,

women expecting hollow forcomings.

There is no easy fantasy. Tales of fates and

magics

lie on quantum desperation, haunted nights.

Winter always lurks on Spring’s horizon.

Keep moving; keep life singing, gyrating for

warmth.

The road long saturated with evil, rise above.

Learn, grieve, abandon.

Envision a grander hope, shining spire

beckoning.

healing balm of Spring

washing winter sorrows

in hope of warm tomorrows

the flowering they bring

5 law plan

1) First, do no harm

2) Be honest in all your dealings

3) Learn to love yourself, and understand that we are all selves and interconnected

4) Promote the concept that what is good for each is good for all, and vice versa

5) Promote creativity, flexibility, authenticity, communication

thinking forward

St. Patty

You touched me with clear green eyes

Pulled my tumbled mind into

this moment.

Not karma, not destiny,

nothing like history connects our days.

A moment of clear vision

binds like divine embrace.

Live Long

Flexibility is key

to move with the wind,

blend into changing seasons,

to dance the tide with gleeful grace.

Able to arrange form to place,

freely embrace

or bend away.

and check out my post apocalyptic blog:

http://postapocalypse13.tumblr.com/