in the free world

Everywhere, signs
Everywhere, sadness rippling,
funereal blues,
ever slower, ebbing
connection, ebbing time.
Everywhere, shrinking, dying.
Everywhere deplete, engulfed
by agony, bleeding out.
Can you, will you, sing into
endless night a story
of survival
of happy children in concert
with verdant Earth?
In the free world
I don’t listen to the color of the bluesman’s skin.
I infuse the power of music.
I am, my world is, music, not just while it’s playing.
Ordered vibrations cosset me, hold like a
heart-bound twin.
Names, sad biographies, personalities
grand or subdued, but delusions.
Substitute equivalent qualities, commands that
define identity.  Told how to hear
or say in the way ideations,
profound or silly, are spread; day by
dreaded day. 
Sound waves from will, music imbues momentum,
interweaves with
who we become
and overcome.


curiouser and curiouser

Questions can be so comforting.
Anything can be supposed as
simple what ifs.
Moving through the world
with blinders and coded boundaries,
not seeing what we see,
but what we have told ourselves
or been told so long
questioning never occurs
We must question our metaphors,
our underlying principles,
our shared or unshared perceptions,
in ever more precise attempts
to cover the distance. 
But who has the time for that?
Long walks that suddenly awaken questioning:
“Where am I going?
Who is this “me”
that has a destiny
or merely flits along prevailing wind?”
It’s that question we need to explore,
experiments that intrigue us,
that essential project calling for our attentive exercise,
work to improve our lives that feels real,
that gives us shining dreams, appreciation
for who we can be
realizing history is only destiny
when explorations cease;
invitations from space and time
come complete
with choices
Do you get what we’re all missing?
We could be questioning and listening.
Giving credence to each other’s dreams

Fire This Time

It's fire this time --
dry, burning Earth
Winds of Hell too strong,
too cruel.
Driving frenzy evacuates
creates ever greater desperation,
apocalyptic grief.
Unkind skies, acrid exhaust of terror.
No end in sight --
yet another Endtime to survive.
As if a living planet can protest
human cruelty, stupidity, insanity,
with Her weapons of wind, fire,
pestilence, ever deadlier warning.


I feel like I’m running out of me.
How does that feel?
Not only exhausted and
caught in random memory,
insubstantial as distant dreams.
He said:  “Not a crutch, but a shoulder.”
Spoke to me as I sat alone
pondering sacred surrender.
So imbued in self-responsibility,
in making do, disowning desire for more.
So scarred/scared feeling a burden that
none will bear.
Crutches can’t be trusted.
Any outside aid so easily denied or
demanding too high a cost.
Yet shoulder to shoulder, if shoulder we find
can be the essence of life
as a gift beyond price.

Moon Month reflections

We shape ourselves, chiseled
from inherent potential
with the cutting edge
of life.
I too have stories
unbelievable as fiction
creeping through dream imagery
holding dripping red candles
broken bits of mirror
tiny rips in red, red fabric
I cannot breathe this story
I cannot hold a heartbeat
or a cogent thought
or pulse to a level
Beaten into rubble
crazed in simple sunlit
afternoon as if a moon
were racing in
stolen arteries
We all have known this story
I feel the movement
pain and resolution
caught in the pattern
released in the dance

Earth tones

I am not blind to color.
I have never seen a black human,
nor a white.
People appear in various shades of
browns and reds.
Why do we not thus perceive —
Earth’s fertile richness in our skins: browns and reds?
How did we come to  need to pretend cold
simplicity of colorless You and Me?
Black + White — not natural life but
pre-judged lines, static and deadening.

questions for our billions’ dreams

Is it a blankness,
a lack, an inability?
How do functioning people
not feel the pain, the shame,
the horror at insanity that engulfs,
destroys hope for noble stories,
soul destiny, journey of humanity?
How do we so self-injure, inure to
stench of rotting murder?
If some one, sage or fool, could explain,
had that overview, that knowledge, how
could such abhorrent consciousness
respond?Where is the confessional, the
congregation of outpouring faith,
caring community, self-help group,
spirit cell to tell our sorrow, our
abreactive truths, release inheld
suffering, escape delusive silence,
find each other to unite
as common strength, open a conduit
to create a kind and vital people
within to honorably live?

into the change

May I find the Wisdom
to accept what I can’t change,
change what I can’t accept,
get over my damn self
because I am more than my memories,
lost in eternity, but not forever.
I am unwinding from silken binds
so soft it’s taken all this time
to feel their pull.
Sublimely full of wretching
bullshit, ready to relinquish
expectations, admit they always
fail.  Sever ties to tribulations,
succor of revelations,
just nourish from what comes,
unfetter adaptation.

caught a rise

Anger is a response to pain.
Sometimes that pain is about
deflecting shame of embarrassment.
Sometimes that pain is about
long festering wounds that never scab over,
maybe quiet for a time,
then that new wrong reminds you,
exhumes intensity.
Sometimes it’s here and now
cutting, searing, concussing, contusing,
abusing, denying you as human, or
demanding tribute you can’t afford.
Brandish that angry sword to express,
transmute what you can no longer
endure as pain.
Anger can be a burden, but also
an inspiration to discover succor
and possible solutions to move toward,
to mitigate your pain.

project ions

Stories, their imprints
specific images, phrases,
sewn into psychic dna.
Enjoy communion, community,
deep companionship,
the stuff of dreams or drugs.
Stories told in growing friendship,
or on a screen, printed page or overheard
evoked by a word, a scent, a song,
a sense of longing for.