I went there.
I liked it.
It felt like home
to this weary Crone,
to stop and stay.
Learning carefully, joyfully,
to weave clouds and rainbows
inside my open window.
Breathing Spring waft through
this enchanted room,
I dance myself stories and laugh.
Remember healing laughter?
Not the mean jokes, rough sneers,
prayers for disasters to save us.
Neighbors deride and betray us
— why would we stay if we had
Why get caught in
such a tragic trance?
Who did I think I would
How did I believe I was
the only one
not in on the game?
words without their soul.
Make noise to detract from
Over time we find, each alone:
We are disappearing from our lives.
soft evening breeze
past our horizon.
as you breathe,
as you move.
The You who watches
wants all yous
to feel good.
souls seeking lessons,
lives of schooling along moving paths,
do better with humility to understand
teach not from our ignorance.
Classes may demand belligerence,
or simply opening, molting, relinquishing.
Sink and emerge over millennia,
accreting tales found
in the sounding mist of the world sea.
Raucous bandying pours through
in beeps and bleats.
Radio frequency bops and beats,
helpless pleas, daring vows to applaud,
angry tragic market dreams, marching
orders in the poorest form — insidious
This whole pop pre-postapocalypse
stage play crackles and quakes, keeps
us hopping to its tunes.
What do we learn?
Isn’t there a story
(I vaguely see shimmer in lost memory)
of a people savaged by invisible disease.
We live complicated lives, have no time for
sickness, enemies we can’t see or fight
with technology, deadly weapons of
defense. It makes no sense to our
society, blinded by Midas intent, to
give credence to demand for cure,
to give resource from our wealth for
suffering we are sure does not exist.
Stealthy, the microbe universe encroaches,
silently strangles, suffocates, implodes.
Exponentially infests, makes itself
at home, redecorates our world as
No wealth left to protect, without hope,
or respect, we have succumbed.
Everywhere, sadness rippling,
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 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
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
Sound waves from will, music imbues momentum,
who we become
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
Do you get what we’re all missing?
We could be questioning and listening.
Giving credence to each other’s dreams
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.
We shape ourselves, chiseled
from inherent potential
with the cutting edge
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
We all have known this story
I feel the movement
pain and resolution
caught in the pattern
released in the dance
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.