muted

muted
It’s a picturesque New England Winter scene
out there; and in here, with the cat curled
asleep on my lap.
I write by light of BBC News (muted),
when the tv gets bright enough to see
me making green pen streaks on the
white blank page.
I ignore the stories of raging discontent,
dis-association of societies,
a seeming mad panic.
It is a dark and quiet Winter night,
unfit for battle, or bitter dreaming.
1/16/22

  Patrilineal

Patrilineal
My father died when he was younger than I am now.
My younger brother, who was a father, is also gone
from our lives.  How do I reminisce, make them real
again in my mind?
People who were tall and strong to a younger me;
people I could count on to keep their word, honor
responsibilities.  Able to unbend into happy
foolishness, extend stories to take me where I
would not have known to be.
But that’s all about me.  Can I see them each as
men of their own?
My dad as a young man was dashing, convivial
in company, serious about the task at hand, a
well-reasoned thinker with a facility for speaking
with passion.  He had a buoyancy, a charm.
He would, with good humor, relate how when he
was dating my mom, my grandmother did not approve.
She suggested my mom cook for him, a job she knew
my future mother could not successfully do.
“The burgers were burnt.  Who noticed?” he would
quip, love shining in his sure blue eyes.
The Navy tales, where he won World War II in the
South Pacific, while youngest on the ship – like
when on leave, though quite sick, he went out drinking
with his pals, and would ever insist he was cured by
the alcohol.
On a happy whim he would whistle or play jaunty
tunes on his harmonica.
He loved to argue as an exercise in logic, often
espoused less popular views.
Unconvinced by religion, he would suggest our
Universe might exist on the back of a giant fish.
(His father’s family founded a church in Europe and
again when they emigrated to the USA, that
preached a radical Hellfire Christianity.)
He grew up poor and abused, never used as an
excuse, but as impetus to do well.
And what of little brother, born into my life
when I was so young; gone so long before I’m
done discovering who he was.  A precious
blue-eyed son, eager to engage, to play, to join
in games.  Fascinated by financial math,
collecting coins.  Learning his world working for
pay from an early age.  Growing tall and strong,
bright and athletically inclined, a golden child he
seemed in those early years, blessed with lifelong
friends to be.
Later years he appeared to live within a quiet
wisdom, extruded from confusions, fears, disease,
life’s exigencies, in the years between.   tbc
* *  *  *  *
Two old men in Heaven, at ease under the World Tree,
share musings of philosophy, their darkest nights,
coldest days.  Was Nietzsche right?
Did life amaze us with frightful beauty?
Did we survive precious trials to reap rewards, treasure
we could never find without misfortune as clever guide
inspiring new strategies to form?
Deafening nightmares, desperate storms,
brave rainbows, peaceful dawns.
Two old men, weathered, withered, wise.
Listen, be risen, by the gentle smiles we remember
in their envisioned eyes.

Epiphany ’22

Epiphany ’22
*
*
I am not nice.
I don’t believe in a special
sacredness of human life.
I do believe it stupid and insane
to regularly kill each other, be
our own worst enemy.
That’s why we need government —
rule of law.
But, just enough governance to
keep us from harming our fellows,
and planet, as well as we can.

merry season

Hail the merry Season!
    A boost for love & joy
time to shout out loud, ablaze
          A very merry holiday
        to each and all I say!
Soaring day, far into greater space,
where kindly constellations
tell stories of joy, sparkling grace.
Miraculous day to carry like inspiring song,
melodies layered through ages.
Welcoming evening lights,
cozy homes, familiar rites,
recall of feasts, merry meets, gift of returning friends
evoke deep breath of peace, belonging, generous amends.
Raise high the revelry.
Ascend into muse-ways, space for effulgent play,
as if myths foretell our lives.
Goddess of Night
from celestial firepit
feeds dreamers
the potency of stars’
cosmic light.
Far, in green glade mists
where sacred hymns are born,
primordial chthonic gods commingle,
frolic with merry sprites conjured.
Winter nights can exude that vibrant beauty,
so poignant, wild and overwhelming.
Cold breath waking primal life.
Gazing into the stars to welcome
the clear, icy surrounding of spirit.
Winter blessed to inspire us beyond
mundane measure.
The essence of who we are —
living world dependent on
a star for light and warmth, for energy.
Ceremonies carry myth to shape awareness.
Beauty’s sacred well
expands metaphoric cells with
water of bliss and contemplation.
Sacred vessels aching to be filled,
dip in with grace, good will, drink deeply,
copious draughts of ecstasy.
This is not belief or even knowing.
This is breath of awe in motion.
Rare and wonderful, the essence of beauty,
it is in our vital core to listen. 
The more we listen, awe, compassionate wisdom takes hold,
we become attuned.  We become the voice of welcome,
of familiar kind regard.
Cherished, merry soul
dancing the golden mountain trail,
reveling in freezing rain and snow,
tasting the bite without bitterness…
If only we could reach into
legendary epiphany,
reach out in simple empathy.
If only we could simply be
merry,
lost in beauty and laughter,
like joyful fire sprites dancing warmth
into this Winter’s night.
Coalescence of blessings —
Smell virgin snow, spice and roast,
pine laced fire.
Meet make-believe elves to tell
secret desires.
Delegation of peace, these moments
gifted with meaning,
lighthearted believing,
merry ritual.
The innocent joy of uncomplicated affection,
of passionate beatific dance to a sacred drum.
The horizon shifts through daily duties and nightly prayers.
We take what we can. We give
dear wishes for a future where convivial peace abides

Seeker’s Flame

Candles burn within dark halls.
Sparks of wisdom engrave walls.
Vision churned from flame enthralls.
Doorway into sacred revelation — severe, profound,
grabs from beneath the conscious realm.
 
Movable fire for warmth and vision.
Flame as friend, staunch companion of
journeyers.
 
Phoenix Fire fills open hearts.
Potent flame to flow with natural progression,
adapt to align with intention, to succor, exalt,
to ignite.
Perpetually cast toward bliss,
dance to the music of passion.
Avenge the angst of life’s attractions.
Get caught up in the lava flow,
burning to spend and leap without
resistance.
Feed on what feeds your blossoming,
infinite bliss,
the whole of the real.
  
Let your mind drift and wander.
Take a leisurely stroll through
what feels good, right, beautiful…
 
To wander clothed for travel, no map, destination;
direction found in whim or instant’s serendipity.
A wild road calls, beyond this threshold.
Arms wide into flight
above foam and sea,
absorbed by eternity.
Now escapes,
running into future skyscapes,
closer than this moment
as it slips
into one more.
 
Age, a deep reflective pond,
translates all the places of possibility —
 
 
Twin jugglers set our stage.
Nature and nurture combine,
entwine with trails inside.
Take up the tale, my star lit dear,
of how we now have wandered here.
Now’s waiting; don’t be late.
 
Epic journeys cycle into each successive now.
We wander trails of potent destiny,
telling the tale,
bodysurfing the storm,
madly dancing in the rain,
cast off from restrictive form …
to taste sweet grapes
break crisply;
embark on a journey of ecstasy
to be all, every
thought to be,
enticement to unfurl forgotten wings
to join the flight, the call
into exultation.
 
A journey of a thousand destinies
written deep within your soul;
traveling daily through all the possibilities,
which are the parts that make you whole?
 
Forward from here.
    Hope emanates, flows into form —
hope for noble stories,
soul destiny of humanity.
 
    Another day dawns and lingers.
    We journey on.

Enjoy the Ride

 
Enjoy the Ride
(for Kevin)
 
 
Twin jugglers set our stage.
Nature and nurture combine,
entwine with trails inside,
thus structuring our fate.
 
Take up the tale, my star lit dear,
of how we now have wandered here.
Now’s waiting; don’t be late.
 
 
Epic journeys cycle into each successive now.
 
 
Wandering song, waft and wave.
Rise aloft, fall to softened tone.
Encode the call we each aspire to
hear,
become entranced with
through fear, romance, death,
enhancement to repair, to own
the tune we play.
 
 
Sound waves, calls with urgent eloquence,
soothes night fears with lullaby,
comradely cheer.
Warrior song —
carried through
long brave trails, travailed years —
harbor of our power.
 
 
Sorcery speaks, entangles.
Stars and hearts emerge.
Wooden ships voyage eternal sea —
journey of ages spiraling outward, free.
Easy found trades, winds recycle seeds.
Back to the gardens of pagan lore —
earth, air, sun, and transforming water.
We wander days of potent destiny,
deep mystic incantation spins the tale,
of a possible age in birth.
Love song ‘tween man
and Earth.
 
 
Phoenix Fire strength fills open hearts.
Incanted flame implores spirit world to succor, exalt
He who hath endured tribulation, but never succumbed,
perpetually cast stronger toward powerful
consciousness.
Elements always in flux,
adaptable, to align with intention.
Pure essence to ignite:
Saddened, enraged, radiant,
tempered to exquisite artistry
to flow with the forces
of nature
 
delicately balanced
between what could be
and what we will allow.
 
Let your mind drift and wander.
Take a leisurely stroll through
what feels good, right, beautiful…
engage?

working it out

we, escaping senseless brutality in mindless drift,
may move through the world equipped with
blinders and coded boundaries, not seeing
what we see, but what we have told ourselves,
been told, believed so long, more cogent thought 
is never sought.
.
we, caught in self-defining dramas, regrets,
desperate pain,
recoil from compassionate connection that
would be our one true hope for humane
community of mutual repair, future reborn.
.
we cry, toil onto silent pillows or outward
to The Universe of our loneliness, then shun those
we cross off as not who we want to be.
we decry inhumanity writ large or small seen
on our screens or streets or halls, but softly
or to agree
— and just what is humanity?
 

Late August

Late  August yearns for Fall.
Orange gold dreams carry like song on rustling breeze.
Stories not quite heard but deeply
remembered hold tight, disturb
today’s warm pleasure with a slow excitement.
Dear old friend, abiding connection
to Earth’s magic,
safely ecstatic within this familial whirlwind,
this life defined by change.  Who am I  but foreground
actor on this recursive stage, poet and sage —
but only as my role in this world play.
Wandering mindscapes, withering days,
darkness in ascendance.  Summer releases its musk to dissipate
in long evening sky.
Every day deserves its acknowledging ritual,
notes in a chain that love us, random beings,
to meaning.

Deep Summer Vision

I believe that all the lonely people
should get together and end loneliness
in our lifetime
I believe in making Peace The issue
I believe we are all part of a plan of our
own forming
I believe people want to get along up
to the point when they want to fight and
expend pent up rage
I believe people project on our opponents what
we perceive as our horrific sins
I believe there is ultimately
nothing to win
)
knowing is knowing that knowledge is infinite and diverse
believing is believing all possibilities worthy of discussion
Meaning making makes meaning with bright intersecting strands
Doing, doing is an outgrowth of knowing, believing, making meaning
Repurpose our energy, efforts unraveled
fighting ourselves over uncertain destiny;
emerge to vibrancy in the creation, the industry,
to make this place our world where we all
enjoy peace.
)
Beautiful dreaming
lavender and pixie wings descend,
wisp and bow, open that flimsy veil
of weary distraction.
Here Now Ever an instant of bliss and woe.
Songs of weep and wind flutter, brief embrace.
And I sing, ecstatic scream, whirl of always dance,
sinking, diving, for the thrill of emergence.
All those words I
was so intent on
memorizing. Lost, like the
wind and the love song,
the barren sand, lonely
inspiration.
All those songs, sad or
uproarious, orchestration
to impulse forward.
Jazz for imagination;
rock for consolation; blues
for mornings’ and nights’
endless grind.
Where is that kind word
to carry like deep warming balm?
Where is the strengthening psalm,
the wisdom spell?
If you knew, would you tell?
No, you would already be gone.

trans

Trans
 
 
You are not a woman in a man’s body/ a man
in a woman’s body.
You are you in your body
And
your interests and desires are not what you’ve
been taught
to want.
What do you want?
In tense deep night conversations
with inheld voicing,
what do you say?
Do you believe
“I was born wrong.”?
try to deceive with longing fantasies
of how life might be derived from choice,
free of man made realities?
“Heal me.” you implore of bare air.
“Teach me not to care, or to disappear.”
This world has become so small.
Barely room to breathe soul exhaust.
Survival’s not worth the cost of your
one true life.
Double bind.
Once there were heroes, transcending self
definition to live one true moment (however long).
Transcend myths; claim your interests and desires
if only for a moment,
be alive,
strong with desire
without feeling wrong (unless what you want is
self-flagellation).
What does the you that’s true want?
Body, mind, soul?