Beltane 2021

Dreams long enshrined touch magic Piscean Moon
This day in May, cross-quarter fully blooms
Ecstatic dance, toward brightness cast our eyes
Into brave chance, Dame Future’s vast surprise
to merrily entice
 
Undulation trance of gypsy minstrel choir
so intense, our light bursts into fire
Divine delight invites inspired mirth
Renewed to life, we worship gifting Earth
Mother Earth, we praise through rites of flame
She gives our lives hearth and home and name
Mother world, our one true holy land
Time to kindly honor Her command

restoration

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
a chance?
Why get caught in
such a tragic trance?
Who did I think I would
become?
How did I believe I was
the only one
not in on the game?
Anti-communicate:  throw
words without their soul.
Make noise to detract from
making sense.
Over time we find, each alone:
We are disappearing from our lives.
Faintly flowered,
soft evening breeze
carries today
past our horizon.
Feel free
as you breathe,
as you move.
The You who watches
wants all yous
to feel good.

superlunar radiation

souls seeking lessons,
lives of schooling along moving paths,
do better with humility to understand
such studies
teach not from our ignorance.
Classes may demand belligerence,
breaking bounds,
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
mounting rage.
This whole pop pre-postapocalypse
stage play crackles and quakes, keeps
us hopping to its tunes.
What do we learn?

The Winners

 
 
 
 
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
its own.
No wealth left to protect, without hope,
or respect, we have succumbed.

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.

8/8/2020

Waning
 
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.
+_+_+_+_
+_+_+_+_
symbiosis
+_+_+_+_
+_+_+_+_
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
bleeding
I cannot breathe this story
I cannot hold a heartbeat
or a cogent thought
or pulse to a level
bearable
Beaten into rubble
crazed in simple sunlit
afternoon as if a moon
were racing in
stolen arteries
We all have known this story
O
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.