Liminal Spaces

 
 
 
Twilight, the wee hours,
the dark of the moon,
liminal spaces,
places where magic dwells,
crossroads, crises, cusps.
 
There is static on the radio.
A song
my voice was singing,
rhythm of sound
takes flight to surround me,
a comforter of down
to ease my soul.
 
I’ve been trying to define a taste,
a sense of bittersweet and salt.
I’ve been trying to find a trace
a footprint in the desert,
a sight, a scent,
a memory.
I’ve been trying to discern a trace of me,
a piece to fit the puzzle,
my contribution to the grand design.
Seeking in shadows,
the space between
myth and matter,
those places words
cannot define.
On those insubstantial plains
of myst and awe,
the stuff of dreams,
threshold of wonder,
creation is spawned.
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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.
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War Games/Consolation

 
War Games
 
 
More and more
get less and less,
the best sacrificed
to great God Success.
Anger
builds
brick by bloody brick.
Is it a surprise
(“Look!  Into my eyes!”)
when the peasants cackle
resurrecting the guillotine?
Raw power.
Hot metal shooting
unmistakable marks,
burning ragged skin and guts
and glory.
 
Tell me a story, daddy,
about before the war
when water flowed
in abundant freedom,
when the air was pure
of the stench
of greed,
when everybody had
a sacred right
to feel
and believe
and dance in the moonlight;
when we could afford to be
young, untried, open
to possibilities not cut off
by a sacrificial knife
repeatedly, vilely, severing
vital organs
without regard to the waste,
with no respect for place
or the people for whom that space
holds stories.
 
Weapons forged in anger,
shattered layers of
desperate pride, dishonor, grief,
deeply festering wounds
poison the populace
unto the Seventh Generation,
caught up in some grotesque
morality play.
 
 
 
 
Consolation
 
 
A glaze over my mind, my eyes out of focus.
There may be reasons for everything, but they are not mine.
The air so thick with lies, another layer will choke us.
Truth’s shining angel, hovers outside the line.
 
When I try
When I cry
When I enter your room
The lights go out
The blankets divide.
It’s not that I want to rustle your gloom.
It’s that I want what’s inside,
the fear you hold dear
the smile you hide.
 
Long ago I believed in a dream of the future.
I made a wish on the Moon, floating so free.
Rushing on stage, I still miss my cue, for
dreams jumble their meaning, wishes double their fee.
 
I had a song that I sang that once gave me solace.
I had a prayer in my soul I thought kept me on course.
But the poison we’re fed to restrain and corral us
Has driven me hard and too far from the source.
 
I reach out in the dark
past the miles, past the years
I reach out for a spark
still burning despite the tears
I reach out for the words,
to make it all right
I reach out for a comrade in the night.
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The Enemy

 
 
 
Hiding from bombardments.
Thick, black water;
no thirst is worth this
indignity.
 
Running through rubble,
recently devolved
homes, commerce, community.
Extended families,
aunts and cousins,
good neighbors,
valued friends,
devolved to shattered corpses.
 
Wailing at a divisive wall in the name of
humanity, freedom.
Chaotic prophecies whisper,
imprint reign of Hell upon
modern Earth.
Policy statements fly
in protective formation:
“We can not give in to
the enemy.”
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strangling heaven

 
 
 
How do you know that
you’re strangling heaven?
Taught to irrelevant
standardized scales.
Taught to be standardized,
Christian White Males
or wherever you’re placed
and timed.
Taught to believe the sublime
is but an affectation,
drug-induced hallucination,
not to be relied upon
when creditors come to call
demanding payment
for providing you bare life.
Selling your soul for nickels and dimes,
the working-class creed.
Giving in to everyday crimes,
habituated to need
secondhand pleasures,
pirated treasures
that never succeed in
destroying the pain,
the long season of Hell
you strive to explain
“it’s his fault” “it’s their fault”
“it’s my fault”
all victims of blame.
And you’re strangling heaven.
You’re making it impossible to survive,
denying your passion to thrive,
denying your worth,
the blessing of birth onto
this mortal stage.
You pace in your cage
as if castrated of will.
And heaven so wants you,
expands to embrace you, offers
your most deeply hoped for love,
boundless rapture, eternal bliss,
every wish of your soul
exquisitely fulfilled.
Heaven offers you her open hands;
and you, in hellish nightmare,
strangle her
unaware.
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Shamanic Prayer

 
 
 
Interceding heaven and earth
dancing the chasm between
oh caste of my dharma
soul of my destiny
riding out on desolate plains
skies of colors, dark, forbidding
sending rays of electric
necessity, intensity, urgency
leaping my heart, my loins, my essence
grabbing onto the giver of lessons
my liege, my lord, my spirit guide
my lips parched, fever rising
every time, every blessed day
spirit demands, demands, demands
quivering answer, conduit, lightning rod.
 
There was a river, winding, singing, running free.
Groves of trees worshipped by wild flowers
graced her shores, deep roots feeding
on recursive energy of life.
Beat of the forest running through
each seed, each buzzing bee, each tadpole
finding its exquisite form
rushing through its seasons
they whisper to me
quiet strands of symphony
speaking directly to my blood.
I am changed, charged with a mutant energy
building through my veins and sinews
pulling me into a sacred tradition
reason insists doesn’t exist.
 
Test me.
Give me your pain, your sorrow, your utter despair
give me the very essence of your disease
give me the ugly unacknowledged child
hidden in the basement of your soul.
I have seen worse, done worse, been worse
in my days of schooling.
The fever has blessed me.  Burnt away the unholy
castings of the curse
the sacrifice
leaving me ready
unembarrassed, unafraid, unencumbered
moving to the liminal rhythm
conjoining heaven and earth. 
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gypsy hand

 
 
 
Too brite days.
Midnights that refuse to
abide silent, secret.
Howls, empty phrases, chant
to fairytale Moons.
I tell myself
This is no ordinary room.
This is no fleeting flittering life.
This is a magical passageway
sparkling like mica, like miracles.
 
Quiet traces.
Luminous, soft impression.
A trailing kite tail whips and binds
muted whimpers, sojourning whispers.
Sacrificial tears shine behind mime smiles.
 
Crone’s gnarled fingers playing
beyond bone-ache, to spite agony,
simulate touch with intention.
 
By cold caricature of light,
crouched scarred shadow,
I cast silhouette of metamagic gypsy
hand
offering
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Singing to the Chorus

 
 
 
Getting warmer.
Days numbered by barbarians.
Travelers rush in to conquer.
Taken to a longer view,
tumbling through the ages ~
Sundials exchange for
binary spiders click-clock,
tabulating the enormous summary,
what has gone before.
The reality of childhood, striving creatures
pull upward from bootie straps,
scrambling for a place in the pile
near enough to top
that derision, pouring downward,
obliges them to only the fiercest of Lords.
Merry tots spend fallen pocket-change of
dollars flowing upward.
Old games reign under the big top.
Solemn children throw glass stones from circus stands,
bet on which clown will full face as disaster.
Speak in tongues of evil, o’ my children.
Church Fathers swear to the blackened sky;
cold, withered Mums hope for a crust
of noblesse oblige.
Evil is the providence of Satan,
cloven-hoofed, prancing in the circle’s
centerpoint, playing the pipes of Pan.
Oceans of blood boil.
Leading edges swelter, crisp into
conflagration.
In Summerland children play, frolic to
rollicking drums and reeds.
Naked under beaming Moon and starlight laughter,
merrily we act out tales well-loved by All.
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Lesson of The Great Depression

 
 
 
The machines stand patiently
ready to act on human command.
Workers expectantly arise
to resume their duties.
Tools, systems, routes, logistics
lined up for service.
Plants to sow and reap; structures
to build, maintain, repair, replace;
commodities to be united with
their markets; music to be played;
enchanting murals to paint;
shows that must go on; coffee
to be made; errands to run;
endless activities and professions
imposing order on entropy.
Teach the curious,
heal the sick or broken,
enforce the law,
tend to the poor.
Society’s capillaries clogged by
a powerful voodoo.  All is
needing to be done, but stopped
dead or cancerously
receding from living
for want of the magic beans,
the mysterious force of money,
a social construct gone mad,
constricting the flow of life.
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In the breeze

 
 
 
more like a butterfly than a bumblebee
more like pollen caught in drifting breeze
dervishly dancing eternities, floating magnetic seas,
singing to ease unsettled securities, lonely insanities,
falling into my song
scattering hybrid seeds
wanting to bend your needs
into choral release, real ease
longed for realities
if you would sing along
harmonize with the breeze
the trees, the bees,
and me
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