Harvesting Moonlight

 
 
 
Today the dark approaches, loosens veils of entropy.
Pixel colors whisper, soft hum of trails diminishing.
Lumbering, tales sweaty from slumber sweep
crumbling crusts, twigs and dust,
unencumber twinkling.
Luscious Moon, brilliant, rises
like a sacred flower unbinds, radiates,
smiles indulgence.
Celestial song, deep-breath effulgence,
lofty spirit.  All we who hear it open our wings.
This night we fly over poignant fields of work requited,
imbibe euphorious mystery of peace.  Labor’s release,
rewards of harvest, ritual feast of play.
Uproarious dance with moonlight; voice, arms, soar
in embrace so strong, complete.
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Andromeda Unbound

 
 
 
Primal emergent scene of fear/betrayal/rage
Against prosaic life tuned to a simpler age
A woman and a man and progeny of course
A life tailored to plan, no stranger to remorse
 
So early in the days of what might hence occur
The learning of the ways of how to be are stirred
So legends have been cast, so myths in mist abound
As some realities are buried underground.
 
It was a cold and gilded house, camouflaged as home
It was a brutal game of chance camouflaged as life
Chain me to my jagged rock and let me bleed
Let the ravage start, I will not plead,
My tears will only flow when primed by raging seas
 
They say that life’s a school, we must learn or die
They knock into us what, where, when, forgetting why
Each put into our place and left to wait our turn
It’s not about what we may be, but what we earn.
 
Tree-lined sidewalks, car-lined streets, children at play
It seems so calm and peaceful, keeping fear at bay
Do the laundry, buy the groceries, pay the heating bills
Get it done, don’t delay, no matter who it kills.
 
It was a curse hurled from the gods, but it wasn’t mine
Punishment for a crime of pride I did not commit
Clinging to my prison door, I hide my eyes
Expecting no pardon from the skies
No where left to go to hide from my mind’s lies
 
What can’t be told infects a deep and deadly path
Buried wounds untended surface into storms of wrath
A beaten creature huddles beneath a snarling face
Dying for a welcome smile, the warmth of caring grace
 
Some doors left open lead to mystic hidden rooms
Of purple velvet drapes, plush carpets and rare perfumes
The tapestry of life upon an ancient wall
Or was it down a rabbit-hole you meant to fall?
 
I begged a chance to be saved, but it was not my time
The monster’s howl a hungry hound denying rest
Lost in a tempest, finding none to care
Petrified by my own inward icy stare
Bound and cursed by the gods, of what use is prayer?
 
Comes the time in spiraling life of do or die
Take the time to breathe the air, read visions from the sky
Willing change, allowing pain to tell its sorry tale
Rearrange the picture’s frame, learn to adjust the scale
 
The rules laid down to keep us bound were never friends
A hero’s quest with divine intent can open stories’ ends
Gods inspire nature’s desire for beauty, healing, choice
Reclaiming heart, we do our part, obeying our true voice
 
Opening my eyes, raising my voice, I claim my power
The gods respond not with violence but with joy
Claiming my life as my own, I turn my demons into stone
Free at last my spirit soars as I
dance by day through sweet Olympian fields — by night among the stars
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Your Philosophy

 
 
 
movie plot as object lesson
boys find valuable object
boys lose valuable object
boys fight to get valuable object back
 
 
I am woman born
no source of father’s pride
too early in my days, they
track my aroma
I know not to hide
use me in some back room
until my womb rises with a new slave
for their diversions
 
I am sacred mother
tit tied to feeding, always feeding
(agonized bleeding in secret shame)
No more than a tether, a trough, and
tantalizer of the profane. I am a wrecked
train, a vehicle left to rust, blamed for
slatternly stagnation,
never quite thrown away.
 
Reject me; reject hard truths,
long trod on diamonds, golden geese brought
to slaughter.
Obscured like icebergs, amphibious myths
kept subdued, symbolic
work songs, prophetic exaltation,
labyrinthine gardens,
we who are only dreams in your philosophy.
 
You may well be better
stuck, your own
wheel of clay.
My lesson, when I am ready,
is to leave you to your way;
cleave to ecstasy
loose, fanciful, subjective,
heroic.
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Rallying

 
 
 
The Secret to Happiness ~ We Are Happening!
Find what brings you alive; and do it.
(not what “I should” to prove that “I’m good,” or good
at being bad)
Look to meet people enjoying it too;
layer texture to our view,
expand our field of play.
Lather, rinse, repeat
as necessary.
Take it out to the street when necessary.
Do what you need to be
what you wish to see.
Do what only you can.
Make this happening grand!
Do it today.
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Exercise

 
 
 
Walk this expansive garden with me.
Don’t talk.
Don’t take up your thoughts
wondering what to say.
Breathe.
Walk freely.
Air out and in.
Imagine.
This magnificent garden,
colours alive.
What do you see, smell, sense?
Who is this you with senses,
with imagination,
with me
in this garden?
Who would you be, what would you do,
if time and space were infinite?
Don’t talk.
Imagine.
Walk.
Breathe.
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Dark Magick

 

In the still of the dark of the moon,
after the revelry has passed,
deep, deep into the frozen fields of dreamless sleep,
we, walking, silently, along the riverbed,
breathe in ancient ash of woodsmoke,
breathe out long-growing tears
to weave ghostly tentacles
along our path,
take each other’s hand up to our heart
to pray, to kiss, to whisper,
thus casting an eternal spell.

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Lifelines

 
 
 
It’s a tale many times in the telling
Of wisdom and wonder and enchantment foretold.
Captivating, yes compelling.
But catch it now, before you’re old (We’re so soon old.).
Cross country wide and free; a gypsy’s life by caravan
And what is yet to be is stretching wide, without a plan.
Try, if you can, to imagine just how you’re gonna end.
. . . You’re gonna end.
Past ships and planes and miles of dusty road,
It’s all been told . . .and then retold.
We’ve lived a thousand lives before, we the vagabonds of Earth
But let me try to tell to you my story, it’s all I own
Whatever be its worth.
It started in a coffeehouse so many years ago
Where poets of our century were wont to waste their days
And in those days did bright mindwaves cast their nets and flow
To catch up young unruly souls and charge them with the craze
For adventuring — for “something new”
To catch a star and follow wherever it should lead
To search out the holy answer to the ache of human need
To be the first new holy breed to wholly shake the Earth
To usher in a promised age, so many years in birth.
It was a time of carousels and colored lights;
A time of feeling grandly strong and right;
A time when Life was just beyond our sight.
What made it go? Which corner was the wrong one turned?
Or is it merely time to take things slow,
To gather up the threads of what we’ve learned?
The darkness cast upon us, how was it earned?
Oh yes, I meant to tell you of brilliant desert skies
And city street romances that sparkled ere they died.
Of Denver’s summer snowstorm and LA’s winter flood
And secret, solemn friendship pacts seal’d in summer blood.
Of a much awaited sunrise within a foreign town
Of food and flowers and incense freely passed around
Of turquoise rings & violent springs & jails of many brands
And music wafting through the streets
Of gentle smell of smoke so sweet
And wondrous madmen once to meet who read witchcraft in your hand.
And so much more; yes, lifetimes more.
I would give it all to you, asking nothing in return
But that you seek, in your own style, for yourself to learn
Of corners waiting yet to turn before our time is through.
And perhaps one day you’ll say to me:
“Yes, the answer’s here! Yes, the answer’s clear!”
And you will say to all of us: “Here’s what we must do.”
Before our time is through . . .
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Drifters

 
 
 
She sits in an old rocking chair
and questions the silence of night.
As the waves blow, the winds flow,
the sands sift with sea
and faraway stars shine in soft mystery,
her eyes shine with starlight and stare at
the sea,
asking questions as ancient as night,
expecting no sign to appear.
 
In the village, at noon, on the square,
beneath the near blinding day light,
sits a man with a plan he’s no means to play,
wondering how he will get through his day,
and just where, this night, he will finally lay
(Yes, beneath which exit light?)
expecting no sign to appear.
 
I questioned myself on a dare
Tell me: What’s wrong and what’s right?
Have I caught a new thought that God has no mind?
We search for salvation that’s nowhere to find?
Or merely grown tired of life’s daily grind,
not caring to search for the light,
expecting no sign to appear.
 
We children of flowers and light,
have we turned to dour-faced fear,
our dreams sacrificed to the night,
expecting no sign to appear?
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OR MAYBE CINCINNATI

 
 
 
The crowd dissolves
and I am left in a sad corner
holding a wrinkled overcoat
Wishing for warm holiday homecoming goodwill.
But the endless night enwraps my mind
leaving me twisted
jumping here and there without purpose.
 
Johnny didn’t have a penny,
but he had good looks and good times
& Mary had her pimp’s abortion to even the score
But no one took the beggar seriously
when he said that times had turned to emptiness.
No one believed in fulfillment;
no one had the time.
 
& the crowd dissolved
vanished into the fog
tho ectoplasmic energies milled about the mainfare.
It was Thursday in the rain and mist
and sooted brownstones.
And the streetlamps only served as muted halos
like the cafe neon flashing
So I stopped in for another beer and borrowed music
& listened to the couple in the next booth
discuss their barren lives
& thought of 19th century philosophers
who make me sad
& wished for a breezy bright beach in May
& wrote you another letter
to be locked in my diary.
 
So I’m thinking of splitting for the coast
or maybe Cincinnati
But my overdraft is overdrawn
and I’m not strong enough to hitchhike
and maybe tomorrow just won’t happen
if I can find the right door to oblivion.
 
But maybe tomorrow will dawn bright and warm
and smiling
and the labor pool will call me
and the coffee buns will be sweet at breaktime
and someone will smile at me
and come to my barstool
to shoot the breeze and share my dreaming
And the crowd will dissolve
And the people will emerge.
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Healing/Goddess’s Way

Healing
 
 
Pedestals,
esthete white marble, intricate geometric design.
Empty
since the sculptured gods ran off
to more entertaining glories, cavorting
in less structured realms.
Petitioners never notice,
deposit their putrid mewling remains,
sacred sacrifice,
rotting stench to keep the altars
holy.
Out on the playfields,
breathing in hearty exercise,
laughter expanding lung strength.
Occasional bouts of heaving tears
leave damp rich soil,
incremental mineral deposits
essential to health.
 
 
 
Goddess’s Way
 
 
With passion!
Outpouring elixir fills our mythic spring.
Sparkling flame of peace abides within,
licks battle wounds.
Not ignorant fools;
no pleas for altruist beliefs.
Relief of hunger completes us.
No cunning deceivers could ignite malice,
steal our good.
Unbalanced need reaches to heal through
magical interchange.
Energies when well-purposed, understood,
replenish, undiminished.
Why meanly measure 
scores in morality play at “who deserves”?
Healthful work, flowing contribution, 
bestows focal point for cyclic rain’s reward.
Fortune’s gift, this benevolent wishers’ well,
replete Goddess blessing.
Sacred vessels,
dip in for contentment, good will, joyful
self-regard.
This is not belief or even knowing.
This is breath of awe in motion.
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