Not in Gratitude

 

 

 

Gratitude implies obligation

Lilting happiness delights

in gracious embrace.

Happy in my natural rhythm,

receptive to pleasure;

balming luscious nectars,

warm melt of sunshine,

elation, charismatic exultation.

I am in awe, a true believer;

not on my knees in supplication.

Supine, welcoming grace.

.

.

.

Thanks for sharing

 

 

 

Thanks for sharing

your intimate secrets

guilty despair

“How can  anything matter?

I am too damaged, dark,

no fun to be with.”

It is not a birthday without

cake and good wishes.

No cure can take hold without

a get well card,

gift of courage

from caring others.

I have no rhyme, no rhythm,

no choir to calm me

into soft healing eiderdown.

Toxic potions,

shocking wires,

disconnection from

harried continuity

cannot weave wholeness.

Kind touch, open

reveling in shared humanity

etches a loving pattern

for integration,

incentive to dare creative leap.

Re-merged, charged with fuel for 

healthy fulfillment.

!

Multi-hued singing fountains

rejoice in new found dancing.

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.

.

music of the spheres

 

 

 

In the quiet of night sky

while starlight and peace prevail

a haunting rhythm,

music of the spheres,

slowly soars, entrances,

embracing fear,

kissing taunt of pain away.

Well into darkness, watching, 

hoping for a passing meteor

to swoop down and carry me

far into another space,

where kindly constellations

tell stories of joy and thanksgiving.

Celestial fusion crackles and strains

like an old jazz recording.

Melodies of another age

written on a mighty, sacred wind

told like Homeric verse

by the wanderers —

heavenly nourishing guides

leading us home.

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.

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Meta-Science

 

 

 

Magical thinking

creating room for the power

of possibilities,

nuances, shades between,

molecular space.

Imagination fuels travel beyond.

Wizardry of synaptic awareness,

unlikelihood of consciousness,

Dreams, Visions, Reveries,

ineffable insights

too dear to deny.

See, smell, taste

chemical reactions;

hear reverberating air.

There is no limit

but that will assigns.

Strict chants and ritual

keep reality in line.

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.

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God’s Warriors

 

 

 

 

Squeezing the breath

out of my heart

Squeezing the love

out of my mind

Squeezing the joy

out of my faith

in your quest to conquer,

constrain, consecrate all

to your narrow creed.

There is no room in your congealed soul

for recognition of cruel suffering

welcomed by your prayers,

the damage of your arrogant distain

upon Creation.

Having conceived the fires of Hell

to burn your perceived enemy,

letting evil loose upon

this Earth we were meant to share

in peace and prosperity,

twisting the Word

you claim your guide.

You ignorantly ill-define,

expect salvation

through worshipping sin.

.

.

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And You Can Follow

 

 

 

Follow, follow, follow

Follow the yellow brick road

Follow the fashion of gold

Follow the fellow who does

as he’s told

Follow the trail blazed by the bold

Follow the shepherd who loves

as his own

broken children

feels their burden

swallows their souls to

make them whole

Follow, yes grovel, destroy

to atone,

bleed on deep battlefields

of country and home

Die on some roadside

afraid and alone

How far do you follow?

How near do you follow?

Tapped out, hollow, to the bone

Trapped in a “No Standing” zone

Take heart; extend hands —

Dance outside the lines

.

.

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Western

 

 

 

Raw, piercing howl

promises places

not here.

Dirt-framed, sore worn tracks demark possibilities,

thankful for the regularity of commerce

allowing travelers meaning.

 

Caged, kept from indeterminate freedom.

Irony does not escape me.

I find comfort in harsh Revelations

babbled by a shining eyed prophet.

Mad peasants and their Lords,

progress through tribulations,

power games of strategy and fate.

Millennial betrayal.  Land sold from under pensioners,

savage beating of broken laborers,

children learning their worth without a home.

Is this Almighty Covenant?

Eras, tools, enemies revise.

The game journeys on.

 

Rising gold Sun absorbs mist.

A righteous dawn.

The smell of enduring prairie after

the train’s rushed through.

On this side of the bars,

life is slow,

awaiting judgment.

.

.

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The Pandorica opens at 5 am.

 

 

 

The Pandorica opens at 5 am.

And what will we see in there?

Soft beams of stars from phantom seas/

Colliding kaleidoscope mysteries/

The waft of your hair in a warm Spring breeze/

A confetti parade of prayer

 

The wall of your sockets demagnetized

The warm of your pockets turns chill

When each of our membranes goes fragmentized

Drifting beyond while or will

Gifts of penance lose all appeal

Too traumatized to whimper or feel

Denial replaces the space we called real

Seared to an awestruck stare

 

Caught in conundrum ‘tween twilight and dawn

Formerly someone, lost without form

Back to that question you asked being born

and the answer that started when?

The Pandorica

opens

at

5

am.

.

.

.

philosophy

 

 

 

What are the words that I’m saying to say

when they’re made simply words in a row?

The world is revolving, and people today

are revolving with nowhere to go.

Revolving, revolting, evolving and floating

And never quite sure where we are.

I search for definity in the midst of infinity —

a sign in the midst of a star.

And wonder if I am a meaning, or why

the whole thing simply exists.

It’s not that I care, but I’d like to know where

I will be when we’ve gone thru these twists

and turns

and eternity years

for a meaning beyond being THERE

but where?

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Final Will

 

 

 

If these be our final days, bleeding out into entropic end

No elite “may we?” can overrule life’s yen

to feel fine

while yet there is fine to feel

Feast on the hoarded best; dance well past dawn

Deny requests of war or debt to waste this waning time

It’s no thievery to claim our hours, free of robotic clocks,

take whatever’s left as a chance to be real —

if the end is nigh, or not

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